#happy (almost) thanksgiving to all (americans) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

formulaforza · 7 months

Text

—if walls could talk

some things are meant to be secret (we'd fall from grace) pairing: charles leclerc x female reader warnings: 18+ minors dni. loadsss of google translated french. language, friends talking about sex, nsfw warnings under the cut :) love, mackie... 6.3k words! sometimes the only person who can help you out is a good friend. happy almost thanksgiving to all my american followers :) thankful for each and every one of you. mwah mwah mwah.

18+ because: fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, aftercare, mentions of hookups/faking it

You’re the last one to walk through the door of Charles’ apartment. Everyone else has been long comfortable, leaving imprints on the comfortable couch, footprints in the freshly-vacuumed rug, empty wine bottles and half-empty glasses on the coffee table.

There’s always something so cold about his apartment—always empty, always dusty, filled with the remnants of his boyhood and the promise of his adult life. It has all the makings of a home, but it still feels like a house—like a museum instead of a secondhand shop. Always, except on days like tonight, when it’s filled with warm laughter and the smell of half a dozen different meals and the quiet hum of his favorite playlist. On days like today, it feels like a home.

Nobody in the living room hears you open the door or slip off your shoes—they’re too preoccupied in their busy, lively conversation about a road closure on the way to the airport in Nice that adds twenty minutes on to the drive. You move in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, to set your crowd offering—blue cheese stuffed shrimp—on the counter and get a wine glass from the cabinet to fill. He’s in the kitchen when you turn the corner, carefully examining the platter of Italian meatballs he’s got cooking in the oven.

Charles looks up as soon as you set the heavy plate down on the counter. “Hé!” Hey, he greets, closing the oven door and pulling off his blue mittens to properly kiss both of your cheeks, a single arm wrapping around your middle to pull you into a quick hug. “Quand es-tu arrivé?” When did you get here?

“Tout à l'heure,” Just now, you reply, roll up the sleeves of your shirt because his kitchen is so small, and heats up so quickly when the oven is on. “Désolé, je suis en tard,” Sorry I’m late.

“T'es pas en tard,” You’re not late, he interjects, dragging a tortilla chip through someone’s dip and popping it into his mouth. With his other hand, he’s reaching into the cabinet above his head, pulling down a wine glass and handing it to you.

“Je suis très en tard,” I am so late, you smile, take the empty wine glass with a thank you and follow suit with your own chip in the fame dip. “Je reviens directement du travail. Les crevettes sont restées dans le réfrigérateur du bureau tout l'après-midi,” I came straight from work. The shrimp sat in the office fridge all afternoon, you explain, and he scowls, raises his brows at you and at the shrimp. You chuckle, nod. “N'en mangez pas,” Don’t eat it.

His eyes are stuck on your cheek, which forces your hand to investigate what he might be staring at. “Quoi?” What? You ask, fingers coming up with nothing but an embarrassed heat.

“Rien, juste... tu as un cil,” Nothing, just… you have an eyelash, he lets a sharp exhale leave through his nose, “je l'enlèverai,” I’ll get it, and then he does. Carefully, with the pad of his middle finger, he picks the eyelash from your cheek. You don’t look at him while he does it, but you are watching when he transfers it to his thumb and drops it onto the platter of shrimp with a quick flick. “Oh, non,” he feigns concern, grabs the platter from the counter, “Allons juste…” Let’s just… he laughs and holds the plate over the trash can and drops the shrimp into the plastic bag with a thump.

“Bon appel,” good call, you laugh.

He drags you into the living room, towards the rest of the evening festivities, with his arm tossed over your shoulder. Between that, and the whole let me get your eyelash thing minutes earlier, you’re as close to certain a person can get that he and his girlfriend are still broken up.

They go through phases, the two of them. She doesn’t like your friend group very much, and Charles doesn’t seem like he likes her all that much, but they come and go like seasons. Together one month, broken up the next week. He usually tells you, but even when he doesn’t, you usually know. He’s always touchier with you when she’s out of the picture. Not that you mind it, but. He is.

It’s all a little more comfortable, like you’re both a little less aware of the fact that you’re the only girl in the group who isn’t spoken for, or that you’re both atrociously the other’s type.

“Regarde qui j'ai trouvé,” Look who I found, Charles announces, and you’re met with a spattering of greetings, plopping down onto the couch, slotting between Marta and an empty space that is quickly occupied by Charles.

You both fight over the corner seat, who gets to take up more of it. He loves to sprawl out and you love to curl up. When it’s all settled, he’s spread out like he likes, and you’re curled up into the space he leaves, half leant against him with your knees pulled to your chest, sleeves pulled over your hands because it’s hot in the kitchen, but only in the kitchen.

“J'ai entendu dire que vous avez tous les deux eu un week-end assez mouvementé,” I heard you both had quite the eventful weekend, Marta teases. She’s the only other person besides the man next to you—as far as you know—that knows about what went down last Friday night. It takes even you a moment to remember, having already relegated the mortifying details to the bottom of your soul. When you do recall, your cheeks burn with the sudden blow flow and you giggle, curl into Charles a little further than you probably should.

“Quoi?” What, Joris asks, “ce qui s'est passé?” What happened?

“Rien ne s'est passé,” Nothing happened, Charles tries to protect you from re-living the evening, but it’s no use. Now that your friends have a sniff of a story, they won’t stop until it’s told in complete, painstaking detail. So, you begin:

“J'étais en train de garder un chat le week-end dernier pour mon collègue, n'est-ce pas?” I was cat sitting for my coworker last weekend, right?

— —

You were indeed cat-sitting for a coworker last weekend. It was an orange cat whose name you never really learned, much less remembered, and you were on day three of five of cat-sitting. It’s important for the rest of the story, for later. It is.

Anyway, you were cat-sitting on a Friday night, but that wasn’t going to stop you from going out. Your sister had invited you, something about a club and her boyfriend’s friends visiting from London. Only if I can claim a brit, you’d joked. You’d joked, right up until coming face-to-face with the twenty-something, five-foot something-but-still-taller-than-you, perfect brown hair and perfect green eyed British man that had come along for the visit. You weren’t joking after meeting him.

Once the two of you were finally drunk enough to lose any sense of what’s good for you, you were squeezing into the back of a taxi and stumbling up the stairs of your apartment complex, the cute boy and his little kisses and touchy hands slowing the whole process down.

We all know what a drunken Friday night hookup looks like, so. There’s no need to explore the logistics of it with someone who’s name you’ve since forgotten, who you hope is back home in London never to return. Because where the story really gets good, is after the uneventful hookup, when Mr. Brit really needed to get back to his fiends and had you walking him to your apartment door in just a towel because he didn’t have the patience to wait for you to put on some fucking clothes.

— —

“Bon sang,” damn, Hugo laughs from the other end of the sofa, “tu es vraiment si mauvais en sexe?” Are you really that bad at sex?

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you, you scoff. “Je suis incroyable en matière de sexe,” I’m amazing at sex.

“Je peux trouver quelqu'un pour vous donner des cours, si besoin,” I can find someone to give you lessons, if you need.

You pause, blink twice, and then continue your story. “De toute façon,” Anyways.

— —

As you open the door to let him out, the cat you’ve been cat-sitting—see. It did come back to be important—darts out of the door.

“Grab him!” You’d yelled, and the guy actually looked back at you before replying.

“I’m allergic.”

You scoffed, hurrying past him and down the stairs after the cat. You manage to corral it in the corner of the stairwell, pick it up and return to your apartment, just in time to watch the door shut behind you. You look at the door, at the guy you’d just fucked, at the cat in your hands, and then back at the door. “That is not good,” you say.

The guy laughs. “Just open it.”

Oh, brilliant. Why hadn’t you thought of that? “It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

By the grace of God and all things good in this world, the guy had a fully-charged phone. Unfortunately for you, of the three people with a spare key to your apartment, there was only one number you had memorized: Charles.

You text him before you call him. It’s me, please don’t send me to voicemail, and then he did send you to voicemail twice before calling the number back.

“Bonjour?”

“‘Bonjour?’ Mon cul!” ‘Hello?’ My ass! You greeted, the cat snarling and wiggling against your grip. You were so far beyond being in the mood for pleasantries. You just really, really wanted some fucking pants. “J'ai besoin que tu viennes ouvrir ma porte. Genre, il y a dix minutes,” I need you to come unlock my door. Like, ten minutes ago.

“Et avec qui ai-je le plaisir de discuter?” And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? You swear if you could, you’d punch him through the phone. You can’t, so you settle for hanging up.

It’s at this time that Mr. Brit properly excuses himself from the evening of fun, because now that he knows you won’t stand outside your apartment in nothing but a towel for the rest of time, his conscience is clean.

You and Charles live a sixteen minute walk from each other, and he definitely chose to walk rather than literally any other form of faster transportation. Maybe you should have disclosed your current state over the phone, but that probably would have made him walk slower.

When he finally does trudge up the stairs, he stops three steps short of your landing at the sight of you, towel and cat and literally nothing more. “Qu'est-ce qui t'est arrivé, putain?” What the fuck happened to you? He laughs, and then finishes his walk up the stairs, holding your key out to you tauntingly.

“Connard,” Asshole, you mutter, snatching the key away from him with your free hand and forcing it into the lock. “J'avais un gars chez moi,” I had a guy over, you add, forcing the door open with your hip.

“Où à?” Where? He asks, following you into the apartment.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire, où?” What do you mean, where? You laugh, gesture around the apartment. “Ici,” here.

Charles frowns, scowls even. “Et il t'a laissé dehors?” And he left you out there?

You nod, gather up your clothes from the floor before they can exist there long enough to be perceived. “Tu n'es pas obligé de rester, je vais bien,” You don’t have to stay, I’m fine, you tell him, half-usher him back out the door he came through. “Je sais que ta copine va probablement me tuer,” I know your girlfriend is probably going to kill me next time she sees me.

