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fourmoony · 6 months

Note

hey, you could do something with reader telling james (or poly!marauders) that you're pregnant. reader was tense and hesitant about what his reaction would be, as she thought he wouldn't like the idea

thanks for requesting!

f!reader 1k cw: pregnancy

James has his head almost inside the pot of soup on the stove, poking and prodding at it with a wooden spoon as though it may bite him, when you cross through the arched entryway of the kitchen. He turns his head over his shoulder when he hears your socked feet padding across the tiled flooring, glasses fogged up and his smile bright.

"I don't think I did it right." He tells you, forbearing a greeting all together.

His brows hook in the middle when he turns back to the pot, lips pouted just a little. You peek over his shoulder to find a simmering pot of vegetable water and find yourself biting back a smile. Sweet James, your loving and doting boyfriend, always up for a challenge. You don't have the heart to tell him there's entirely too much water and not nearly enough stock in the pot, so you rub his shoulder encouragingly, place a kiss to it, after. "Looks lovely, handsome."

It pulls a warm smile out of your boyfriend, who seems more encouraged by your words than you think he should be. He's so trusting, so loving, leads with his heart and his soul, and nothing else. He puts too much faith in you.

"Remus' never looks like this, but I s'pose thats because he does it in the slow cooker." James placates himself with a shrug, eyes back on the steaming pot.

You hum a mild agreement, pulling yourself up onto the worktop so you're facing James. He likes the company whenever he's cooking. You like the domesticity, the routine, spending time with him whilst completing a task, talking about your day, your friends. It's nice, to be so comfortable with the person you love.

"Did you write down the instructions as he was giving you them? Or are you going from memory?" You ask James apprehensively.

He doesn't reply at first, too occupied with throwing a load of raw potatoes into the pot. They drop to the bottom of the pot with a sickening thud, water splashing over the sides. James winces as a droplet catches the side of his arm and turns to you with a weary look, "From memory. He was going too fast and the landline was crackly."

There's no saving the soup now, so you allow James to continue his ministrations. You'll pretend it's even better than Remus'. Anything for James. Anything to see him smile.

"He said he hopes you're feeling better soon, by the way. Sirius, too." James adds, face dangerously close to the open flame of the gas cooker as he adjusts the heat.

You blanch. You'd mentioned feeling poorly to James yesterday morning, a little tired, a little sick, stiff, the normal beginnings of a cold. The soup makes sense, now. "You asked Remus for his soup recipe because I mentioned feeling a little poorly once?"

James nods, shrugs like it's no big deal.

You've never felt this kind of love before, the kind of care and consideration James has.

"Jamie, I'm not poorly." Your voice is a little unsteady.

You'd wanted to wait, tell him when you'd figured out how you felt about it yourself. Wanted to be sure whether this was something you wanted, something James would want. You know he's a good man, a good person with a massive heart, but you've not been together for as long as you'd have liked, you're not married, there's a list of things that could make James run for the hills and you wouldn't blame him.

But you know him. You know James Potter. He's never ran from anything.

"Well it's too late for that, I've already made the ruddy soup, now." James teases, poking the pudge of your thigh with the tip of the wooden spoon.

"James," You try to garner his full attention, away from the burning vegetable water, "I wasn't poorly."

He frowns, probably trying to pin together the phrase with the way you're acting and comes up with nothing, so he says nothing.

"I'm pregnant."

James doesn't say anything for a minute. You can't read him. Eyes wide, jaw slack, eyebrows lost in the messy tuft of his fringe. Just when you think the silence might choke you, the fire alarm sounds, loud and abrasive. It kick starts your boyfriend's brain and he grabs the nearest tea towel, motioning for you to stay put, and wafts the smoke away from the detector.

After, in the silence that follows, he leans over the kitchen sink and opens the window, turns off the stove.

"When did you find out?" He asks, voice unwaveringly calm.

Your heart slams against your rib cage, scared and begging you to run, "This morning."

James nods, "How do you feel?"

"Nauseous. Confused. Scared."

James softens, crosses the distance between you. His hands are soft on your face when he slots between your legs, eyes swimming with emotion. He smells faintly like OXO stock cubes and his normal cologne as he rests his forehead against yours and heaves a deep breath. "You wanna do this?"

"Only if you do." You answer truthfully.

"I love you, you know that?" His voice comes out hoarse, and you realise he's holding back tears.

Tears spring to your eyes, too, when you nod, "I know."

"There's no one else I'd rather do it with."

Relief washes over you like a bucket of cold water, bringing the air back to your lungs, life back to your heart. You're laughing into the kiss that James presses to your lips, giddy and excited. He presses two gentle pecks there, after, and one to your forehead.

"Holy shit I'm gonna be a Dad." He sounds awed, in disbelief.

You laugh, "Yeah. You are."

"And you're gonna be a Mum."

"That's generally how it works, babe." You say placatingly, thumbs swiping over his rounded cheeks, holding his face in place. His smile is like the sun, bright and blinding. You feel warm all over just looking at it.

"I need to phone Sirius." James announces, turning on his heel to make for the landline.

You shouldn't be surprised, not when Sirius is an extension of your boyfriend's being. So, you simply wait until you can hear James ramming his fingers against the telephone, and dump a couple more stock cubes into the soup.

He can thank you later.

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thisapplepielife · 2 months

Text

Written for @steddieangstyaugust.

Different Lessons

Day #6: "Who did this?" | Word Count: 3300 | Rating: T | CW: Death of a Parental Figure, Grief & Loss, Language, Smoking | Tags: Future Fic, Established Long-Term Steddie, Hurt/Comfort, Beloved Uncle Wayne, Life Goes On, Even If You Don't Know How

It's all still here.

Eddie stands there, hand resting on the light switch, and he doesn't know why that surprises him so much. Of course it's all still here. Where else would it go? If he didn't move any of it, and Steve didn't move any of it, well, Wayne definitely didn't.

Not now. Not ever again.

Eddie looks around the large shop down the gravel road, beyond the house. He didn't understand why they were building it. Not at first. Wayne worked like a dog for decades in that goddamn factory. Why would he want to continue to work in a shop during retirement? How could that possibly be fun? But Steve assured Eddie that this was different.

Making, creating, building for the love of it, was, in fact, different from manual labor for a paycheck.

They kind of looked the same to Eddie, but if Steve and Wayne both said so, well, who was Eddie to argue?

So, the land was cleared. Leveled. And a quonset building went up. Metal, rounded, and fucking huge. With big, handmade wooden barn doors installed. And a smaller, regular-sized door next to it that Eddie was tasked with painting. He was pretty sure that was just to keep him out of the way, but he chose red and painted it, and standing here looking at it today, he realizes it could use a fresh coat.

Wayne and Steve built the barn doors themselves. Wayne taught Steve as they worked, patient and willing to answer all of his questions, as Eddie sat on the workbench, taunting them. Being annoying, he's sure. But the doors still got made, and now they're gorgeous, sanded, stained and finished.

It took all of them to hang them. Wayne and Steve, Eddie. Gareth, Jeff and Goodie. Everybody working together to ease them onto the tracks, hoping like hell that they'd fit and work for fuck's sake once they were up there, after all that trouble.

They did fit. And they still glide like goddamn butter, so much so that Eddie can't believe Wayne and Steve made them with their own hands.

Everything in here has Wayne's fingerprints all over it. The machinery he rigged to work just the way he wanted. The coffee mugs that never seemed to make it back to the house. Now being used as pencil holders, or sorters for nuts, bolts and screws.

It's home, in here. Sure, the house up the road is home, too. But this feels different than that.

This was Wayne's space. All his own.

Eddie isn't religious, but this is his sanctuary now.

Because the shop is exactly the same as it was the day Wayne died in it. His last coffee mug is still on the window ledge. Liquid long evaporated, only the dark stains inside the porcelain proving that it was once there, once used.

That Wayne was once there, using it.

His cheaters are on the counter. And the bench. And a pair hanging from the coveralls pocket. Cheap drugstore reading glasses he needed to see anything up close. Eddie would tease, and Wayne would reassure Eddie that his day was coming.

It hasn't, not yet, but if it does, apparently he has a stockpile of glasses to choose from.

Eddie looks around, and it looks like Wayne'll be right back. Like he stepped out, just for a minute.

Not forever.

Eddie knows he won't be back, he knows, but it still feels like he'll come back any day now. Like it's all just waiting for his inevitable return.

Like Eddie is still waiting for his return, because anything else is unfathomable. He can't be gone. Not when Wayne's stuff is all right here, just where he left it.

But no. He is gone, and there's not even any ghosts lingering, just his stuff. This is just a shrine that was accidentally left behind in his departure.

The motor of the bass boat is up on a worktop, half broken down, torn apart. He doesn't know how to fix that, and he supposes Steve doesn't either. Is it destined to just sit there, just like that? In limbo? Forever?

That boat was a splurge, a want, not a need, and Eddie was happy Wayne decided to get something that he wanted, just for himself.

After a lifetime of sacrificing for Eddie, Eddie just wanted to pay him back in any way he could.

A boat, a home, anything at all.

Eddie damn well knows the town likes to whisper behind their backs. Like Eddie is aimless, shiftless. The weird, queer freak that was incapable of flying the coop. Incapable of growing up.

The one that somehow brought the Harrington boy down with him.

That they were flitting around, no jobs, living off the old man.

That's not true, of course.