— —

“Je ne peux pas croire qu'elle ne t'a pas tué,” I can’t believe she didn’t kill you, Ricky chuckles, looking to Charles.

You find solace in the bottom of your wine glass, an excuse to fill the silence that follows Ricky’s comment. “En fait, nous avons rompu,” we actually broke up, Charles says, and the room falls into the same silence it always does everytime they break up. It’s not that you guys don’t like her, so much as… well. Yeah, it is that you don’t like her. But she didn’t like you guys first, so it really shouldn’t matter much that none of you like her.

“Je suis désolé, mec,” I’m sorry, mate, Joris offers, and then everyone follows suit with half-hearted apologies they don’t mean.

“C'est bien, vraiment,” It’s fine, really, he offers to the group. “Elle était gentille, mais elle ne l'était tout simplement pas…” she was nice, but she wasn’t… he hesitates. You take another sip of your wine. Your friends listen to him intently. “Je ne veux pas être méchante,” I don’t want to be mean.

“Soyez méchant,” Be mean, Marta giggles.

He laughs nervously, fidgets with his fingers, watches his rings spin. “Elle n'était pas très bonne. Elle ne pouvait pas... Je ne l'ai jamais fait, tu sais,” She wasn’t very good. She couldn’t… I didn’t ever, you know, he trails off, gesturing wildly into the space around him, anything to avoid having to say the words the entire room has picked up on.

You roll up your sleeves, hot again. Burning.

The teasing that follows from the guys is relentless, gets to a point where you and Marta step in, begging them to stop kicking a dead horse while Charles is in the bathroom. They do ease up, and the night continues far, far away from horrible hookup stories and mortifying relationship admissions.

You were the last to arrive, which means you’ll be the last to leave, make sure that the whole place has been cleaned up, returned to its stiff and dusty places in the apartment before you head home for the night.

“Juste pour que tu le saches,” just so you know, you comment, scraping the last of the left behind chip-dip into a tupperware container while he gathers up the now-stale crackers from the charcuterie board. “Je ne te crois absolument pas,” I totally don’t believe you.

He meets your eyes, confused. “Tu ne me crois pas à propos de quoi?” Don’t believe me about what?

“A propos de ne pas…” about not… you look away, direct your attention to the lid of the container. Anything but looking him in the eyes while talking about each other’s sex lives. “Tu sais. Il est impossible que vous n’ayez pas joui depuis cinq mois.” You know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten off in five months.

You see him shake his head in your peripheral, distract himself with the task at hand the same way you had. This isn’t something the two of you talk about, and you talk about pretty much everything. Sex, though. It’s always been off-limits, especially in a situation like this, just the two of you together. “Non,” nope, he mutters. “Je souhaite,” I wish.

You roll your eyes. “Charles, regarde tes mains,” look at your hands, you say, and he does, all full of crumbs and salt and grease. “Voilà, voici la solution à ton problème. Tu peux le résoudre dès que je partirai,” there’s the solution to your problem. You can fix the issue as soon as I leave tonight.

He rolls his eyes right back, “idiote,” idiot, he says, shoves your shoulder with one of his hands and you laugh. “Je ne peux pas. C’est… je ne sais pas, c’est irrespectueux,” I can’t. It feels… I don’t know, it feels disrespectful.

You laugh, curl in on yourself at his comment because it feels so completely ridiculous. He’s a good guy, you know. You know, or you wouldn't be such good friends in the first place. You know, but that's a crazy concept even for a good guy. “Manque de respect envers ton ex-petite-amie si tu te branles après un séparer?” Disrespectful to your EX-girlfriend if you jerk off after you’ve broken up?

“Bien. Quand tu le dis comme ça,” well. When you say it like that.

“Ouis,” yeah, you chuckle, hoisting yourself up onto the counter you’d just cleared. The granite is cool even through the denim of your jeans. “Quand je dis ça comme ça, tu es un imbécile,” when I say it like that, you dumbass.

“Pourtant,” Still though, he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He always looks particularly boyish when he gets even the tiniest bit frustrated with you. “Tu ne comprendrais pas. Ça n'est pas pareil.” You wouldn’t get it. It’s not the same.

Wouldn’t I? You pick at your cuticles, don’t know how to skate around the admission that you’re finishing about as often as he is—that Mr. Brit, who he’d missed by no more than ten minutes last weekend, was not exactly giving you a very eventful evening when he decided he was done for the night.

"Je ne vois pas comment tu pourrais,” I don’t see how you could.

You nod, wish you lived in his little naive world where you always finish. “La moitié des gars de ce putain de pays ne savent pas comment faire jouir une fille. Et apparemment, les gars de Londres non plus.” Half the guys in this fucking country don’t know how to get a girl off. And apparently, neither do the guys in London.

“Vraiment?” Really?

You nod. “Je ne peux pas te dire combien de fois j'ai simulé parce que j'en avais marre que quelqu'un attaque ma lèvre gauche avec sa langue,” I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve faked it because I was tired of someone assaulting my left lip with their tongue.

“Fuck,” He laughs. “Ce n'est tout simplement pas bien,” that’s just not right.

“Non, ça ne l'est pas,” no it is not.

“Tu devrais vraiment obtenir de l'aide pour ça,” you should really get some help with that.

“Et toi aussie. Je mourrais avant de laisser tes conneries arriver.” So should you, you offer. I’d die before I let that shit happen. And you would, you really would. You can’t think of something worse than dating someone for months and knowing you’ve never gotten them off once. And she knows, she has to know, because there’s no way for him to fake it. She has to know.

There’s a pause, and you realize that somewhere on the other side of the apartment the music has stopped playing. The speaker must have died—or the phone playing through it. You realize that Charles is close, now. Really close. Has he been this close the entire time you’ve been cleaning up, close. “Le feriez?” you would?

“Cent pour cent. Une bonne petite amie le ferait—en fait,” a hundred percent. A good girlfriend would—actually, you stop yourself, scowl a bit at the idea of it all. “Une bonne petite amie n’aurait jamais ce problème en premier lieu, mais ce n’est pas la question,” a good girlfriend would never have that problem in the first place but, that’s besides the point. He smiles, the threat of a laugh, and takes a step closer, firmly between your legs, now. You put your hands on either of his shoulders, give them a firm, friendly squeeze. “Une bonne petite amie t'aurait aidé,” a good girlfriend would have helped you, you assure him, but it doesn’t sound as friendly as your gesture was.

His hand falls to your knee, thumb moving over the fabric of your jeans there ever so softly. It sends a chill up your spine, makes you shiver. “Un bon ami pourrait m'aider,” a good friend could help me, he says, hardly above a whisper—like he thinks saying it quieter is going to make it have any less suggestion.

You nod, gulp, your fingers intertwining behind his neck. “Un bon ami pourrait vous aider,” a good friend could help you.

“Ouis,” yeah. You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your face, that your noses might as well slot against each other. That you might as well be kissing, even if you aren’t. You’re sure your eyes cross when they meet his.

“Dommage que tu n'en ai pas,” shame you don’t have any of those, you tease, smile pulling on your lips, hands falling from over his shoulders to move down his chest, to feel every reaction of his muscles as you trail over his abs softly, toy with the hem of his t-shirt.

“C'est vrai, n'est-ce pas?” It is, isn’t it? His hand moves up your leg, and you instinctively move towards the touch, move yourself closer to the edge of the counter. He moves up, up your thigh, to your hip, threatening to go further. He doesn’t, though. He stalls there, searching your eyes for the permission to be there in the first place.

And then, just like that, he kisses you.

It starts soft, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. It’s a gentle collision, tender and hesitant and exploring whatever new waters you’d just sat yourselves in. His lips are so soft against yours, so careful, so sweet, and then his tongue is slipping through your lips, settling into the kiss now that he knows you’re going to kiss back. And you do, you kiss back, until it’s all hurried and messy, noses bumping against each other, teeth scraping each other’s lips. Until you’re hazy and dizzy and have to pull apart for air.

“Peut être,” maybe, you chuckle into his mouth, kiss him again quickly. “Peut-être que tu devrais accepter l'offre de Hugo de trouver un tuteur,” maybe you should take Hugo up on his offer to find a tutor, you joke, and his smile is sweet against your lips.

“Peut être,” maybe… he says, fiddles with the buttons of your jeans hurriedly, like they’re going to seal shut if he doesn’t undo the button that very moment, and then he unzips the zipper, “ou peut-être,” or maybe…

You kiss him again. Your core aches, the knot in the pit of your stomach pulling itself tighter and tiger with each millimeter further he moves. “Tu pourrais juste,” you could just.

“Je pourrais juste,” I could just, and he dips a hand into your pants.

You sigh, react instantly to his touch and his lips are on your again. Your hips move against his hand like it’s the first time you’ve ever been touched—which, this whole thing feels so charged that it might as well be. Charles’ hand moves in flat circles over your clit, pushing farther, deeper, slipping a single finger inside of you.

You hiss at the movement, kiss him harder when your breath is back, pull him hard against your lips by the back of his neck. “Putain, tu es tellement mouillé,” Fuck, you’re so wet, he says.

You nod, talk into his mouth, “Je sais, je sais,” I know, I know.

You reach between your bodies to palm him, find him already hard in his jeans, taking in a sharp breath when you touch him there. His other hand grabs at your tits, pushing and pulling and squeezing over your shirt before finally slipping under, haphazardly pushing your bra out of the way and palming them, kissing mumbled profanities into the skin on your neck.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine—he ruts against the counter when you do, smirks against your lips and hums whatever noise he’s attempting to swallow.

You sigh when he pulls his hand out from your jeans, but he’s quick to get them off of you, pulling them and your underwear off as soon as you raise yourself up off the counter. It’s cold, so cold, but his hands are equally warm, burn against your body as he explores every inch of available skin.

You work away at his jeans, pushing down his pants and underwear as far as the angle allows you to. His cock springs out of the elastic waistband and the only thing you can think is how pretty it looks, all swollen and twitching and wet with precum. It looks painful, almost, how hard he is. But so, so pretty. “C'est tellement chaud,” this is so hot, you say.

“Tu es tellement belle,” you’re so hot, he replies.

You’re expecting for it to all boil over, then, for him to sink into you, fill you up with his perfect pretty dick, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself to your cunt and looks at you with nauseating eye contact. “Dis moi quoi faire,” tell me what to do, he says.

“Quoi que ce soit. Faire n'importe quoi,” Anything. Do anything, you beg.

He does, he does—licks a long stripe through your folds, forces your head to the sky and a sweet moan from your lips. He holds your legs apart with a hand on the inside of each thigh—strong, warm, big—and fucks you with his tongue. It’s messy and natural, but every move is intentional, working towards the goal of getting you off before he even fucks you. And he will, he will, because he listens so well.

Every direction, even the jumbled, incoherent moans that leave your mouth, even the little twitches of your legs or the way your hips move against his mouth—it's all an instruction for him. What to do. What to continue doing exactly like he’s doing. “Juste comme ça. N'arrêtez pas,” just like that. Don’t stop, you chant, and he doesn’t stop. He holds his pace, and then you’re coming in his mouth, fingers slipping on the countertop in search of some kind of grip, some kind of stability as you writhe against him.

When you’ve come down, come back to reality and the cold countertop and his warm hands, he’s kissing you again, cock hard and twitching between your bodies. You take him in your hand and he winces, groans when you start to stroke him, to spread the precum around his tip with your thumb. “Ça fait du bien,” feels good, he mutters.

“Laisse-moi t'aider,” Let me help you, you insist. He doesn’t need much convincing. None at all, really.

“Est-tu toujours... sur le?” Are you still… on the, he asks, tapping your arm.

“Mon implant? Ouais, ouais,”My implant? Yeah. yeah.

He kisses you again, licks into your mouth in a way that feels half-illegal, like all the rules of the universe have been broken. “Tu veux que j'utilise un préservatif?” Do you want me to use a condom?

You shake your head against his lips, shrug somewhere in the distance, far away from where your mouth is on his. “Je m'en fiche, je suis propre,” I don’t care, I’m clean.

“Moi aussi,” Me too.

"D'accord, d'accord. Putain," Okay, okay. Fuck, and then he's slapping the head of his cock against your pussy, making you quiver with every touch. He drags it over your clit, through your folds, and then he’s sinking into you. His fingers bruise into your hips as he ruts into you, you reaching down to circle you clit while he fucks you full of him. "Putain, Dieu," Fuck, God, he moans.

“Oui c'est bien?” Yeah, it's good? You ask.

“C'est tellement bon, putain, c'est tellement bon, tu es si sexy,” It’s so good, fuck—it’s so good, you’re so hot. You don’t know if its his words, or that the seal’s properly broken now, but right as his dick slips out of a particularly measured thrust, you’re coming around the air, shoving a finger back inside to ease the ache of emptiness, pulling it back out and guiding his cock back in. He fucks you so good. So hard. So deep, just the sounds of each others groans, of heavy sighs and skin slapping filling the room, bouncing off the walls. “Je suis près,” I’m close, he tells you. “Je suis si proche, putain. Je vais,” I’m so close, fuck. I’m gonna, he repeats, fucking into you hard. Hard, burying himself in your cunt longer and longer each time.

“Fais-le,” Do it, you say, “laisse-moi l'avoir, je le veux,” let me have it, I want it. And then he’s coming. Hard. Bottomed out in you, groaning against your neck, and filling you up with him. Fuck, he breathes. You can’t make a distinction between a sigh versus a laugh. “Ça va?”Are you okay? He asks.

Your breath is heavy, heart thumping in your chest, in your ears, in your toes. “Je suis,” I’m, you laugh. “Ouais, je suis plus que… je vais bien,” Yeah, I’m more than… I’m okay, you finally sputter out into his patient eyes. You think that’s the reason you stutter—the eye contact. “Es-tu?” Are you?

“Ouais,” Yeah, he says, running a hand through his hair, nodding. “Oui. Très bien.” Yes. Very okay.

“Bien,” Good, you nod, and then, with all the vulnerability in the world: “Étais-je bien?” Was I alright?

He smiles, moves his hand to brush your flyaways from your forehead, to stop them before they can get in your face. “Tu étais…” You were… he laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. When he does it, you’re reminded just how full of him you still are, of the ache you’ll feel when he finally pulls out. “Je ne pense pas que quiconque puisse avoir un problème avec toi,” I don’t think anyone could have any issue with you.

“Oh,”, you chuckle, eyes locking onto the clock hung on the kitchen wall. You can hear the second hand clicking around the same way you can hear your own pulse. “Bon alors,” Good then.

“Et moi?” And me? He asks, and pulls out slowly before you can begin to answer. There’s a silence in the room, just the clock and your heart and your breathing, his eyes glued to your cunt like he’s admiring his handy work. “C'étaient…” Those were…

“Tous deux très réels,” Both very real, you nod, biting the inside of your cheek, catching his eyes when he leans over the sink, wetting a paper towel and ringing it out. “Je ne suis pas doué pour faire semblant,” I’m not that good at faking it.

“Bon,” Nice.

“Je ne pense pas que nous soyons le problème, alors,” I don’t think we’re the problem, then, you chuckle, eyes snapping back to the clock, mind to the feel of the counter under your fingertips. You can’t think about anything more, of any other feeling or sense of taste or smell you’re experiencing or it will be too much.

“Non je ne pense pas,” No, I don’t think so, he continues, and starts to clean you up, warm hands on your legs again while he runs the cool paper towel through your folds. You recoil at the cold, a shiver running up your entire body and his eyes jump to yours—”Désolé,” Sorry, he mumbles.

“C'est bon,” It’s okay, you squeak, and it sounds like you’re about an inch tall. Utter mortification will do that to you, something this fucking awkward making you incredibly aware of everything happening in the room around you, of every touch of his warm hands on your skin. A lot of things are different now. Everything is different.

“Je, euh. Putain,” I, uh. Fuck, you resort back to what you know best, to the only thing you can think about that doesn’t spiral back to the feeling of him finishing inside you. “Je n'arrive pas à croire que je doive nettoyer à nouveau ce comptoir,” I can't believe I have to clean this counter off again.

He laughs again, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. It sits on top of everything else like a billboard, screaming about what it had been used for. The lid on the trash can doesn’t close like it’s supposed to. “C'est à ça que tu penses en ce moment?” That’s what you’re thinking about right now?

“Ouais,” Yeah.

“Tu es tellement bizarre, putain,” You’re so fucking weird, he says, adjusting himself, tucking back into his boxers, pulling them and his jeans up to make himself proper again. You have to hop off the counter to do the same, collecting and correcting your things as fast as you can because you can feel his eyes on your figure while you dress, and it feels too intimate.

“Je ne suis pas bizarre,” I am not weird, you quip, buttoning your jeans and pulling up the zipper, carefully fixing your shirt, your bra, smoothing all of your clothes out over your skin.

“Tu es. Tu es tellement bizarre.” You are. You’re so weird.

“Peu importe,” Whatever, you mumble, quickly closing the lid to the trash can.

The night has run its course by now, and then some. You spend fifteen minutes silently moving around each other in the kitchen, the whole room quiet enough to hear a pin drop in the downstairs lobby. You spend at least ten of them cleaning off the counter, which doesn’t feel so cold anymore, at least not where you were sitting.

“Tu peux rester, tu sais…” You can stay, y’know… he finally breaks the silence. “Si tu veux.” If you want.

“D’accord,” Okay, you nod. “Je ne… je ne sais pas si c’est une bonne idée.” I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

“C'est vrai, ouais,” Right, yeah, he says, and the place threatens to fall back into negative decibel levels. “Je t'entends, tout ce que tu veux.” I hear you, whatever you want.

“Désolée,” Sorry, you choke.

“Ne le soit pas, vraiment,” Don’t be, really, he assures, but you still are, still feel like you're stepping on a little baby bug that’s on its way home to its family. It’s not that you don’t want to stay, it’s more that you… you don’t trust yourself to stay, and you don’t trust him not to turn this into a messy rebound thing. If you slept in his bed tonight and got a text next weekend that he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend, you’d feel like a piece of shit. It’s bad enough that when they do inevitably reconnect, you’re already never going to be able to look her in the eyes again.

“Tu m'enverras un texto quand tu rentreras à la maison?” You’ll text me when you get home? He asks, standing opposite you in his doorway.

“Bien sûr,” Of course, you nod, fidgeting with the keys on your lanyard. “Nous n’avons pas simplement ruiné notre amitié, n’est-ce pas?” We didn’t just ruin our friendship, did we?

“Non,” he answers, without leaving space for a hesitation, to really wonder about your question.

You smile at your keys, bite back a chuckle at just how quick he’d responded to you, about how sure he seemed. “Parce que tu es une de mes personnes préférées, tu sais,” Because you’re one of my favorite people, y’know.

“Tu es ma personne préférée,” You’re my favorite person.

You swallow, and when you look up from your keys, he’s staring right back at you. The comfort in the silence is palpable, and it makes you shy, pushes a nervous laugh from your lips. Charles just nods, certain in his choice of words. It makes you even more sheepish.

You’re completely aware that he doesn’t look at everyone like this, that he never looked at her like this. “Que s'est-il passé entre toi et elle cette fois, d'ailleurs?” What happened with you and her this time, anyway?