Yeah, they were traveling around the world, fixing problems that came from beneath. Whispered secrets, unknown horrors, with very few explanations.

Experts in a field Eddie wished they knew nothing about.

Hawkins has forgotten. Eddie hasn't been allowed to, not ever.

But maybe they were right, in some ways. Eddie still doesn't feel grown up. But they acted like his relationship was somehow less, just because Wayne was living under the same roof.

But it was more.

Eddie knows that. Having these extended years with Wayne, extra years that Eddie hadn't been promised, was good for all of them.

Eddie loved having him here any time they came home. And he thinks Steve did, too.

Wayne stayed with the house while they worked, sometimes going job to job for months at a time. Living out of suitcases. But he was always waiting here for them to return. Home.

Wayne was home.

And now Eddie's home has left him.

Eddie misses him desperately. There's a gaping, bleeding hole in his heart, and in their home.

Wayne's last pack of cigarettes sits on the wooden worktop, six of twenty remaining. Eddie has counted, and re-counted, without moving them. They're right next to a notepad and pen, and Eddie wonders if this was the last thing Wayne ever wrote. It means nothing to Eddie, just shorthand chicken scratches, measurements for something, a rough design plan, maybe? It doesn't matter. Except it does matter to Eddie. They're important because they were Wayne's thoughts, put to paper for a later date that would never come.

Eddie reaches up and runs his hands along the worn coveralls, hanging on a hook. One of several identical pairs. He died in another, that and his work boots.

Dying in your work boots and your worn coveralls isn't a bad way to go, all things considered. That's what Wayne always said.

There are worse things in life than death.

And:

I'll die with my boots on.

Both premonitions, it turns out, and painfully true.

Steve and Eddie on the road, a message from Gareth waiting at the next checkpoint, telling them to come home. Now.

There are worse things in life than sudden, swift death. Here and gone. No suffering. One breath you're fine, and the next you're just not here anymore. Eddie's experienced both. His mother's long, drawn out death. The anticipation, the suffering, the anxiety.

And now, the opposite.

Even if Eddie wasn't here. Even if he missed it. Even if Wayne died alone, with Eddie and Steve several states away. Eddie'll still take that option, if he gets to choose. He'll go like Wayne. Just blinking out, no fanfare. Wayne's death, exactly how he lived. Quiet, alone, and independent as fuck up until the exact moment he headed off into the sunset.

Eddie doesn't know where Wayne is now.

Probably nowhere, Eddie thinks. Besides the ground.

Steve thinks otherwise. Steve's an optimist, though.

Eddie often wonders what the fuck that's like? He's just too self-sabotagin' for that ever to be true for him. They go into jobs the same way, Eddie pessimistic and looking at all the bad. He wants to hear the worst of it. But Steve's beside him, ever optimistic, looking at the good. At the hope.

They make a good team, a good balance. Always have.

This was meant to be their house. Wayne was just keeping it company until they were ready to settle down. That was the excuse to get his stubborn ass into it, anyway.

Eddie's ready now. There's no place like home is fucking true. The rest of the world holds no luster for him now, not anymore. The shine dulled and tarnished.

But, home?

At home, it's all still here.

And Eddie's just filling the spaces around it all. Around everything Wayne left behind. Absorbing it into himself. Into his bones. Wayne's stuff getting pushed to the back of the medicine cabinet. His clothes shuffled to the back of the closet.

But still here.

There's room enough for all of it.

The phone rings. The red one. Eddie doesn't answer. He's not leaving home, not yet. Maybe never again.

He's really sorry that the rest of the world has problems that maybe they could help fix.

Right now, Eddie can only try to fix himself.

Eddie hears the saw. On, then off, then on again. The high-pitched whine of it.

When he rounds the side of the house, those beautiful barn doors are thrown wide open. Steve's leaning over a table, noting measurements. Scribbling with a pencil, one of the big rectangle ones, that won't roll away.

Referencing back and forth to another set of papers.

He's got on a backwards cap, one of Wayne's from the wall inside, Eddie's pretty sure.

Ear protection. Eye protection.

Carhartt overalls, and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eddie's sure it's one of Wayne's that worked its way up from the back of the closet.

Things are starting to get moved, here and there. Used again. Time marching on.

If Wayne could see Steve now, he'd be proud. Eddie knows it. Even if once, he was sure Wayne thought Steve was a goddamn yuppie like the rest of Harringtons. But Wayne learned just how goddamn tough Steve is, fast. Eddie slung over a shoulder, Steve marching him back from hell. Alive. Somehow.

And that's all it took. Wayne loved Steve, and over time, loved him just as much as he loved Eddie, Eddie's pretty sure.

He misses Wayne, and he knows Steve does, too.

They both feel closer to him here.

Eddie thought he'd have more time. A lot more. He should have listened more, learned more. He should have helped build those doors.

But he didn't. Wayne taught him different lessons. How to play the guitar. How to do the nightly crossword. How to survive.

Wayne taught Steve others.

And where Eddie's done it in the house, Steve's filled the spaces around the things left behind in the shop.

Eddie puts down the lemonade, poured into a familiar mug, right next to the pack of cigarettes that are gathering more sawdust, and waits. Doesn't want to startle Steve, though, if Eddie knows Steve, he already knows Eddie's there.

It's his job to not be snuck up on.

Eddie notices the boat motor has been moved.

The sawing stops, and Steve comes over to him.

"Who did this?" Eddie asks. "What are you doing with it?"

"I moved it. Goodie's coming tomorrow. Thinks he can fix it," Steve answers, then he's downing a big swallow of lemonade. It's just from the canister, but made extra strong, just like Wayne taught him.

Goodie is good with motorcycle engines. Eddie doesn't know if that translates to boat motors or not. But what can it hurt to let him try? It's just been sitting here, waiting for Wayne to pick up where he left off, which is never gonna happen.

The next night, Goodie and Steve are leaning over it, heads together. They've been tinkering all day. Thinking they've got it, putting it into a five gallon bucket of water to test run, and then shaking their heads when it refuses to fire up.

Eddie watches it all through the big, open doors. Gareth is poking at the firepit. Jeff cooking on the grill. Kids and spouses hanging out, playing or talking.

His family is here, just. It's not everyone, there's still a missing piece. And there always will be, now. It's a hurt that settles deep in his chest, and he knows he'll have to carry it there forever right next to the loss of his mother.

He hears the motor rev to life and Steve and Goodie are screaming in delight that they finally fucking did it, and Eddie smiles.

Maybe they'll take the boat out this weekend.

Eddie uncovers the boat, and it's another time capsule under the tarp, one he hadn't considered existing. Fishing poles, still baited with hooks and lures. Empty cans, dead leaves.

Another pack of cigarettes. He laughs, and pockets them. One shrine is enough. These? Maybe these he'll smoke.

They take off across the lake, getting up to speed. The wind is rushing through Eddie's hair, and when they slow to turn, Eddie cups his hands, and lights one of Wayne's cigarettes.

Breathing deep.

Then, coughing.

It's stale, and tastes bitter.

Thankfully, Steve and Goodie can't hear him, as he tries to expel it all in an unattractive fashion.

He hasn't smoked in years, and his lungs are protesting. He laughs, and just holds it in his hand, and enjoys the ride.

Gareth and Jeff are on the shore, waiting their turn, but are also the rescue crew if the motor fails mid-lake.

Eddie can swim to shore, has done it once before in this lake, but would really rather not repeat the experience.

The motor sings, and when they pull up to the dock, Steve and him get out, letting Goodie take the others out on the water.

"Smoking again, are you?" Steve asks. But there's no judgment. Steve never judges him, somehow. Even Eddie judges himself. That Steve doesn't is a miracle.

"Not well," he admits, sliding the pack back into his shirt pocket. Where he just might carry them from now on. Over his heart.

One pack watching over Steve in the shop, one pack watching over him, everywhere else.

"Boat's running good," Eddie offers and Steve smiles.

Steve drapes his arms over Eddie's shoulders, leaning up against him, hands resting on Eddie's chest. Over his heart, hugging him from behind.

Steve tells him all about the motor. What they fixed. What they can still fine-tune.

Then.

"I miss him," Steve says.

And yeah. That's the long and short of it.

"Me too."

Winter comes, and Eddie glances out the kitchen window, spotting Wayne splitting wood.

The thought is fleeting, painful, and it sucker punches him when he hadn't seen it coming. He grips the edge of the sink, fingers digging in, as he doubles over, trying not to cry.

When he looks again, it's not Wayne at all.

It's Steve.

Ax in hand, the heavy Carhartt coat on his back. Eddie's not sure if it's actually Wayne's coat, or just something that he associates with Wayne so strongly, that it feels like it's his.

When Steve hauls the logs in later, Eddie holds the door open for him.

After he's done, Steve shrugs out of the coat, face red from the cold.

Eddie just stares at him.

When did Steve grow up? They were just kids a second a go, Eddie's sure of it. But Steve's going gray at his temples, and he's not old, but he is all grown up.

That means Eddie must be, too.

Wayne's gone. His mother's gone. Fuck knows about his dad.

He suddenly realizes he's the older generation, and the thought of that is suffocating. He still feels like he needs to look for real adults, and now there's nobody left to turn to for guidance.

Steve is an adult.

So, Eddie pretends he is, too.

The red phone rings again. And again.

Steve finally unplugs it from the jack, and unscrews it from the wall, shoving it into the closet, on top of a box of Wayne's old boots.

They can always plug it back in.

Just. Not today.

Today, the guys are coming over to jam. They've been doing that more and more since Eddie's been home.

They will never be anything except what they are. A middle-aged Midwestern garage band. Comprised of a relucant monster hunter. A lawyer. A mechanic. A loan officer.

Best friends. Still. All these decades later.

Steve is in the shop, the heater red hot, and Eddie had dragged down Wayne's easy chair from the house with Gareth's help the other day, so now he can sit in front of the heater and read while Steve works. He rocks gently, his foot pushing off of the dirty floor to keep him in constant motion.

He feels better moving, always has, and this rocking soothes that part of him well. Especially since his whole life has come to a standstill.

All the noise Steve's making is a comfort, familiar. It's a hug. A hello.

An echo, still ringing through the night.

Eddie can dig in the back of the closet, too. Tonight, he's wearing a heavy, buffalo check flannel coat. It's worn on the sleeves and collar, but Eddie swears it still smells of cigarettes and Wayne's cologne.

His cologne is still in the bathroom in the house, his cigarettes are still on the table, out here.

Still six in the pack.

He's everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time.

Steve comes over holding up a piece of wood, holding it up, showing it off.

Eddie's not sure what it'll be, but he smiles encouragingly.

Steve smiles back and then leans down, kissing him. It's quiet, this life they've decided to live. Too quiet, sometimes. But Eddie's happy.

He wasn't sure he would be again, but here he is, with Steve.

At home.

It's peaceful.

And this becomes their new routine. Eddie sits, Steve works, and the winter wind blows against the shop.

Tonight, Eddie must have dozed off, because he jumps when Steve touches his arms.

"C'mere. It's done," Steve says.

"What's done?" Eddie asks, but he takes Steve's offered hands, getting pulled to standing.

In the back there's something with a drop cloth thrown over it.

Steve is giddy, and it's contagious, "What is it?"

"For you, I think. If you want it," Steve says, as he yanks the sheet off.

It's a cabinet. A hutch. Like for storing the fancy dishes.

Okay.

"It's pretty," Eddie says, because it is. "Who did this? You? Wayne?"

Steve squats down and plugs it in, "Both of us."

When it comes to life, backlit and beautiful, there are heavy hooks inside instead of shelves.

"For your guitars," Steve says, grinning. "It took me a few tries to decipher his plans. I got some things wrong. And I probably did things differently than he would hav-"

Eddie cuts him off, kissing him. Hands grasping Steve's back. Holding him tight.

When Eddie pulls back, he knows he has tears in his eyes. He doesn't care.

"You really did this?"

"Well. It was Wayne's idea, I just interpreted the plans I found," Steve says, and Eddie pulls him close again. Clinging to him.

He loves it. He never expected to get something from both of them, not ever again.

"Thank you," Eddie says, and he's talking to Steve.

And to Wayne.

Wherever he is, or isn't.

Eddie may never get that answer, despite solving so many mysteries for other people.

But, right now? It doesn't feel that mysterious at all.

He's still here.

In the shop. In all the things that live here in their home. In Steve.

In Eddie's heart.

In all of it.

Always.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieangstyaugust and follow along with the fun angst! 😭

Notes: I saw this tiktok the other day and cried. Then it manifested itself here, because the truth of it needed to be jotted down. Also inspired by Bass Boat by Zach Bryan. And his Pink Skies, too. It's been my sad song album this past month.

#steddieangstyaugust #stranger things #established steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #wayne munson #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddieangstyaugust #cw: death of a parent #cw: death #cw: grief #cw: loss

99 notes · View notes

letsquestjess · 1 month

Text

One, Two, Throw - Part 2 (Hunter x F!Reader)

Summary: Your knife throwing skills improve, and Hunter wants to show his appreciation.

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: Smut! 18+! MDNI! Fingering. PiV (unprotected).

Part 1

-- -- -- -- --

Extending your arm, you drew the blade back and hurled it at the wooden board. The rotations were broader and more stable than they were a few weeks ago. Confident. Laden with surety. With a solid thunk, the tip of the knife pierced the side of the bullseye, mere millimetres from your intended target.

Ever since your training session with Hunter, you had embraced the skill and discovered that the required concentration brought a sense of tranquillity and hush. Nothing beyond your own bubble of focus mattered. It was just you, the mark, and the affectionate eye of your love observing you with pride.

Every time you returned to the house after practising, Hunter gushed at how you were improving. While nestled in his arms one night, he had confided his appreciation for your willingness to understanding this aspect of his identity. It brought you both closer, opening a new dimension to your relationship, and through it, Hunter shared more about his life before choosing to remain on Pabu. Sometimes murmured in the darkness, other times conversed over a meal or while tackling the laundry. During those serene moments, he disclosed a deeper part of himself to you, and your affection for him heightened.

From the kitchen window, you could sense his watchful gaze. You didn’t need his enhanced senses to know. Every time you honed your knife throwing skills, he would be there, smiling as you developed and occasionally giving you a thumb up to boost your confidence.

As you fetched the knives embedded in the board, you noted the ache in your limbs. Having been outside for a while, basking in the sun and sharpening your technique, you needed a break. You ducked through the screen-covered door and into the kitchen, setting the blades aside.

Hunter finished washing the last plate and set it in the dish rack. “You’re making good progress,” he commented, as he returned the sponge to the holder on the wall and dried his hands on the neighbouring towel. “I wouldn’t want to be the clanker on the receiving end of those knives.”

His compliment made your cheeks flush with warmth, but the pain in your thighs soon soured your smile. You were conscious of the fact that you should have taken a break earlier, but you were so absorbed in your activity that you wanted to sustain your attention for a little while longer.

“I did tell you to take regular breaks,” Hunter said, approaching at a casual stroll and scooping you up. Supported in his capable arms, he brought you to the worktop and shifted the hem of your loose summer dress, softly kneading your thighs with his thumbs.

The steady pressure worked its magic, and you leaned on your palms to let out a whimpered sigh. His massaging touch climbed a little higher, no patch of skin untouched in his mission to provide you with some relief.

“Feeling better?” he asked, tease lacing his tone.

“Might need a bit more,” you replied, head tipping back and your eyes closing as you wiggled your hips forward for more. Like an avid scholar, he studied every inch of your body, gliding his fingers upward and barely touching the fabric of your underwear.

Your eyes opened, and you lowered your chin to meet his covetous gaze. You recognised that look; since that initial lesson, it had sought you whenever you practised. Even though he had explicitly stated that he would not bring any weapons into the bedroom, given his experiences during the war, he did admire your dedication and attentiveness to the craft.

“Is knife throwing something you find enjoyable?” he questioned, a little uncertain. “I appreciate you taking an interest, but you don’t have to keep it up if you don’t find it fun.”

“I do enjoy it,” you assured him. “Almost as much as I enjoy the way you look at my backside when I’m doing it.”

The tracker’s face lit up with a smirk as he increased the pressure on your core, moving your underwear aside to brush his thumb over your clit. As you leaned closer into his caresses, he showered your neck with gentle kisses and playful bites, waiting until you let out soft moans before sliding his finger inside you.

“Ah,” you sighed, rocking your hips against him as he added another finger, the pressure of his thumb persistent in stimulating your bundle of nerves. “Hunter…”

He hushed your groans, urging you forward to the edge of the worktop with his free hand. Whimpered growls traced along your throat. He wanted you. No, he needed you.

With his face in your hands, you dragged him closer to connect your lips. He held himself back to satisfy you, but all you craved was for him to unleash his hunger and take you however he wished.

Grinding up, you broke from him to unfasten his shirt buttons, mewling softly when he withdrew his fingers to remove his clothing. As he unzipped his pants, you slipped your underwear down to your ankles and discarded them with a kick.

Hunter leaned in for another kiss, stroking his cock before gliding the tip along your sensitive folds. Unable to prolong the anticipation, he eased in. Inch by blissful inch, he filled you, pushing in and giving you time to adjust until he buried himself to the hilt.

Despite the persistent soreness in your thighs, you paid it no mind. Hunter felt incredible inside you, thrusting in and out at a precise speed, and picking up the pace with every reaction you gave him. Every deliberate drag of his length as he drew out to the tip to slide back in brought you closer to the brink of your precipice.

He sucked on his finger and lowered the digit to circle your clit. “Perfect,” he whispered, tone low and captivated by your pleasured whimpers. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted enticingly, tempting him to devour every drop you offered. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The praise went straight between your legs, and gripping his shoulders until your nails pressed crescents into his skin, your climax rose a notch. The impact of his hips meeting your inner thigh merged with your desperate moans.

“That’s it,” Hunter cooed. “You getting close?”

You nodded and swallowed, mouth dry. “So close… so close…”

Hunter tuned in to your desires, synchronising the circles on your clit with his movements. Unable to hold back any longer, you cried out as a blinding white shot through you, your walls tightening around him and propelling him over the edge with you. His release spilled hot and thick, and after a few moments, he stuttered to a stop.

Breaths came quick and fast as you both clambered down from your glow. The kitchen appliances hummed in the quiet.

Hunter kissed your neck before drawing back, his forehead glistening with sweat and his teeth catching his lip as he pulled out. He snatched some paper towels to tidy up the mess and assisted you in getting off the counter. Legs unsteady, you tottered to the doorway.

“Go get yourself into the shower,” he said sweetly as you picked up your tossed underwear. “I’ll clean this up.”

“We can sort it later,” you replied, tugging him towards you by the open waistband of his trousers. “I want to shower with you.”