He sighs. “Tu veux vraiment savoir?” You really want to know?

“Ouais,” Yeah, you nod. “Je fais,” I do.

“Je euh,” I uh, his fingers fidget with each other, pulling on the joints and twisting his rings. He doesn’t look at you when he tells you, watches the metal spin around his finger. “Je suis rentré de chez toi le week-end dernier et elle attendait dehors que je la laisse entrer. J'ai complètement oublié qu'elle venait après le travail.” I came home from your place last weekend and she was waiting outside for me to let her in. I totally forgot she was coming over after work. You regret asking as soon as he starts explaining. It’s not your business, and you could have gone your whole life without knowing that you were the catalyst for it. “On s'est disputé, elle m'a dit de choisir qui était le plus important,” We got into a fight, she told me to choose who was more important, he shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he was being asked to flip a coin, asked what color the sky was. “Je te choisi,” I chose you.

“Charles,” your head falls to the side defeatedly. You wish he never told you this, even though you asked. You wish he knew better, that you knew better.

“Je sais,” I know, he nods, and it sounds like he feels genuinely bad about the truth. “Je suis désolé,” I’m sorry.

“Je devrais y aller,” I should go.

“Ouais…” Yeah… he hesitates, his hand lingering around his front door, refusing to close it on you. “Ouais,” yeah.

“Juste... ne le fais pas,” Just… don’t. You stop yourself—or you try to stop yourself—from speaking. It’s unsuccessful, how could it not be when he’s staring at you intently with those big green eyes, clinging to every word that leaves your lips. “Ne te remets pas avec elle S'il te plaît,” Don’t get back with her. Please.

“Je ne vais pas,” I won’t.

You nod, even though you know he will. He always does. They always get back together. It’s nice to pretend, though, for a few days. To pretend that anything is ever going to come of what’s happened this evening.

“Bonne nuit, Charles,” Goodnight..

“Bonne nuit.” Goodnight.

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bbjobo · 28 days

Text

Hello hi it’s me, your resident entertainment PR enthusiast. I simply need to talk about the sequel announcement. This is all speculation, but I work in entertainment-adjacent communications and once convinced a household name celebrity to stay at my event to do select press interviews when his wife was going to go into labor at literally any minute, so I like to think I've got a pretty good sense of all of this.

So buckle in, because I'm about how actually fantastic this rollout was, because I’d wager they’ve been planning this since the premiere.

RWRB came out truly smack-dab in the middle of the actors' strike. We all know just how much press we must have missed out on, because the strike started before promo would have kicked off in earnest. And when it was finally over in November, the actors are potentially out of contract for promotion, and that’s not even taking into consideration that the holidays are coming up and the six weeks from American Thanksgiving to New Year’s is truly a black hole of press. So this little movie has to rely almost entirely on fan reaction and word of mouth to hit because they’re so limited in what they can do for promo. And it IS a hit! Records are broken! Comments for an extended version (which, ok Matthew we get it, does not exist) and a sequel start almost immediately.

The marketing team makes the most of what they’ve got: they’re keeping up the official character accounts, they’re dropping deleted scenes and BTS. We get cornettos! The fireside scene! Bloopers! Notably absent? Brownstone Thanksgiving. We’ve seen BTS photos of it, we know it exists. Thanksgiving 2023 would have been a great time to drop it, but they don’t. This is the approximate point at which my own personal sequel speculation began. After the strike ends, the posting pace slows considerably but it’s still consistent. It’s just enough to keep it in your mind but not enough to be like “why are you still posting this much about it?” And this continues into 2024.

On the contracting side, conversations were likely actively happening at this point. I wouldn’t be surprised if negotiations picked up literally as soon as the strike ended. The producers would have had that time to get Matthew and Casey back on board and be fully prepped and ready to move on to contracting actors the minute they could. It’d be a shot in the dark to try to guess when these were finalized, but at some point between November 9 and May 9, yeah, they’re in.

But whew, Nicholas is booked and BUSY. Mary & George drops internationally March 5, The Idea of You closes SXSW on March 17, two weeks later M&G starts airing in the US and Canada, and a month after that, TIOY is available for streaming (and limited theatrical release, which is another whole post), and in between all those premieres, he’s everywhere. He’s criss-crossing the country (and tbh the Atlantic Ocean) for all of these appearances, truly going non-stop. The pacing of the premieres makes it nearly impossible to squeeze in another project announcement, and if they had, it would have been a bigger part of every interview he did after, which is something his own team would be working to balance. Plus between TIOY and RWRB, Prime would have been pitching stories against themselves. Better to let him finish out his other promotional appearances and then switch over.

At the same time, we’ve got awards and red carpet season starting. At nearly every red carpet appearance not for their own projects, both Taylor and Nick are asked about a sequel. If an interviewer is given enough time, they ask about a sequel. Sure, fans comment about a sequel on every vaguely rwrb social post from an official account, but the press asking about a sequel felt like a lot to me. Everyone always gave the same vague answer, that they’d be up for it if the story is right, that they don’t know but would be happy to. (Except one time, Nick does slip up and give an answer that feels a little more definitive here where he says “conversations are being had” all the way back in late February/early March). Press are asking the question so consistently that it felt like if it wasn’t happening, PR teams would have put the sequel on the do not ask list.

Then Prime starts actually ramping up on a FYC campaign for the movie. I'm gonna be honest, I was so surprised. It's a rom com, the odds of a rom com getting any sort of awards recognition is so slim, but I thought, "ok, sure, use FYC as a way to get the promo boost they need for an announcement of whatever's coming next." And then I looked up and Variety has picked it as the winner in the best television movie category, which is blowing my mind. The other categories they're submitting in are stacked and I think a nomination beyond television movie will be a long shot, but again, it's big for it to even be considered. And if they're being talked about, that means Prime's gotta put out a great showing for their FYC campaign.

Which brings us to this week. We start off on Monday with Nick at the Met Gala referring to Uma as his mother-in-law. Incredible. Love it. Wednesday and Thursday are a one-two punch of a FYC event and fan event, and the gang’s all here. At the FYC, we get the industry side of things: new portraits and interviews with Deadline, process talk, etc. Because this little rom com is actually doing pretty well and beating the odds? Knowing what we know now, the PR teams spent this week pre-briefing the press on the sequel announcement. Notable (at least to my knowledge) the sequel question doesn't get asked at the FYC event. Because the press already knows it's coming.

Now, on to yesterday. They do a fan screening and Q&A, and they literally roll out the red carpet. Nine months after the premiere and exactly six months after the strike ended, they get the gang back together with fans of the movie, who they relied on so heavily during the strike to help make the movie a success. The tagline on the screen’s giant promo image has been updated to specifically thank fans for “making history with us.” The moderator for the Q&A is the same person who interviewed Taylor and Nick at the beginning of FYC campaign season, their first joint interview since GQ (right? pretty sure. it's all a blur tbh). And at the end of the Q&A, minutes before 12 AM ET, when the embargo on the press release would have lifted, they make the announcement not to press, but to the fans. The fans who loved the book, who watched it over and over, who spread the word about the movie to help make it one of Prime’s top three rom coms OF ALL TIME.

It’s just… an absolute masterclass in how to execute a major announcement that embraces the fans in a time where fandom and interaction between creators and fans can be an absolute minefield. Prime saw the opportunity to lean into the fannishness of it all and they took it and it was a slam dunk.

So where do we go from here? IDK but here’s some unconnected thoughts in list form like Alex would want.

The book’s 5th anniversary is next Wednesday, the 14th.

Casey’s been posting about working on [redacted] for months at this point, which is almost certainly the screenplay

Nick mentioned needing to be back in the UK for filming soon

They would probably like to release this in US election off-cycle years, so that means 2025 or 2027 (and 2027 is too far away). 2026 would be less bad since it’s a midterm election, but still.

Filming could reasonably start sooner rather than later, and even without an unfinished script

I guess we’re back on content watch for blond hair and BTS pictures

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine #i'm gonna be thinking about this for YEARS #A+ to the whole team that made this happen #i hope they get some rest now #god i love this kind of thing

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atinywhore · 7 months

Text

stuffed

pairing: jongho x (fem) reader

word count: 2250

genre: spicy spice :)

warnings: soft dom jongho, biting, lots of praise, fingering, size kink, sorry not sorry, but yo can't convince me that jongho doesn't have a thick cock so, low-key breeding but he just likes to fuck her raw idk what kinda kink you call that (psa: use a fucking condom bitches), uber romantic to lol I feel like he's such a softy, gets off when you come, I think that's all.

an: this is the first fanfic I wrote since returning from my hiatus so it took me a little to get back into the writing and rediscover my own writing style! So I hope you enjoy and please interact and give this lots of love! Happy Turkey day whores ;)

taglist: @mingigoo @ravenjoongie @wickeddarkness-place @whatudowhennooneseesyou @teezers99 @mirror-juliet

The boys love to celebrate American holidays with you. Every year you have fireworks and hot dogs on July 4th, and you always host a thanksgiving day meal. This year is no different. It’s a three day prep event for you and you can’t forget the cooking still needed the day of! Just to say it, it's a stressful but very rewarding day to be able to have a nice meal with the people you love most in the world. They always try to schedule events and showcases around the actual day of thanksgiving so they can celebrate with you. Last year they couldn’t and it really made you upset. It was the first time in three years that you weren’t able to celebrate your favorite holiday with anyone. They saw how upset it made you and they were determined to make it up to you this year, especially your boyfriend Jongho. He took the days leading up to the holiday off of practice for their next comeback to help you prepare the food.

It was the day of thanksgiving now and despite the help from Jongho, you still were behind. You appreciated his help so much and you knew why he was doing it, but you had to go back and fix the stuff that you assigned him. Most of the time he just sat on the other side of the island and just watched as you moved around the kitchen.