He disregarded the cleaning without a second thought, flinging the crumpled kitchen roll at the bin and gripping your waist to grind his hips against yours. “Temptress,” he whispered against your lips. “Go on. Upstairs. Now.”

If you would like to be added to the NSFW taglist, feel free to send me a message (18+ only).

@cw80831 @stardusthuntress @spicy-clones

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the-midnight-blooms · 3 months

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ꜱɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

pairing: husband!jeong yunho x wife!reader

AU: hanahaki au

word count: 2.4k

ATEEZ as angst tropes series:

masterlist

Trope: Unrequited Love

Dear Yunho,

I hope this letter find you well, whether you open it now or decades later when you sit at my grave. Perhaps you’ve married again, and another child sits in your arms- I'll never truly know how much I mean to you.

Whoever had said falling in love was a blessing had clearly never fallen in love with the wrong person in their life. Such an astute claim that was. Falling in love was one the worst things that could have ever happened to me, especially since the deadly case of Hanahaki was up for grabs.

I will not sugar-coat it, I love you as dearly as if you are mine. I love you as if I can have you. I love you as if I am entitled to you. I always have, and will until I am torn apart by this wretched illness.

Perhaps she had acted too resistant in the face of love. Acting like it was a sin for women on a dark path, yet at night she dreamed that in the dead of a void her lover would crawl to her and ensnare her in his arms. Pepper her with gentle kisses and unbroken stares. Perhaps that was the reason why Yunho had first been warded away from her, taking on many lovers. Always rushing back to her to tell her how perfect each woman was, how he cherished them, fixing onto their smile, their eyes, their beauty unparalleled. There was something about them that made his heart swoon and something about her that rebuked him.

“Then who will hold you at night, when you are so lonely that you cannot even comfort yourself?” He asked her one evening, sat under a great oak tree heads on each other shoulders; the action itself burning her heart- how she wished he wanted her the same way she wanted him. You. Will you not hold me? Will you not shield from the terrors of this world that I am so frightened against?

He had come to her in the torpidity of the night, finally, heart yearning as he realised that where he should have spoken aloud his lovers name, he said hers. Where his lover should have been soaring through his dreams, carrying his child, plastering kisses all over his face, running down the sand on the crust of the roaring sea; it was her.

"Yunho? What's wrong?" With watery eyes he stared down at her, body wracking with sobs.

"It's you. You're all I have ever wanted."

Who should I blame for being so devoted to you? I can’t blame myself, I’m sorry. It hurts too much and already the bronchi of my lungs have been replaced with the sturdy branches of a willow tree. Flowers now bloom on the membrane of cells, tissues all compressed between saccharine petals. You may laugh at my poetry but you adored it once. After all, once our souls were bound in holy matrimony, did I not gift you a poem every anniversary? Did you not read those words aloud me under the cover of the night, as if it was your soul speaking to me and not I?

An ecru, vintage radio sat perched upon the wooden worktop, in an equally old kitchen on the outskirts of the country. Just two miles below, down the grassy hilltop lead to the sea-the rush of the tides blanketing the sand, drawing it towards the deep. Delicate waves enveloped each other, producing a cacophony of sounds that drowned out the hum of the radio. The humidity of the kitchen suffocated her, as the flames of the oven whispered to the baked good blemishing it with a golden-brown that would soon prompt her to pull it from the rack. Wandering to the front porch, she followed her lover's figure saunter up the hill-his pace increasing as she opened her arms out for him. Swooping her up from the ground, he spun her around in the air-his tight grip central around her waist. A shriek escaped from her lips as he did so. Gently, he put her down, the couple laughing synchronously as she dragged him into the kitchen. Flopping down onto the chair, Yunho went straight to the radio-sitting on top of the worktop, fiddling with its button an array of tunes inbounding the pale kitchen walls. Settling upon a popular Latin song, he got off the countertop- beginning to sway his hips to the music. When his movements became much more faster and fluid, she could not help but erupt in a fit of laughter. He reached out for her hands, enamouring her hands within his.

"You know I can't dance." He laughed, recalling the memory where she almost tripped on her wedding dress in front of a crowd of people gawking at them during the first dance. Turning the dial, he rested his hands on her waist gazing down at her. Resting her chin on his chest she peered up at him with her own doe eyes. Remaining in each other arms as the world swept by, wind rushing in from the window lace curtain fluttering in the breeze. A sweet smell drove out from the oven, she hastily pried herself from his embrace grabbing the tea towel.

"What have you got in the oven?" he pondered, as she went to her knees opening the oven door. A small smirk formed on her lips. He looked over her shoulder. "Buns?" Holding back giggles, she composed herself before looking up at him with a deadpan face nodding dubiously.

"Interesting choice. I thought you were baking a cake. Never mind, these are nice." He rambled as she flipped over the buns onto the wire rack, leaving them to cool. "How long were they in the oven for?" He winced slightly as he tried to reach for one, sharply retracting his hand away as the hot surface lacerated his finger.

"About four-five weeks." He gave her a confused look, as she turned around meandering to the living room. Five weeks? He looked back at the buns. He knew croissants often took three days to make, but five weeks for buns? As if a switch had flicked in his head, he stuck his head in the living room doorway.

"We have a bun in the oven?" Nodding, he swept her off the floor like a bride, spinning her around in his arms as if she weighed nothing to him. "WE HAVE A BUN IN THE OVEN!"

You may have once told me you adored me, but you no longer do now.

She recalled staring down at the loose petal of a bright pink dicentra flower in her fingers, blood splattered across the crystal white sink in her bathroom. A strangling sensation fulfilled her throat, slumping onto the lid of the toilet seat. Beads of sweat formed across her forehead, the cogs in her brain stopping for a split second as fatigue gnawed at her. The pounding on the bathroom door startled her, shoving the pink petal in her pocket- she opened the tap using her fingers to scrub away the splatter of her blood that remained on the sink. Looking down she found her niece peering up at her with her wide eyes and an innocent face, her little lips lightly gaped as she took in her auntie's dishevelled state. Lifting up her niece in her arms, she pecked her chubby cheeks a giggle eructed from her as she walked into her bedroom. Yunho sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his work tie a sheepish smile of his face. Nari's short arms held out for her uncle, in a disinterested manner Yunho took her from his wife's hold, lazily entertaining his niece.

"You could at least pretend to be happy when you play with Nari." His wife taunted, late at night in a hushed tone as her niece fell into a deep slumber.

"She's not my child, I don't see why." A loud thud echoed in the room as he dropped his phone onto the night stand.

"Yunho." she snapped, eyebrows furrowed in anger. He never was like this, something had happened after her miscarriage. Like a lever had been pulled, refiguring his kind-hearted nature into a malicious monster. It struck her heart with fear, that now that she could not give him a child-he longer wanted her. "She is still a baby, how would you like it if someone did that to your child?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't have one, do I?" As if a blow had been struck against her, she rolled her body in the opposite direction, in the bed, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Why are you holding it against me? She wanted to say. A deep sigh escaped from his lips, he indolently patted his wife's shoulder as if it would compensate for the damage ensued by his apathy. Erupting in a harsh fit of coughs, a current of petals flew from her mouth blessing the earth beneath.

To ask me stop loving you is like asking for the earth to stop orbiting the sun. To ask me is to tell me to stop breathing. Oh my darling, my lover divine, I wish I could. No matter what I do, you won’t love me back. So I plead of you to acknowledge my suffering. To know that others may blame you for the way you taunted me. Because I never meant anything more to you than someone to fill your lonely nights when nobody else wanted you.

Over the subsequent months, her health had deteriorated significantly which had not gone unnoticed by her husband. Her eyes had sunken into its pockets, painted by dark circles highlighting the restless nights where the pain denied her sleep.

"You never told me what the doctor said." Nailing her eyes to the chopping board, the knife cut fluently down at the fruit sweeping it up in a plastic container. She hadn't told Yunho, it was Hanahaki. Neither could she forget the pitying look in the doctor's eyes when she revealed it to her. A married woman suffering from Hanahaki? Just how cruel could the world get?

"They're just running some blood tests. They haven't got back to me on the results, it's probably nothing. If it was important they would have called me." Yunho frowned, as he put his lunchbox in his bag. Walking with him to the foyer, he kissed her forehead before leaving to walk to his car parked on the drive way. The pain in her chest alleviated but not so much that she did not sink to knees when the car pulled out from the driveway heaving for air as she felt her lungs being pierced by the abrasive bark of a tree.

Where petals had drifted out of her mouth, flowers now bloomed. For one evening, Yunho came back home from work finding his wife draped over their shared bed- lips shrouded with petals. flowers at her neck. Concerned he shook her awake, with bleary eyes she sat up fingers pressing into her temples. Lifting up the petals with his slender fingers, he stared at her with a questioning look he only hoped she'd catch. Though no words had left her, she did not know what to say. He was not supposed to find out like this.

"I have Hanahaki disease, Yunho." she breathed out, her coarse voice prescient. An spectral silence befell amongst the couple, what else was there to say? The situation spoke for itself. "I just want to know, at what point in our lives did you stop loving me?"

“I didn’t know that I had fallen out of in love with you, because I still feel comfort when you’re there." He spoke slowly, a desperate attempt at piecing together the right words as he tried to come to terms with the fact he was the one who had caused her poor condition. "Sometimes I only feel myself entitled to breath when I look at you.” As if that was the cure, a declaration of love-those menial words that had put her in this position in the first place.

“Then why am I dying? Why is this disease tearing me apart? You’re killing me, Yunho.”

“Don’t say that.” He shook his head profusely, tears brimming at the front of his perfect eyes. "Don't say that, please." Her husband begged, pressing his palm to his lips to prevent the grievous dissonance of his sobbing.

“What else would you like me to say? That I am the disloyal one? And I am in love with another who cannot love me back? Be fucking realistic, I have been in love with you a lot longer than you have been in love with me.” Her body trembled with the cold, her own tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't try to hold back the distressing sound as he had. Leaning her head back on the headboard. "What about me disgusted you? What about me made me so unworthy of your love?"

"I wanted a child." Grabbing the pillow, she plundered it against his head as hard as she could. Lunging at him, the collar of his shirt balled up into fists, his slender body oscillating back and forth as she screamed out her soul.

"It's not my fault I cannot conceive! If you had known that before marriage would you have never married me? Would you have never loved me? Is that all a woman means to you? A machine to give birth, or an object to satisfy your desires?" Letting go off his shirt, she subsided into the silk pillows bawling to her heart's content. "Leave Yunho." His breath hitched in his throat. Soundlessly, he got up from the bed trudging towards the doorway, glistening pearls dropping from his porcelain face. He stopped, turning around with a pleading look.

"Leave and if you come back to me- tell me it is because you love me. So much so that it is the ailment to this disease.”

When you did not come back to tell me you loved me, it almost certified the fact that you really had fallen out of in love with me. Perhaps it is better to die than to live a life of solitude, for every day I live I can feel my heart rupturing at the mere sight of you. I wish you find someone to love as much as I love you.

So, one last time before the Angel of Death takes my breath away and draws my soul out of my body: I love you, Jeong Yunho. I love you so much that I have died in your name. I love you so much that if I was given a choice to relive this life again, I would. No matter the pain, no matter the heartache, I would live this life again. All for you.

Sincerely, Yours.

•••

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

A/N: i feel like yunho + unrequited love is such a fitting trope for him? Yunho doing the salsa literally came from me and @n0v4t33z talking about how his hips don't lie. ALSO AS A BRIT BUNS ARE CUPCAKES!! when i first heard about 'bun in the oven' i didn't know it was a teacake (burger bun), but i made it one for this fic.

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

#ateez #kpop #ateez angst #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #jeong yunho #yunho #yunho x reader #ateez yunho #yunho x you #ateez imagines #hanahaki #unrequited love #yunho ateez #hanahaki disease

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ayoogirlie · 1 year

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"Stars" Lilia Vanrouge x GN!Reader

content: random thoughts, fluff to angst, general lilia fell in love with a human

note: it's my first work so I'm not confident with it, also I don't like the ending, could've done it better

word count: 485

not proof-read

Stars. For most people, they're just fireballs which decorate the night sky. For Lilia, they're friends who accompanied him on many lonely nights during the war. They were also with him when he met his unforgettable love for the first time.

It was a starry night. No clouds disturbed its peace of mind. Young fae took a stroll around their camp to make sure, if there weren't any enemies around. As he strayed farther away, he noticed a weak sight of smoke. He got closer to its source and noticed a small, wooden house. Light streamed out the windows, informing about the life inside him. Lilia came closer and looked through the glass barrier that protected the person inside the cottage. Its interior was equipped with only necessary gear like a table, a bed or a worktop. He paid it no mind and looked for a person who lived inside it.

In front of the large mirror stood a young adult. They've been checking out their attire, spinning around and posing. General found their act odd and thought that person was simply crazy. He shook his head and quietly left, finding that place unimportant and not threatening.

Stars accompanied him when he checked out on them again and again with the excuse of not trusting humans. They also were with him when he finally decided to strike up a conversation with that person. His reasoning? "They might be a spy." Lilia hated humans, it was a fact. So when he found himself drawn to the resident of the cottage, he concluded he was cursed by them. He was wary of that person, he wanted to keep them in check, but soon enough he just wanted to stay by their side. With them he felt at peace. He was ready to throw all his prejudice away.

The stars were there when the gentle brushes of their touch became more possessive, when their eyes were focused only on each other and when they whispered their vows to one another.

The only time the stars weren't there for him was when he had to say goodbye to his beloved. Who thought they could get involved in war? They were innocent soul who loved someone like him. That love killed them. He thought people wouldn't dare to touch his lover. Oh, how foolish he was. Villagers, who lived nearby, got rid of them because they were precious to a fae, to a general who terrified many living beings around him.

He buried his face in their already cold body. Various emotions were mixed in his heart, fighting for the lead. He wanted revenge, he wanted to make them all aware what awaits fools who dare to touch what's his. Even so, it wouldn't make him happy again since they're already dead. They wouldn't come back to him no matter what he did.

It was already too late for them.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge #twst x reader #general lilia vanrouge

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eds6ngel · 1 year

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pumpkin muffins ๋࣭ ⭑๋࣭༄˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: to celebrate the new season, you and eddie decide to tackle baking some pumpkin mufffins!

warnings: fem!reader. pet names (babe, baby, my love). established relationship. food mentions and eating. swearing. no use of y/n. just domestic sweetness and fluffiness. also, reassurance from eddie <3 [1.5k].

“Okay, so we need one and three-quarter cups of all-purpose flour.”

Fall. The leaves were turning orange, days were growing shorter, and the weather was becoming colder. And what better way to celebrate the new season than appropriately making a pumpkin-based treat?

Bowls and utensils were spread out the small kitchen of the Forest Hills trailer. Making do with the space provided, Eddie grumbles, searching for the required product. He holds it by his face, giving you a confused look as you line the baking tray with twelve cupcake cases.

Knowing what he was asking purely by his expression, you nod, “That’s the one! Now, put one and three-quarter cups of it into that massive bowl there.”

Eddie stands there in confusion, looking around as if to search for the required “cup.” If he was being honest with himself, he had no clue what you were talking about.

He was usually the one to rest whilst you relaxed into the kitchen of his home, hair pinned up in a pink claw-grip, a matching-coloured apron, looking all pretty and dainty, something he admired as you hummed along to the radio you usually turned on whilst baking.

Spraying the cupcake cases with a non-stick lining, Eddie opens up a cupboard, pulling out the Garfield mug of Wayne’s.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing?” you ask softly, a gentle hand placed on his shoulder.

“You said one and three-quarter cups.”

You giggle, the boy truly inexperienced in the baking world. You turn behind you, grabbing the cup collection pinned together around a hook, “These are cups, baby. Measuring cups, not mugs.”

He purses his lips together, staring into the decorated cat’s black eyes, “Oh… I thought you meant a cup as in, y’know, a Cup of Joe.”

You hold in your laugh, a slight smile faltering on your lips as you press them to his cheek, “No, baby. These things. Just do one full cup, a half and then a quarter.”

The cups plop gently into his hands, Eddie reading the engrained lettering into the black coating. Meanwhile, you set the baking tray off to the side, beginning to combine the wet ingredients into a bowl.

One cup into the large bowl and Eddie is distracted. He just can’t keep his eyes off of you, looking all pretty, face scrunched up as you read the measurements on the side of the jug, milk splashing onto the worktop as you wipe it away effortlessly.

“How’s that flour coming on, handsome?”

Your voice snaps him out of his gaze, him stuttering, “Uh, yeah… Yeah, it’s great. Going great.”

He can feel your presence by his side, a tender kiss pressed to his bicep as your hands rubs up and down along his spine. It’s comforting.

“Okay,” you pass over a teaspoon, “One teaspoon of baking soda next!”

Without a second thought, he presses a quick kiss to your lips, hand naturally cupping your cheek, a hand-printed flour stain now left on it. In response, you dip your hand into the bag, placing your hand on his left cheek. “There. Now we match.”

God, you were just fucking adorable.

With your flour-printed cheeks, Eddie continues adding in the dry ingredients with a helping hand from yourself, passing him each ingredient as he needed it, the torn-out recipe now by his side.

Bringing over your medium bowl, you mix the wet and dry ingredients, folding them together softly with your wooden spoon, Eddie’s face nuzzled into your shoulder, hands resting on your waist.

Simple romantic gestures like that had become so natural between the two of you. Whether it’d be Eddie’s head leaning into your neck, hair tickling the side of your face, or your hand delicately stroking along the centre of his back, you just felt at peace. At home.

You place a delicate kiss to his forehead, hair pulled out of his face, something you had to convince him to do, teaching him the safeties of baking. “Time to pour the mixture into the cases.”

“Mmm,” he hums, sloppily placing several kisses alongside your neck before parting from you, grabbing the bowl in his large hands and tipping them in. However, the mixture decides to not be on his side for the day, falling outside of the cases. “Oh shit, shit!”

You giggle, helping your boyfriend out as he continues to struggle, grabbing your wooden spoon and rescuing the spilt mixture. However, as you point the wooden spoon towards his direction, some of the mixture flicks off the end, landing directly on the tip of his nose.

You cover your mouth at the occurrence, the laughs slipping from your lips, “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, baby.”

Yet, Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, a glint of mischievousness in his eyes as he grabs the wooden spoon from your hand, wiping the remaining mixture onto your own nose. “And now we match again.”

You shake your head, attending back to the muffin mixture. After many more spillages and kisses, the muffins are in the oven, baking away for twenty minutes.