“Baby can you help me with the turkey.” You asked without looking up from the stuffing you were preparing.

“Mmm” he replied standing up. You looked up to give him a smile to show your appreciation, but when you looked up you paused all your movements. This happens often. Ever since you two started dating. Jongho’s presence is so big. His shoulders are twice the size as your own and his biceps are almost as big as your head. From the moment you saw him you were attracted instantly. He loves to remind you how big he is and how small you are, especially in the bedroom. Sex with Jongho is very romantic and tender, with a hint of kink. He loves being on top, entrapping you beneath his thick, muscular body. He’ll lean down and speak hot things into my ear to make my orgasm that more intense. You can feel your face warm and your pussy grows slick with excitement. You try to look away before Jongho can see, but I know he knows what I'm thinking about. We haven’t had sex in over a week because his schedule has been keeping him in the studio all day and late into the night, and there was a huge project that you needed to get done before you could start the thanksgiving prep.

“What do you need me to do baby?” Jongho says as he steps behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and places a quick kiss on my neck. You can't help but giggle and instinctively push your ass into his groin. He lets out a little moan into your neck. Before you can get swept up into what's about to happen you kinda push him off of and turn to face him.

“Can you please turkey from the other counter. It’s too heavy for me to lift baby.” He nods and you give him a quick kiss on the lips as a thanks. Turning back to the counter you remember the potatoes that have been on the mixer and rush over to turn the machine off. Lifting the top of the mixer up and removing the mixing attachment you lick some of the potatoes off to make sure the seasonings are right. The butter and salt coats your tongue and you can’t help but moan a little at the taste. You feel a familiar presence behind you once more.

“Taste good?” Jongho whispers in your ear. His voice sends a shiver down your spine and jolts of electricity straight to your pussy. Your knees go wobbly but his grip on your waist keeps you grounded.

“Jongho..” You attempt to protest, but it’s weak.

“Yes, baby?” He says peppering kisses down your neck and onto your shoulder. His hands smooth up your torso and one stops at your breast to tease your nipple beneath the dress and apron you are wearing. His other hand moves up to your neck moving your head to rest on his shoulder so he can have better access to your weak spot.

“I need to f-finish.” You manage to get out as he sucks on the sensitive part of your neck

“Oh yeah baby? Finish what?”

“The m-meal. The turkey n-needs to be st-tuffed.”

“I think you need to be stuffed, not the turkey baby.”

You can’t help but give in to him. Your body continues to sink into his embrace and before you know it you feel your ass rubbing against his thick cock straining beneath his jeans. He continues to suck and leave marks all along your neck and when you reach back and caress his cock, he growls and bites your neck at the contact. You can’t help but let out a gasp.

“Fuck baby. I need you now.” He says, as he turns you around and throws you over his shoulder. He easily walks the two of you toward the bedroom. In this position the skirt of your dress is bunched up slightly toward your hips exposing your pussy to the cold air of the room, you shiver at the sensation. You start to squirm in anticipation. While keeping your locked on his shoulder Jongho flips your dress the rest of the way up and uses his thumb to tease your entrance.

“Someone is wet for me.” He says continuing to play around with your pussy. Jongho shifts his head to the closest part of your thigh and bites it hard. You squeal and moan at the pain. He kisses your new mark before tossing you onto your bed. “The things i’m going to do to you (y/n).” He stands at the end of the bed looking down on you and the only thought that is going through your mind is, big. His wide form casts a shadow over you and you can’t help but shiver at the form before you. He lets out a frustrated sigh before he grabs the collar of his hoodie and pulls it off in one smooth move. He pauses with the sleeves of the hoodie still on his forearms, the material gathered at his middle covering his bare stomach. His broad and muscular chest is now exposed revealing the deep heaving breaths, you realize your own breathing matches his. He is pointing daggers at you with his stare, it's so intense and pointed that you swear your heart skips a beat. His eyes shut slightly as his head tilts left and right, the movement accompanied with the popping of his neck joints. He lets out a moan and his usually big eyes, now half lidded, are pointed at me once more. He removes his arms from his hoodie sleeves and his full torso is now bare. He doesn’t have a full set of abs, but the area is muscular nonetheless. His hands now reach for the button of his jeans but he makes no move to unbutton himself.

“Why is my girl still dressed?” He asks with a shit eating grin lighting up his heated features. He extends his strong hands to help you to your knees. Your shaky hands make a move to undo the bow tying the apron to your figure, but you can’t seem to get the thin straps to budge. You look back up at him to see his arms crossed, making his shoulders look that much broader and stronger than he already does.

“Need some help baby?” You nod still not able to find your voice, lost in the fog of arousal. He pulls you to your feet, keeping one arm around your waist and the other makes quick work of ripping the fabric off your body, leaving you in your favorite black dress. He turns you around and slowly unzips you from the dress. As the fabric slides from your body you are hit with another rush of arousal. The dress hits the floor and Jongho makes quick work of your undergarments. His hands explore your body, your moans echoing you in the room. His thumbs tease your nipples the way you like as he leaves kisses and hickies on the untouched side of your neck. Once he has you melting in his hands he moves one down over your stomach stopping at your pussy.

“I bet you are going to be so wet for me baby.” He slides two fingers between your folds, groaning at the state of your pussy. He sinks his teeth into your neck again as he rubs circles around your clit. Your breath hitches and your moans get louder.

“That’s it baby. Sing for me.” He coos as he continues his motions. Kissing and moaning into your neck as he rubs your clit. The build up is coming at you fast, your breathing becomes more erratic and you find yourself swearing Jongho’s name.

“Fuck- Jongho! I’m-m gonna cu-m.” His thumb takes over for his two fingers so they can slide into your pussy. You gasp and the new sensation sends you over the edge. Your eyes shut and your entire body goes fuzzy with your orgasm.

You don’t really feel it, but somewhere in your comedown Jongho moves on to the bed. He positions himself between your legs and resumes pumping his fingers in and out of your dripping pussy. His back is bent showing off the strong muscles to your hazed eyes as he takes your nipple into his mouth. Pleasure erupts from you again. He moves to your other breast and he hooks his fingers inside, skimming his fingertips over your g-spot. He releases your nipple with a ‘pop’ and removes his fingers from your pussy. You start to whine but stop when you see Jongho take his fingers and suck them clean of your juices.

“You taste so good, baby.” He smiles and leans in to kiss you. Your lips move against each other like a dance. He takes off his pants and underwear and repositions himself at your entrance.

“You ready for me baby?” You nod and he doesn’t move.

“I need to hear you baby.” He gives you a longing look, and places a kiss on your forehead.

“Yes baby. Please.” He smiles and pushes himself into you. You hiss at his size as he stretches you. He moans as he slides his full eight inches inside you. He slowly pulls himself back out, repeating the movement. The pain slowly turns to pleasure and you begin to feel the slow build of another orgasm rise inside you.

“Fuck (y/n), your pussy is so good.” He pants. He flexes his hips harder and harder slamming his cock deep inside you.

“Oh baby, I can never get enough of you.” The mix of your moans and curses fill the room and create a beautiful symphony. He continues to moan sickly sweet confessions into your ear, making your building orgasm hurdle faster toward release.

“Baby, I’m so close.” You whimper into his general direction, unable to focus your eyes due to the overload of pleasure fogging your vision. You run your hands up his arms dragging your nails along his smooth tanned skin until you reach his shoulders where you sink your nails. He growls and pounds harder into you hitting that special spot causing your moans to grow louder and more intense.

“Fuck, come for me baby. Come for me (y/n).” He leans down to kiss you, claiming your mouth as he fucks you. The pressure continues to build until you come again. He follows after you shortly, filling your pussy with his load. After a few moments he slowly pulls his dick out of you and watches as his cum spills from your entrance.

“So much better than that turkey.” You can't help but burst out laughing. He looks at me confused, but after a minute he understands the joke.

“It sounded like you fucked the turkey then me.” You say sitting up on your elbows, your smiling face looking at his now rosy one. He grabs both of your cheeks and plants a big kiss on your lips.

“Seriously, I have to finish the turkey. The boys will be here in 6 hours!” You jump up from the bed, forgetting your boyfriend's cum spilling out of your pussy and running down your legs. He laughs as you run from the room and into the bathroom to go get yourself re-ready for the party tonight.

—------

Hours Later:

Everyone is gathered at your dining room table and starting to dig into the meal you have spent days preparing. Yunho and Hongjoon are talking about the latest comeback and how the dance routine is going to go with the new title song, Wooyoung is basically flirting with San and the former is pretending not to love it.

“This turkey is delicious (y/n)!” Yeosang praised.

“Thanks Yeo!” I raise my drink toward him.

“The secret is in the stuffing.” Jongho added. You kicked him under the table and gave him a dirty look, He just smiled and leaned over to kiss your cheek.

#ateez jongho #choi jongho #jongho smut #ateez #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #jongho x reader #smut #atinywhore #jongho

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bingoboingobongo · 2 years

Text

something to be grateful for

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley (Call of Duty) x Reader

Type: Smut (minors dni), fluff

Summary: Ghost’s never celebrated Thanksgiving before. For one, he’s not even American, and two, he never had anything to be thankful for. But this year? This year he’s thankful for you.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: use of feminine body parts, explicit language, fingering, choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), guided masturbation (?)