In complete silence, minus the hum of the oven, Eddie is sat on top of the counter, you standing between his legs as your head is tucked into his chest, his lips leaving a trail of soft kisses along your scalp.

Leaning up slightly, Eddie’s rough thumbs part the back of your hair, the man humming as he notices a new, unique feature about you, “You know you have a freckle back here?”

Your face is scrunched up in confusion as you lift your head, “Really?”

“Mhmm,” he replies, “Makes you all the more prettier.”

You can’t help but blush at his words. No matter how long you’ve been together, his compliments still make your cheeks light up like a fire, the pink hue gracing them.

“I mean, I would take a photo to show you, but that means letting go of you, and I don’t plan on doing that until the timer goes off.”

“Mmm, me neither. It’s cosy here.”

He can feel your nails scratching up and down his back, the gesture feeling so incredibly good. “Yeah?” he questions with a lopsided smile, grabbing your face in his palms, your eyes connecting, “Nice and warm for you?”

You nod, closing your eyes and wrapping your arms fully around his back, falling back into his cosy chest. Eddie parts different sections of your hair, tenderly placing soft kisses alongside each line.

However, the sound of the timer beeping violently at the two of you raises your attentions. Eddie groaning at the intrusion, you move away from him, grabbing a mit and lifting the baking tray from the oven. The smell of pumpkin invades both of your senses, you placing the tray onto the worktop.

“Five minutes, baby. Then, we can taste our delicious creation.”

He chuckles, cupping your face once more, “I think you mean your delicious creation. I merely threw things into a bowl.”

You scrunch up your face into the cutest anger Eddie had ever seen. How did he get so lucky?

“And did I not do the same? How dare you not give yourself credit, my love.”

His lips attach softly to the creases in your forehead, “Darlin’, you found the recipe from some old ass cookbook, did the entirety of the wet ingredients yourself, and practically told me how to do the dry ingredients. It’s 100% on you, and you know this. What did I tell you about giving yourself more credit?”

You huff, arms flailing up in the air, “I know… I just like to see other people succeed! I like to make others feel as if they’ve been helpful and done a good job.”

You feel his thumb tenderly stroke across the apple of your right cheek, “I know, baby. But, you need to start including yourself in that too, okay? If you need a motivator to do so, just think that I would absolutely love it if you gave yourself credit where credit is due, okay?”

You nod slowly, Eddie’s toothy grin showing as your lips connect, his soft as they move against your own. As you part, your foreheads touch, “You’re talented, baby. You deserve to acknowledge that.”

“Okay,” you quietly reply, before leaning back and smirking, “Would my love like to try my amazing talent?”

Pointing over to the muffins, Eddie carefully picks one up, unwrapping it, waiting for you to do the same.

He lifts an eyebrow, asking, “Ready?”

You nod in response, both of you simultaneously biting into the soft treat, a collection of moans and hums echoing at the deliciousness of the dessert.

“Babe, that tastes fucking incredible. Oh my God.”

You look up at him, Eddie munching further into the pumpkin muffin, basking in its tastiness.

And maybe he was right. Maybe you did deserve more credit. Because if it makes him happy, that is all that matters.

sorry for being so inactive! i'm currently doing film & tv at uni and it's super time-consuming and stressful! also, trying to explore london where i can <3 i'm always here to support other's fics though ♡

taglist: @cosmorant @jesssssmaybankk @tlclick73

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson drabble #stranger things #eds6ngel

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carlos-in-glasses · 2 months

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Thank you for the tag @orchidscript @heartstringsduet @ironheartwriter

@strandnreyes @paperstorm @whatsintheboxmh @emsprovisions @safeaswrites

🧡🧡🧡🧡

Due to TK's 30th birthday being a Current Theme, I'm going for a Work is Published Wednesday and sharing some Where All This Love Comes From, in which TK's birthdays (30th and otherwise!) are an important feature.

(Some context: Gwyn dislikes black leather couches)

"Colombian beans," Carlos says, removing a packet from a cupboard and a cafetiere alongside it, roiling internally when he realizes he doesn’t know if Owen prefers French press over moka pot. He’s seen him with a moka pot before(!). But he unclips the little wooden peg he uses to secure the packet, and passes the beans to Owen to smell.

"Real coffee," Owen says as he closes his eyes and breathes in. "Nothing like it."

He hands the packet back and watches Carlos meticulously tip beans into the grinder. They make a satisfying tapping noise as they drop out, and Carlos smiles at Owen.

"I don't think TK's enjoyed a birthday this much since he turned ten," Owen says quietly, leaning against the worktop. He gazes at their translucent, yellowish reflections in the darkness of the window that faces the invisible yard.

"I guess birthdays lose their shine as we grow up," Carlos offers, starting to feel hot and itchy in the green sweater he spent an hour choosing for the occasion.

"Four years ago, on his birthday. Exactly four years ago..." Owen shakes his head. "TK’s addiction was..."

Carlos secures the lid onto the grinder but does not press down.

"Heroin," Carlos whispers. Owen nods. "He's told me some of what happened."

"I know he did. And I appreciate it wouldn’t have been easy for you to hear. Honestly. If I sat and wrote down everything that went on, it would be like an encyclopedia. It's taken his mother and me a long time to deal with–" Owen stops, points to his temple and circles a finger "–These things can stay with you a while. The things Gwyn and I have seen. The people he was around. What I'm saying is – I'm happy he met you, Carlos."

Carlos bites his lip and looks away, feels himself going shy. The wall he put up, so flimsy. "That means so much to me, Captain Strand. I'm happy you brought him here."

Owen looks over at Gwyn and TK chatting on the couch. They look back at him and smile shyly, as if they sensed being watched.

"What's taking y'all so long?" TK teases.

"Y'all!" Owen tuts, returning his attention to Carlos. "Okay. Let's see this grinder in action. I want to know how it compares to mine."

Carlos nods seriously, the terrifying challenge accepted. He presses the beans into a beautifully soft powder under his future father-in-law's watchful eye.

An hour later, he and TK are on the doorstep, shaking Owen's hand and hugging Gwyn goodbye, thanking them for coming – TK thanks them as if he lives here with Carlos, instead of with them. He's sending his divorced parents off to their own home as if they're still a married couple, just like he always wanted.

As soon as Carlos shuts the door, TK knocks him into the frame with a powerful hug from behind.

"They love you!" TK pecks kisses over Carlos’ ear, getting him to squirm.

"That went well," Carlos agrees, his voice lilted with laugher at the tickle of TK’s kisses. "Not that I have anything to compare it to."

"Well, believe me, I do!" TK hugs him tight, smushing his face into the back of his shoulder. "Dinner with them and you today. Clubbing tomorrow. Best birthday ever."

Carlos turns around in TK's arms, kisses him slowly on the lips. "Want to cash in on that birthday backrub?"

"Want to screw my brains out?"

"Let's go!" Carlos yells happily, taking TK's hand and dragging him to the stairs.

Read on Ao3

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@never-blooms @sanjuwrites @chicgeekgirl89

@theghostofashton @freneticfloetry @honeybee-taskforce

@sugdenlovesdingle @herefortarlos @three-drink-amy

@carlos-tk @eclectic-sassycoweyes @literateowl

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @kiwichaeng

@nancys-braids @sapphic--kiwi @anactualcaseofthetruth -

If you want to share/ haven't already. No pressure ever!

❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

#Tarlos fic #Tarlos fanfic #Where All This Love Comes From #gay fanfiction #flashback fic #cig fic #my fic #cig tagged #wip wednesday #Work is published Wednesday

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courtingchaos · 9 months

Text

Violence Ad Nauseam

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

Series Master List

A/N: Would you all like some actual story to go along with the smut chapters? Finally getting into the meat of this after months of being stuck on it. This is going to feel a little out of order with the next two chapters, mainly because those were written first but this bridged a gap I had in my conflict so have at it. This is the tinder to start the bonfire (and also to show off Roy, the world’s biggest bastard). Hope you enjoy, PLEASE read the warnings everyone!

Warnings: Violence, assault (Roy hits reader), depictions of injury, descriptions of injury, talk of violence.

18+ NSFW No Minors

A quiet afternoon on account of the brothers going off for lunch leaving just you in your corner and your father in the house. You saw him through the kitchen window when you stepped out to ask Ty something. He hovers just around the sink so you know he’s cooking, rinsing off the cranberries or breaking down some bird. Wednesday nights mean Family Meetings and when you’re done out here in the garage with this new dash wiring you’ll go in and quietly help him make your mother’s linzer tart.

Between the solder you pinch to the newly stripped wires and the radio droning at the side of your head, it takes you longer than it should to realize the rest of the noise has quieted. Suddenly it isn’t just four brothers gone but the whole homestead seems to have taken off, or at least run away from the heavy footfalls that almost echo in your workspace.

“What are you working on?” Roy’s deep voice is clear without the ring of metal work in the background.

You don’t look up from your work, especially not for him. “Custom dash.”

“Is that for you?”

“You know it isn’t.”

His laugh is anything but jovial, a thin ice pick that hits your spine wrong. You finish with your wires, tucking them back into their casing, before you turn to look at him smiling at you. It’s flat and doesn’t reach his eyes, a startling match to someone else you know. “What do you need?”

“Just came to talk.”

“Father’s in the house. You can talk to him.”

“I already did.” His footsteps seem measured in the last few feet he closes between you two. Those green eyes seem to darken the longer they look down at you, his distaste for you never more apparent. You hazard a look past him towards the open, empty bays and confirm you’ve been left for the wolves.

“There’s not much I can help you with.”

“Oh I beg to differ.” Suddenly he’s reaching for a folding chair leaned up against the wall. Opening it and motioning for you to sit with a wide open palm. “Have a seat sweetheart.”

Your heart pounds in your chest hard enough to crack ribs. “I’d rather stand.”

“I’d rather you sit.” Those eyes turn hard with a glint in the florescent work lights above. “Please.” Again he gestures at the open seat and you stall just a little too long. He grabs your bicep and yanks you forward to stand in front of the chair. “Sit. Down.”

There’s no one out here now. Your phone sits on your workbench, plugged in and on silent. The radio still sings out low and the garage remains quiet like it was the dead of night. So you sit and you swallow the vitriol that rises in your throat because you know when you’re outnumbered.

Roy nods his head when you do as asked and leans back onto the thick wooden worktop, arms crossed too casually across his chest. “You’ve been doing a little research I hear.”

“I do a lot of research, you’ll have to be specific.” You stare up at him with your best poker face, trying hard to leave the disgust out of your features.

“Don’t play fucking stupid.”

“I’m not.” You blink too much as your nerves start to flood in with his sharp tone. “I’m the brains around here, remember?” Licked lips end up bitten lips and you can see him watching all of your nervous energy bleed out into the open. “If Father didn’t know then-“

“I found that P.I. you hired. The one out of Biloxi.” He watches you still suddenly. “Hm. Clearer picture now?”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray you. Roy is a pain in your ass but he’s a dangerous one, something better left alone until it decides to leave you be. You’ve poked him before with your words and your blatant disregard for his need of Gator but now he has you cornered in silence.

“He sang quite the tune when it came down to brass tacks. Showed me the file on Gator first and then little ol’ me.” He clears his throat. “What are you looking for, bookworm?”

You open your mouth but he railroads you, talks right over your explanation because he didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know about you looking into Gator and finding the hidden rot, the long trail of familial deceit that spanned from the gulf to the frozen plains Roy inhabited.

“You think you know it all don’t you? Think you can just do what you want because you think you’re smarter than everyone around you?” He stands to his full height, hands dropping to hang at his sides. “You’re sticking your nose in the wrong business.”

“He deserves to know.”

“Deserves to know what? That his father is running the same game down at home?” He scoffs at you. “You think he doesn’t know what kind of family he comes from?”

“He doesn’t know about you.”

“And what about me?”

You let your schooled features fall when you realize Roy thinks this is all about his money. “Does your brother know?” You feel bold when you lean into your question. “You two seem awfully close. Is that what you’re afraid of? Him finding out or you loosing money?”

There’s a dawning look on his face when he finally gets it.

“Does your brother know he raised your son or are you only keeping that secret from Gator?”

The air is heavy with every deep breath you and Roy take. He stares down at you staring defiantly up at him and the hollow chuckle from deep in his throat makes your skin crawl.

“You think he’s gonna believe you?” Roy leans down slow to get level with you, crouches in front of you with a creaking knee and violent look in his eye. Only a foot away and you hate how much you can see of Gator here; in the anger and the slope of his nose.

“I don’t lie to him.”

One thing about Roy is that he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. It’s a common misconception because he has a posse behind him willing to do his bidding but in the right circumstances, ones like these with no prying eyes or ears, he sticks his hands right into the muck.

He moves faster than you think someone of his age should, especially with that loud knee, but knuckles wrap into the front of your jacket before you know what’s happening. He’s stronger and taller than you and he hauls you up fast, the chair collateral that gets kicked to the wayside by his boot. Your heels drag for just a moment before your back hits the side of the car you’ve been working on hard, wind knocked out of you while Roy gets in your face.

“I don’t care what kind of shit you’ve been pullin’ with him but I don’t play fucking games.” He shifts you up the door so you’re on tiptoes and supported by just his massive fists. “You’re fucking with things you have no idea about.”

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” It’s strained out of you with your collar twisted up. Even pinned up against a car you still feel the need to goad him, especially when he’s this worked up. “Is it just about money with you or are you afraid of being responsible for him too?”

Roy pulls away for a moment, faltering enough to let you slip down almost onto flat soles. Your laugh is shallow too when you watch Roy’s face contort into a scowl.

“I’m warning you.” His voice doesn’t waver in anger. It’s flat like the look in his eyes.

“And I’m telling you-“

You hear the crack before you fully register what’s happened. The clap of an open palm that sets your face on fire and snaps your head sideways, brain rattling around in your skull. It takes a moment before you feel the sharp pain in your jaw and realize you can’t clench your teeth. It hangs unnaturally while you slide to the floor heavily, legs tangled under you while you try to make sense of what’s happened.

“You ain’t telling me shit.” He spits down at you, confused on the floor. “Look at me.” He demands but your vision swims and the pain surges into nausea. You couldn’t turn your head even if you wanted to but all your whimpering sends Roy into a further rage. He bends down and grabs your jaw roughly, twisting you sideways to look at him all while you scream in the back of your throat. His fingers dig into the hinge of your jaw and you howl louder with the pain he inflicts.

“I have no reservations with you.” He holds your face tighter and you cry, hot tears that spill over and down your flaming cheek. “I don’t care about whatever pedestal that boy puts you on, you start nosing around in my business?” He shakes your head and the edges of your vision darken momentarily. “I’m gonna put a fucking end to it.” He drops you suddenly and you barely catch yourself from hitting cement. His legs are all you can make out of him while you try to cradle your jaw and you watch him move away from you to your bench. “You’re gonna do whatever you want because you’re too smart for your own good, right?” He shifts things around that you can’t see, sends them clattering before you notice his boots in your peripheral again. “Right?!” He yells down at you and makes you jump before you try to shake your head no. “Well don’t lie to me, darlin’.”

“I’m not.” Only it comes out slurred and half formed from your numb lips. Roy clicks his tongue at you before he crouches next to you again only this time you flinch and that makes him smile.

“Look,” he squints at you holding your face together and trying to look him in the eye with all the disgust you can muster, “go ahead and call one of your brothers.” He tosses your phone on your lap. “Tell them what happened.”

You shake your head again.

“No?” It could almost be concern that he flashes you but you know better. “Gonna keep this to yourself?”

You nod almost against your own will.

“Like your little findings too?” His voice is soft like he’s trying to calm one of his horses. It has the opposite effect on you though, that roiling nausea replaced by rage in your gut. You nod again though, tears still falling freely down your face.

“Good girl.”

If you could spit at him you would. He stands gingerly to avoid his knee popping and you watch him walk away a few feet before he turns back to you. “Now I’m gonna head back up to the house, let your father know I’m done out here.” He checks his phone before giving you one last look, gesturing at his own jaw. “Should get that checked out.”

#Gator Tillman #Gator Tillman Fic #Gator Tillman x Reader #Gator Tillman Angst #My Work #My Fic

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little-annie · 25 days

Note

🐶 for WIP weekend? A nice palette cleanser after the angst of august lol

@flufftober | Ingredients, Spells | WIP

●●●

3 rose petals, a pinch of cinnamon, a square of chocolate, a dash of red wine and…

“A strand of your intended targets hair?” Eddie wrinkles his nose, looking down at the ingredients laid before him -a small mess atop his wooden worktop- well he doesn't have that.

“Shit,” he huffs

How he's supposed to snag a strand of Prince Harrington's silken hair, he hasn't the slightest clue.

Stupid love potion

●●●

Come make me write

#flufftober #steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #steddie au #steddie fandom #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlet #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things

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mirl0-turdusmerula · 1 month

Text

Been thinking a lot about where Kim would live pre-canon.

A tiny matchbox appartment in the Industrial Harbour.

So yeah, I wrote a ficlet. Slice of life / long ass description of a normal evening and Kim arriving home, making dinner, revising notes and doing Volta do Mar.

1200 words. Full text below the cut.

Midsummer night

The heavenly sound falls out as the motor carriage's engine comes to a stop. Inside the Precinct 57 garage, the Coupris Kineema stands out among the four other non-sports model MCs. Although different models, they all share the same blue paint and bear the corp's halogen white stripe across their side. The five of them also sleep there (guarded), to the Lieutenant's dislike. But he understands. Neither he nor his station can afford to be the object of street junior delinquency.

The Lieutenant steps out—end of the day.

He mutters a goodbye to the security guard and closes the Station's service door behind him. If it weren't for the white rectangular sign bearing the RCM initials and new motto ("Justice, Union, Prudence and Force"), this repurposed industrial warehouse could be mistaken for any of the similar buildings that surround it. The streets are wide and level, but the asphalt leaves almost no room for the sidewalk. He marches home late August evening, dodging vans, containers, and badly parked MCs trailers.

He makes a stop at a little green kiosk in the corner of an intersection, –"Evening, officer"– and buys the usual newspaper, and today too, a pack of 'Astras' (it is Friday). Back straight, steady voice, firm hands.

He finally arrives at his destined warehouse. Once housing an R&D department of the Feld-Electric company, its old-style brick atéliers have been repurposed into apartments.

Black mailboxes sit at the side of the main barred door. One of them, in the third row says: "Kim Kitsuragi". The Officer produces a key from a pocket in his aerostatic jacket's interior lining and unlocks the door. A long and narrow hallway extends before him, with storage rooms opening on either side. At the end of it, there is a not-too-dirty communal bathroom and a spiral metal staircase that leads to the upper floor. The Officer takes a quick detour to the communal bathroom, and his boots make a thump, thump noise as he comes up the stairs. He produces another key. This one is smaller and more intricate and unlocks a reinforced wooden door.