A/N: welp. idek what to say. this started out as a fluffy thanksgiving drabble and now it’s this. is it good? idk. is it bad? idk. is it accurate? idk. my experience is in the negatives so this is just an amalgamation of all the knowledge i have gained from reading/reddit threads. happy thanksgiving to all who celebrate, and as always, likes/reblogs and constructive criticism as always appreciated, enjoy :)

Masterlist

Before the 141, Ghost had never celebrated Thanksgiving. He had heard of it, of course, but he would never partake in it. For most of his life, it was just an odd American holiday, a way for them to show their gratitude by gorging themselves on turkey and pies and mashed potatoes. He always thought it was a dumb tradition. If you were really thankful for something, you should show it everyday, not just once a year. But maybe that was just him being bitter, he knew, after all, life had dealt him a shitty set of cards, and he never had much to be thankful for.

Until he joined the 141; until he met you. Ghost had served in the military before, he had liked people before, but there was nothing quite like the 141, nothing quite like you. For one, the 141 was a multinational special operations task force, unlike his last battalion, which was full of Brits. The 141 was filled with operators from all sorts of places, Britain, Scotland, Australia, the Czech Republic, and of course, America. Even though he rarely engaged with the other soldiers, except for Price, Soap, Gaz, and you, he had heard them whispering to each other about Thanksgiving a few weeks back.

And you. There was something different about you. Maybe it was the fact that you were in the 141 with him, that he saw you almost constantly, that he didn’t have to leave you for months at a time. Or maybe it was something else, maybe it was the way you never took yourself too seriously, even when you were in the field; maybe it was the way you hummed to yourself whenever you reloaded your gun; or the way your laughter tugged at his heartstrings whenever he heard it over comms. Whatever it was, it set you apart from everyone else he had ever liked.

He was still thinking about you — not that that was uncommon, he was always thinking of you — when he heard an awkward knock at his door, followed by a muffled call of his name. He looked up from the book he was supposed to be reading, his hand instinctively reaching for his mask on his bedside table. Tugging it over his face, he made his way to the door.

Usually, he could tell who was coming to his room just based on their steps in the hallway. Price’s were solid and firm, like him. Soap’s were heavy and brushed against the floor a lot, as if he was trying to make as much noise as possible. Gaz’s were usually light and quick, like he was rushing somewhere but didn’t want to run. And you, your’s were short and cheery, and almost always accompanied by the sound of you humming. But he didn’t hear any steps recently, not that that was surprising. The rest of the task force had spent the last few hours celebrating and the noise made it hard to hear anything. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t care. It was probably someone’s birthday.

Someone called his name again and carefully, he opened the door a few inches, just enough for him to see out of. He looked down to see you, wearing sweatpants and a tank and carrying two large plates of food. “Do you need something?” he asked.

You hummed, “Can I come in first?” you asked, lifting the two plates up for him to see.

He looked back into his room, checking to make sure it was fit for you to come in. He turned back to you, widening his door and stepping to the side to let you in. He watched as you set the food down on his desk and looked around his room. For some reason, he didn’t know why, he felt slightly nervous as he watched you take in his room. He hadn’t done much to it, the walls were light gray and completely barren; his desk was empty except for a few books, a laptop, a cup of pencils and pens, and an old journal he barely used; his blankets were folded and placed neatly at the end of the bed, which was pushed against the wall, and the only thing that signified that anyone had used it was his slightly crumpled pillow and the book he had left behind.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what do you need?”

You hummed absentmindedly, tilting your head to read the books on his desk. “We missed you at dinner,” you said finally, turning around to look at him.

“Who’s we?” he asked.

“Everyone. Me, Soap, Gaz, even Price asked if you were coming.”

“I never come to dinner,” he said, “why’d everyone start caring now?”

You rolled your eyes in disbelief, “Because those were all normal dinners. This was a special dinner, we thought you’d come join us.”

“What’s special about this dinner?”

“What's special?” you asked, your jaw dropping, “what do you mean ‘what’s special?’ It's Thanksgiving, Ghost.”

Oh. He never knew the exact date of Thanksgiving. He knew it was near the end of November and that was pretty much it. If he was being honest, he had assumed it had already passed. “I don’t celebrate,” he told you, “and what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with the others, celebrating? And what’s with the food?”

“I know you don’t celebrate, '' you said, “but neither do Soap or Gaz or Price or like, half the people here, and they’re still hanging out with us. And since I knew you wouldn’t come to the party, I figured I’d bring the party to you.”

“I’m not really a party kind of guy,” he said, watching you scrunch your nose in annoyance.

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes, “then we can just have a lame Thanksgiving in here. What plate do you want?”

He sighed, if there was one thing about you it was that you were stubborn as hell. If you had set your mind on celebrating with him, it was going to take a lot to get you to leave, not that he minded. To be honest, having dinner with you wasn’t the worst way his night could’ve gone. He walked over to the desk, examining the two plates. “They’re the same thing,” you said, “just one has apple pie and the other has pumpkin.”

He turned to you, “Which one do you want?”

You shrugged, “I’m fine with either. You pick.”

He reached for the plate with pumpkin pie, offering the apple one to you. “Sit,” he said, nodding to his bed as he sat down on his desk chair a few feet from you. He watched you take the plate and sit on the bed, scooting carefully until your back rested against the wall.

“Dostoyevsky?” you asked, looking at the book he had left behind.

“Crime and Punishment. You read it?”

You nodded, “Back in high school. I actually really enjoyed it.”

“Me too, figured I’d reread it though. It’s been a while.”

“Oh wait,” you said suddenly, scrambling to put your food back on the desk, “don’t eat, we gotta say what we’re thankful for.”

He leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes as he put his plate down. “Do we really have to?” he asked, “I don’t see the point.”

You scoffed, “The point is expressing your gratitude, Ghost. That’s why it’s called Thanksgiving.”

“But if you were really thankful for something, you would show it everyday. Not once a year.”

This time it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Wow, great philosophy, Ghost,” you said sarcastically. “But for the rest of us who aren’t as noble as you, Thanksgiving is a time for us to remember to be grateful. Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually follow your little philosophy,” you said, shooting him a pointed look. “Alright I’ll go first. I am thankful for,” you paused, biting your lip as you thought of an answer. You looked good when you did that, he thought. He wished he could be the one biting it though. “I’m thankful for the fact that I’m alive right now,” you said, “I’m thankful that we don’t have to be in the field today, and I’m thankful for you.”

“You’re thankful for me?” he asked.

“Of course I am, you’ve saved my ass like twenty times in the field and you’re a nice guy anyways. I like hanging out with you.” God, he wished you liked him in other ways too. He knew you would, if you would just give him a chance, he could show you. Show you how good he could be to you, how good he would make you feel, how hard he would make you orgasm. He would make you scream so loud the entire base heard, even with all the noise they were making. “Your turn,” you said, blissfully unaware of his thoughts.

“Do I have to do three?” he asked.

“Mmm, yeah. Why not?”

He sighed, “Alright, I’m thankful for… I’m also thankful for the fact that I’m alive and we don’t have to be in the field today, and,” he paused, trying to think of a third option. “I guess I’m thankful for you too,” he said.

You scrunched your nose at him, “You literally just copied everything I said, Ghost. And also, you suck at showing your gratitude for me every single day.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you give me a chance to make that up to you then?” he asked, his voice lowering.

You stiffened, clenching your thighs together. Was he going where you thought he was going with this? He couldn’t be right? He was your boss, he wasn’t supposed to think of you that way. You weren’t supposed to think of him that way. With his head buried in between your thighs or his hand wrapped around your neck as he slammed into you. “What do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice a lot smaller than you intended.

Shit, Ghost thought. What was he doing? Why did he say that? Why did you clench your legs together like that? Was he turning you on? Was he making you wet? God, he hoped so. He hoped you were thinking the same filthy thoughts as he was. You pinned underneath him with your legs wrapped around him as he thrust into you, or you on your hands and knees with your ass pressed out for him. Fuck, he could feel his cock twitching in his pants already. “What do you want me to mean?” he asked slowly, leaving you to decide how the night would go.

He watched as your eyes flickered down to his cock. He looked down too, he could see it pressing against his sweatpants. He looked back at you as you licked your lips, shifting your weight on your thighs. You slowly brought your gaze up to his, “I want you to mean,” you whispered, so quiet you didn’t even know if he could hear it. “I want you to mean that you want to fuck me.”

It was quiet for a moment, and you held your breath for what felt like forever until he spoke again. “Take off your pants,” he whispered. You didn’t move at first, just stared at him with those big doe eyes of yours. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” he said, his voice laced with lust and menace. You sprang into action, scrambling to kick off your pants as your mind raced with ideas of what he would do to you.

You sat on your knees in front of him, your hands toying with the hem of your tank. You watched him lean forward in his seat, his head nodding at your legs. “Open your legs,” he said, “I wanna see how wet you are.” Fuck, his voice was doing things to you, you could feel yourself get wetter everytime he spoke. Slowly, you opened up your legs, memorizing the way his pupils dilated at the sight of you.

“Touch yourself,” he whispered.

“What?”

He looked back up at you. “I said touch yourself. Rub your clit for me.”

You watched him tilt his eyebrows at you as if to encourage you and you bit your lip. You snaked one of your hands down between your legs, sucking in a breath as you began to rub small circles on your clit. The friction of your underwear was working wonders on you, sending jolts of pleasure up your body whenever the cloth rubbed it the right way. You threw your head back, letting the feeling wash over you as you clenched around nothing.

“Look at me,” you heard him say. You picked your head off the wall, focusing your eyes on his. He wasn’t staring back at you though, he was staring at your cunt, at the way your fingers circled the bundle of nerves at the top, the way your underwear was starting to darken with how wet you were.

You wanted to touch him, or for him to touch you. You stifled a whine as you thought about what it would feel like to have his fingers inside of you. You started to rub your clit faster, biting down on your lip as you tried rocking your hips against the bed.

Meanwhile, Ghost was watching you like you were the most captivating thing in the world, and you were. He could feel his cock getting harder in his pants as it strained against the fabric of his boxers. He had to swallow down a groan when he heard you start to whine. He could see you fighting the urge to close your eyes as the pleasure washed over you, your hand working on your clit furiously.

He grabbed your wrist, effectively stopping your wrist. You looked at him confused, your chest heaving. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you slowly before lowering his gaze to your core. You watched with bated breath as he stood up from his chair, his hands still on your wrist as he moved to the bed. Slowly, his hand lifted yours away from your clit, laying it next to you. He moved his hand to your cunt, his fingers sliding over your folds, admiring how wet he could tell you were even through the underwear.

“Ghost,” you whimpered, looking up at him.

His eyes snapped to yours, “Tell me what you want darling,” he whispered, his voice sultry sweet.

“Touch me. Please,” you mewled.

“I am,” he said, and you could see his mask shift as he grinned.

“Ghost,” you whined, “you know what I mean.”

“Actually,” he said, pulling his hand away from you, “I don’t.”

You huffed at the lack of contact. “I want… I want you to finger me,” you said, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Perfect,” he said slowly. His hand slid down your panties and he let out a groan as his fingers came into contact with your wetness. “Shit, all this for me?” he asked, causing you to look away. “Not so fast,” he said, clicking his tongue, “eyes on me, remember?”

You nodded, training your eyes on his as he continued running his fingers through your wetness. You whined as you felt his finger brush over your clit, your breaths shallow as you tried to focus on his eyes. “Ghost,” you whimpered, gripping onto his wrist when you felt him stick a finger inside of you.

He looked up at you lazily, his finger pumping in and out of you. “You like that?” he asked in that gravelly voice of his, causing you to clench around his finger. You nodded, a moan slipping out of your mouth when his palm brushed against your clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, think you can take another?” he drawled, one of his hands snaking up to grab at your tit.

You whined, nodding your head fervently. “That’s my girl,” he said, adding another finger. You let out a gasp as he started using his thumb to rub steady circles on your clit, your thighs trembling as you tried to keep them open for him. Your mouth fell open as he continued fucking you with his fingers, the sound of his fingers fucking your wet cunt filling the room. You moaned as you felt his fingers curl up inside of you, hitting your sweet spot. He added a third finger, drawing another moan from you as you threw your head back, too consumed by the pleasure he was giving you to remember what he said.

He growled, the hand on your tits snaking up to wrap around your neck as he forced you to look at him. You whined, your hands wrapping around the hand on your throat as his fingers continued thrusting into you. You rocked your hips against his hand desperately, crying out his name as you felt him scissor his fingers inside you.

“Ghost,” you cried, your voice breathy as he kept fingering you. You could feel your orgasm growing, your entire body growing warmer and the knot in your stomach getting tighter as you approached the edge. You didn’t even need to tell him you were close, he could feel it in the way your body began to stiffen and your cunt squeezed him tighter. He kept working you, his fingers sliding and scissoring inside of you until you were at the very edge of the peak, ready to fall over. And then he pulled out.

You whined, your chest heaving from your lost orgasm. You stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “What was that for?” you gasped.

He chuckled, admiring your lust-blown pupils. “I want your first orgasm to be with my cock inside of you,” he explained, pulling you up from your knees.

He laid you on your back, letting out a whistle as he peeled your underwear off of your legs. You pushed yourself onto your elbows, watching him with wide eyes as he pulled off his sweatpants. You could see his cock straining against the thin fabric of his boxers, and you licked your lips as you watched him pull it out.

“You like that?” he asked, and you nodded. “You wanna suck it?” Another nod. He let out a low chuckle at that. “Maybe another time. Right now, I just want to be inside you.” You felt your heart flutter at his words, so this wasn’t a one time thing. There would be more times. What did he want out of this, did he just want a fuck buddy? Or did he want something more? You swallowed, silencing your thoughts as you watched his hand pump his cock as beads of precum pooled at the tip.

You sucked in a breath as he leaned over you, one of his hands caging you in as another lined up his cock with your entrance. You gasped as you felt him stretch you out, your eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, you just didn’t realize how big he was. “Shit,” he groaned, dropping his head to your chest as he continued pushing into you, “you feel so fucking good.” You whined, your hands sliding under his shirt to feel his back.

You mewled as he bottomed out inside of you, your chest heaving as you clenched around him. It felt so good to have him inside of you, it was like he was made for you. He stretched you out so perfectly, leaving you teetering between the edge of pain and pleasure. Slowly, he started moving his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you. “Ghost,” you whined, “give me more.”

You heard him curse to himself, “Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded, letting out a moan as he began thrusting into you faster. Ghost groaned as he fucked you. You felt so good squeezing around him. How long had he wanted this? He couldn’t remember. He could barely think, if he was honest, his whole world was consumed by the way you took him in so easily. He snaked a finger down to your clit, reveling in the way you moaned so loudly for him, reveling in the sounds of his cock slamming into your tight cunt. He slammed his hips into you harder, savoring the way your mouth dropped open and your eyes squeezed shut whenever he hit your sweet spot. He could practically feel his chest swell with pride as moan after moan fell from your lips, your voice raw from crying out his name.

You could feel your orgasm coming again as he continued fucking you, the coil deep in the pit of your stomach tightening and threatening to burst. You could barely even register the sounds coming out of you, they sounded foreign and distant, unnaturally high pitched and whiny to be your own. “Ghost,” you cried out, wrapping your legs around his waist, trying to push him deeper inside of you. “I’m—”

“You about to cum?” he asked, recognizing the way you stiffened and clenched around him. You nodded furiously, your eyebrows knit together. “Fuck, the way you’re squeezing me I’m about to cum too,” he said, with a low chuckle, “go ahead and cum for me darling. Let everyone know how good I make you feel.”

You cried out his name, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back as the coil in your stomach finally snapped and your orgasm washed through you, racking your body with delicious waves of pleasure. You could feel him continue to thrust into you as you rode out your orgasm, your mind hazy and lust-drunk. Through lidded eyes, you watched his hips begin to stutter inside of you. You watched him dip his head in his shoulders, moaning your name as he came inside of you.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, with him on top of you, slightly heavy but not suffocating, both of your chests heaving as you thought about what happened.

With a grunt, Ghost pushed himself off of you, stopping to admire your lust-blown pupils, messy hair, and unfocused eyes. He watched you blink slowly, your eyes turning to his as a smile came over your face. “What?” he asked, standing up.

“Since your whole thankfulness philosophy says that if you’re grateful for something you should show it every day, does that mean we’re gonna be doing this every single day?”

He rolled his eyes, “You still on about that?” he asked, making his way over to his bathroom and wetting a towel. “I thought we already established that my philosophy needs some work.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to have sex with me every day?” you asked, sucking in a breath as he wiped you down.

“That’s not what I meant, don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, pulling on his sweatpants before tossing you yours. “Put your pants on, the food you brought’s cold now, let’s get another plate,” he said, glad that the mask hid the childish smile. You rolled your eyes, tugging on your pants but leaving your ruined underwear on his bed. He could keep it, you had plenty more.

Ghost chuckled as he watched your legs buckle when you tried to stand, letting you struggle for a moment before he went over to help you. In a way, he could sort of see why people celebrated Thanksgiving. Before, he never had a reason to. He wasn’t American, he didn’t have any friends or family to celebrate with, and he didn’t have anything to be thankful for. But now? Now it was different. Now he had you.

#bingoboingobongo.com #ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost modern warfare 2 #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #ghost smut #ghost fluff #ghost imagine #ghost angst #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley cod #simon riley mw2 #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley x reader

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juneknight · 7 months

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Giving Thanks

Cute little Thanksgiving themed blurb featuring DRM for the girlies in the roleplay discord and A most of all.

About this: Marc spending Thanksgiving alone in the dorms? Not on your watch.

Immersivity: Reader is AFAB though physically undescribed and unnamed. She does attend college and does have a family which celebrates Thanksgiving in typical American fashion.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Using your badge to get into the dorms is easy. Catching Marc when he is in the dorm room is harder. He was prone to melancholy, and his melancholy made him prone to wandering: the university pathways between buildings, the library, the baseball field. Before he had moved into your dorm room, he was almost never at his own.

Though you had invited (begged) him to come home with you for Thanksgiving, he had insisted on staying behind at the dorms. You knew his home life was complicated, his emotional connection to the word ‘family’ just as complex, so you hadn’t pushed him, even if leaving him alone during a holiday was painful.

Staring at the mountains of leftovers your family always left behind after Thanksgiving lunch, you had decided on the spur of the moment that there was no way you were going to let Marc spend this day alone. Taking two disposable muffin tins, you had piled them both full of different foods, creating a classic American Thanksgiving smorgasbord: turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, fresh whipped cream and more.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be in the dorms—not after you had signed your waiver stating you would be away for the holidays–but fuck, it would be worth it to see Marc’s face. It would be worth it to see him, to wrap your arms around him in a hug, to see him light up the way he always seemed to when you were around—

“What are you doing here?”

You whirl around, nearly upending the muffin tins when Marc’s voice calls out from behind you just outside your dorm room door. He’s wearing his winter coat, the thick boots that keep his feet warm while he stomps his way across the cold pavement. A beanie is tugged low over his head, curls peeking out against his forehead and ears. His cheeks are flushed a little beneath his typical tan skin.

“Have you been following me?” you ask.

“Ever since you got out of your car. I was just coming back from the library and I saw you, you little sneak.”

“Happy Thanksgiving!” you blurt out, holding out the muffin tins. His eyes fall to them, and something in his gaze goes warm.

“You…brought me lunch,” he says.

You end up as lunch.

The muffin tins and their contents are growing cool while Marc spreads you out on the table with the mismatched chairs (half yours and half his own, like a little blended family that you had joint custody of). He peels off your boots and socks and pulls down your leggings, spreading your thighs out as wide as your body allows, til your pussy is exposed to the cool air of the dorm.