With a soft click he eases himself inside. The matchbook-sized room is orderly, bright, and well-kept. In just 6 by 2'5 meters, Kitsuragi's private life unfolds. Being a repurposed industrial atélier, the construction is sturdy: brick walls, exposed cables and plumbing, and hydraulic tiles floor, in the old-fashioned dideridada style. Opposite to the door, a grand paneled industrial window covers the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, where it bends and becomes a skylight.

Kitsuragi closes the door behind him and locks it. Two turns. Key left in the keyhole. Still on the doormat he takes off his uniform. Black heavy police boots, off. Orange aerostatic pilot jacket, off. Utility belt off. Under-arm holster and pistol off. Everything is neatly left on a shelf and some hooks beside the door.

Kitsuragi's bare feet make straight for the workbench on the left wall. On the shelf above it, is a Wowshi 12-Prefect two-way radio system for station calls. Long-cable headphones are firmly attached to the 4.5 mm port. The sound system is never used without the headphones, and the headphones never leave the room. He dones them, and the long chord follows him around the room. Kitsuragi presses the saved station button, and after a moment of static, he begins to hum half-consciously to the familiar sounds. The room is filled with ecstatic vibrations, totally translucent to the rest of the world.

He starts cooking dinner.

There is not a kitchen per se, but the original atélier's stainless steel sink and worktop, paired with a portable gas stove serves the purpose well. It also serves as a wash basin, in tandem with the mirror cabinet mounted to the wall next to it.

Rattling pots, a flame, boiling water. His foot taps along the beating pulses.

Kitsuragi leads a steaming plate of Samaran fast noodles to his wooden workbench (and only table) and sits in a rolling steel chair that probably came with the tenement. He sits crouched, one leg hugged and the other one hanging, headphones still on his head, although he has stopped the music. He is revising notes from his blue A6 Mnemonic, jotting down more nearly illegible lines, careful not to drop the spicy sauce on it. Filled (and yet to be filled) similar notebooks rest in boxes beside the table.

Above the workbench, a corkboard and some shelves. Pinned in the center, between other notes, is a map of Revachol West. Boroughs, streets, and motorways cut across the web of canals. It's up for display rather than reference. The 8/81 traverses Kim from the base of his column to the top of his skull.

On the shelves, Kim's quaint collection of hobbies: some Wirrâl dice, tiny franconigerian figurines, Jamrock Slam tabloids, some second-hand mechanical manuals, Jacob Irw's Tiptop Tournée racecar miniature, some sci-fci novellas… Most of these bric-à-bas are from the last few years when his higher lieutenant's salary allowed him some stability. With the raise also came a tiny black box that now sits in the corner, bearing a white halogen rectangle. Inside, a mémoire.

He lights an 'Astra Menthol', and absent-mindedly taps the ash onto a tray in between inhalings. The noodles grow cold as Kitsuragi writes and rewrites in his notebook. No crosswords for tonight. He doesn't mind, and his gaze certainly does not fall on the tiny black box.

Sometime later, when the Astra is consumed, the chair rolls back, and Kitsuragi stands and reignites the music. The multi-purpose pre-installed sink becomes the star of the room again. Dishes and then teeth. He does not have a personal shower (he uses the communal one in the morning), but fenilely takes advantage of his private faucet to wash off the usual dirt, sweat, and grime. Blood sometimes.

One last stretch and Kitsuragi sits legs-crossed on the steel-framed bed below the window. He takes off his glasses and headphones. No verres, no smokes, no music, no gloves. He settles down for Volta do Mar.

Y del trueno,

al son violento,

y del viento

al rebramar,

yo me duermo

sosegado

arrullado

por la mar.

(And from thunder, to the violent tone, and from the wind to the roar. I sleep, soothed, lulled, by the sea. )

It is an old boiadero song. Written by a man in the Plains who never saw the sea, now popular among entroponauts who long for the day they see the open sky again.

Outside the window, the summer sun is setting down in the Great Industrial Harbour, and the low rumble of cranes and lorries is slowly fading out. A shimmer in between two eternite rooftops: the sea. The sound of cargoships horns arriving at the port and the screeching of seagulls. Smoke rising from the chimneys fades into lazy clouds. High above, the sound of rotors and the beams of floodlights. Although Kim is not able to see the Coalition airships, he is acutely aware of their presence.

An empty pot on the windowsill. No flowers grow here anymore.

Kim's breathing steadies, his chest rising and falling as the sunlight recedes and the stars appear. Invisible, obscured by the helium streetlights. Next to him, a nightstand and two objects on top: a pair of hyperopia diamond-shaped glasses, and a single-shot Kiejl A9 Armistice. Loaded.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #my writing #man writing is hard #my first ever fiction written in english #tried to draw it but my ability is not there yet #the poem is Canción del Pirata by José de Espronceda

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peri-helia · 9 months

Text

Take it easy with me, please

In lieu of the New Year drabble I haven't finished, here is a Joe x Nicky slice of life drabble where the title inexplicably comes from ABBA. Taken from this prompt list: cooking together

“I love you more than life itself, but fuck off”

Joe snorted on a laugh, a hand coming up to cover one of Nicky’s that is cradling his face. It’s a line he’s heard from his beloved’s mouth so many times before. He remembers it from the first argument, proper argument, that they’d had since they’d become lovers. And so many others since. Probably none more than this.

“But I want to help” he insists.

Nicky’s lovely eyes kindle warmly, mouth ticking up in one corner the way it does when he’s trying not to laugh. Joe knows no map better than he does Nicolo di Genova’s face.

“I know you do, hayati. And I love you for that. But this,” Nicky gestures behind them, “is not what one would call helping”

Joe plays along, mouth dropping into an enquiring ‘o’, eyebrows raising. “What would ‘one’ call it, tesoro?”

“Getting in my fucking way”

Joe can’t hold back anymore, he ruptures into laughter. Abandons the pots and pans he'd been starting to wash to pull Nicky into a soapy kiss. They both get lost in it a little, while the others are in the other room. They pull at each other, hair and shirts. Nicky bites at Joe’s plush lower lip, the way he’s wont to. Joe’s hands slip under Nicky’s t-shirt, the hem pulled free from the constricting ties of his apron up to press at Nicky’s shoulder blades, leave marks that will fade a split second after they’re made.

Nicolo is a tolerant man but if there is one thing he cannot stand, it is someone trying to help him cook.

Joe pulls away first, delighting in the way Nicky chases his mouth, at having made him forget the holds of life, beyond love and desire. Many a pot has bubbled over because of Joe and he holds each time a personal success.

“Should I disappear from your sight?” Joe asks with a contented sigh, patting Nicky on the chest, smoothing a non-existent rumple from the fabric of his t-shirt.

Nicky smiles, that gorgeous, rakish grin that Joe loves best. “Another hour would be perfect”

When Nicky is in the kitchen, it is to be himself, his ingredients and the battered old radio crooning terrible love songs The rest of them are expected to involve themselves only if they want a glass of water or to have a spoon shoved under their nose to check the seasoning.

“I’ll just-“ Joe reaches over to the corner of the worktop, where his hoodie sits beside the eggs and the other groceries not yet put away, “get out of your way”

He winces when he hears the tiny crackle of the bag of Doritos under the fabric, even as he carefully off-sets the weight of the jar of salsa in the right hand inner pocket. Joe was so the wrong person for this job. He knew he should have gone with paper over scissors.

He’d be sent to do recon, because they were, with all the love in the world, starving. Another hour. Quynh already had Domino’s on speed dial. It’s not that they won’t eat what Nicky’s so lovingly cooking – he always relishes his turn to cook – especially now that they are all together once more. They will savour it. It’s just that like so many things with immortality; their healing, refractory periods, hair growth – they burn a lot of calories and coming back to life is hungry work. They put Hobbits to shame with the size of their second breakfasts and elevenses. Brunch as well as lunch, supper after dinner.

Hence the crisps and dip. Nile had pleaded. Begged.

Joe holds his breath as he looks up from under his lashes at Nicky. His beloved is singing away under his breath, swaying his shoulders as he bangs the wooden spoon on the lip of the saucepan.

He gathers the hoodie tighter, to stop the bag falling out by a loose corner. Another treacherous crinkle of the paper. Fuck. What did they make these bags of anyway?

Turning as nonchalantly as he can, Joe starts to walk towards the door. Then, as it comes over the radio he sings along, "Take your time, make it slow"

Nicky remains, a smile slipping over his face as he stands by the stove, as he too sings along under his breath. Joe can barely believe it when he gets away with it, slipping out and just as casually pushing the kitchen door to before haring up the rickety stairs as quickly as his feet can carry him.

“Make your fingers soft and light,” Nicky huffs on a laugh as he stirs the casserole, listening to Yusuf make off with ill-gotten gains, reaching into the pocket of his apron. “Let your body be the velvet of the night,” the half eaten brownie he’d cut from the tray is a little squashed from being in his pocket when Joe embraced him, but Nicky wouldn’t have it any other way. “Touch my soul, you know how” he warbles, savouring the gooey chocolate, “Andante, Andante Andante, Andante, go slowly with me now”

#my writing #tog drabble #kaysanova #joe x nicky #the old guard #tog fic #tog drabbles

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