Then he eats you—and Marc is a messy eater. He eats your pussy without any sense of shame, no embarrassment at the sounds his mouth makes (nor any cruel amusement in the sounds your own body makes) as he works you over with lips, tongue, and teeth. Sweet Marc always starts with his lips: pecks against your thighs and vulva that turn into wet, sucking kisses, his tongue slipping between your folds and pressing in deep against your entrance like you’re leaking honey and not just slick. His smooth jaw works against you, stimulating your sensitive sex while he latches his lips over your clit and sucks, soft and sweet. It is all remarkably rushed for the likes of Marc (who usually drags sex out into a marathon-performance instead of a sprint), but you hardly mind when your muscles tense, thighs shaking from how far apart they are spread as you soak his face and the table with your orgasm.

“Oh my god,” you slur, trembling like a leaf. You can’t stop shaking as he stands, his hands falling to his belt. The soft clink as he undoes it instills a Pavlovian response in you, and even though you have just cum, you ache with emptiness.

“Want to fuck you,” he mutters, jaw still wet with your slick. “Can I?”

“God, yes.”

“Hold yourself open.”

You reach down and spread the lips of your pussy open, watching with a watering mouth as he works his pants and underwear down just beneath his cock. Fuck, his boots are still on. Why is that so sexy?

With his hands on your thighs, he drags you to the edge of the table. Marc leans over you, cock nudging at your entrance when he plants his palms on the oak. He watches your expression as the fat head of him splits you open. He likes to see the way your mouth goes slack, your eyes roll back, your nails scramble for purchase against the smooth wood.

“So good to me, bringing me food,” he mutters, curls brushing your forehead when he leans down to kiss you. “Bringing me this pretty pussy. How’d you know I was hungry? How’d you know how bad I missed you?”

“It’s–It’s–Th-Th-Thanksgiv—oh my fucking god, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You dissolve, the subtle height the table provides you pressing him against all your most sensitive spots. At the apex of each thrust, his pubic bone grinds against your clit, still buzzing from his tongue.

“This is me giving thanks,” Marc says, laughing breathily at his own joke, each word punctuated by a thrust that you feel all the way in your guts.

#marc spector x reader

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cockdestroyer32 · 9 months

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it's rotten work.

peter b. parker x fem!reader

word count: 2615

summary: Peter's been a wreck after his divorce with MJ. Thankfully, you're there to look after him.

aka me just fantasizing about taking care of peter b. parker when he needed it and giving him the love he so very deserves.

a/n: yeah I write abt this loser now

Two months. That’s how long it’s been since Peter and MJ’s divorce. Two months of countless pizza orders and late-night fast food trips. You tried your best, of course, most days making lunch and dinner for Peter, but it still wouldn’t help his insurmountable need to shove oily fries drenched in high amounts of salt down his throat. Though he would gladly take them. His hand finding yours on the table, giving you a knowing look with his sad, tired eyes that you’d gotten used to seeing so damn often on him. His own way of a thank you. Two months of coming home to Peter’s place to find him sprawled out on his couch, his head lying on his own arm and still wearing shoes. The TV would be on playing the most random channel. He’d be staring at it, but if you turned it off he wouldn’t even blink. Two months of trying your best to be there for him.

You were still getting used to the new apartment. For as long as you could remember, Peter and MJ lived in the same house for the past 15 years. You’d gotten used to it. It was nice. Two stories, wooden floors, big dining room. They’d have Thanksgivings there, it was almost a tradition. The turkey was served and everyone gathered around, talking and laughing about nothing. Peter was happy then, at least most of the time.

This apartment was none of that. It was way smaller, one small cube covering kitchen, living room and bedroom, with a room to the left including the tiny bathroom- which has a bathtub? You never quite understood that, what is it with Americans and putting bathtubs in their already tiny bathrooms?- not to mention it was unkept. The dishes practically overflowing, two pizza boxes, one awkwardly thrown to the counter, not even closed, its gaping mouth allowing you to spy the damp spots the hot pizza left on the cardboard box, and the other shoved inside the trash, which was also nearly overflowing. A barely-eaten cereal bowl rested on the sad excuse of a dining table, some colorful circles creeping out of the white liquid. It was more milk than cereal. And both ingredients also stood there, not put back on their respective places.

Peter does not have enough money to just waste perfectly good milk.

You grab the carton and open the refrigerator, the light illuminating the kitchen/living room/bedroom area. God, even the refrigerator was sad. An already open can of soda standing lonely to the side, feeling unsafe on the grids of the shelf, a container of cheese at the top, four eggs to the side, and untouched lettuce to the middle. You place the milk inside, now making company to the lonely soda, and shut the refrigerator door, making your way back to the couch. As you do you pass by the wall of the apartment that includes Peter’s attempt at decorating, one only possible after much pleading by you that the place might feel more like home if he did so.

They were pictures. Pictures on the wall. Four to be specific. All taped to the wall with double-sided tape. They were all scattered like corn and asymmetrical. How and why did he manage to do that? You don’t know. Was it awful? Yes.

But you were still excited when you’d shown up to his place and found them there.

This was only a fraction of the pictures he had back in his place with MJ. Their old living room had once been full of pictures of them and the memories they made together. But these were the ones he took and remained. The middle picture was one of you and Peter, back when you traveled to Barbados. You stood behind him, hugging him with one arm from behind, your chin resting on his shoulder as you both smiled at the camera. The one to the side was a picture he took of you on your birthday, you wore one of those birthday headbands, a huge smile spreading across your face as you saw one of your other friends bringing you your cake. It was slightly blurry, not one you’d usually have on your wall but beautiful regardless. When you’d seen that picture, your finger reached out to touch it, surprised it was there, and you turned around to look at Peter, who refused to look at you, clearly embarrassed. The third one is a picture of May, 2 years before she died, her grey hair perfectly framing her smiling face, and the fourth one of Peter and May, sitting on her couch, his arm wrapped around her shoulder and his head on hers.

Peter sits on the couch, his ankles extended out, looking like he wanted to trip someone. He wore the same grey sweatpants he always wore, and his sweatshirt was stained. The bags under his eyes were prominent, and his eyebrows were furrowed. His gaze was fixated on the TV, but he actually seemed to be paying attention this time, so that’s progress…right?

You threw your body on the couch beside his, letting out a sigh and looking at the screen. He was watching a documentary on…pandas? You don’t comment on it. Or on his stained shirt. Or on the cereal bowl. Or on the milk. You just stare at the TV.

“I’m fine,” He says, his voice raspy.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You don’t reply. He’s used to you asking the same question, and you’re used to hearing the same answer. You both know he’s not fine, that he hasn’t been fine in a while, but that there’s not much you can do but let time pass, to let the wound heal as best as it can, leaving only a scar, that at least won’t sting as much anymore. You know Peter. You’ve known him for years. You know his moods, you know what makes him laugh, what makes him angry, his mannerisms and what they mean, his favorite foods, his favorite flavor of cake…you know when he needs love.

Except for on days like this. On days where he’s grumpy and barely speaks at all. Days where his arms are crossed and he’s always tapping his foot. Sometimes he just wants to be left alone, sometimes he wants as much physical affection as possible. You don’t know.

So, you leave a hint.

You place your hand next to his on the couch- they have always been so rough, so calloused, yet always felt nice- and you lift your pinky, it grazing across the back of his hand. Up, and down. You do that once before stopping it at the bottom of his hand, just next to his pinky. If he wants to take it, he can take it, if not, he doesn’t have do anything.

You feel the back of his hand being taken away from the tip of your finger, before his palm finds yours and he entwines your fingers together, giving your hand a light squeeze. Yours is smaller than his, and certainly softer. You don’t look at each other, you don’t have to. You keep your eyes on the panda eating bamboo and feel his thumb caress the side of your hand.

If that wasn’t clear, it’s been a rough two months. And you’ve been there for rough months. You were there for when Peter and MJ would have tough arguments, for when being Spider-Man started being just a little too much for him, for when he couldn’t save everyone, for when Aunt May died. But this? This was bad. Almost as much as May’s death. He just…fell into a hole. And you don’t blame him either. He’d been married to Mary Jane for fifteen years. Fifteen years. Having to separate from someone you spent more than a decade with must be one of the hardest things ever, and you couldn’t exactly say you understood.

It wasn’t all bad though. One time, you decided to watch a movie together. You let Peter choose the movie. Horror. You were never quite used to it, but were you gonna say no to him? No, and he knew it. About 40 minutes in, there was a scene where the main character was inspecting his house after having heard a strange noise. He walks around for a while, letting the tension build until suddenly the monster rises behind him. It’d been about 11pm at that point and you let out a loud yelp, followed by your hand slapping over your mouth as you realize what you did. You did a slow turn towards Peter, finding his eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly agape, before he burst out into laughter. The sound rang through your ears like your favorite song. God, it’d been so long since you heard that laugh. If you knew it’d happen you’d grabbed your phone and started recording it immediately. But at that point it’d been enough, and you couldn’t help but start laughing too.

Now, you feel Peter’s grip slowly loosening on yours and you turn your head towards him. His eyes are closed, and his eyebrows are more relaxed now, though he’s not asleep just yet. From this angle you could perfectly see his roman nose, the bridge sticking out in all of its wonder, and the little bend to the side, where he’d broken it so many times his healing factors had just given up. He hated it. You always loved it, and he knew it. You leaned in slightly.

“Pete…” You whisper, “Pete, let’s get you to bed.”

He murmured some nonsense. A chuckle leaves your lips and you reach for his arm.

“Pete, if you wanna sleep we gotta get you to bed, come on.”

“O…kay…” You get up from the couch and place both hands on his arms, motioning for him to get up. When he does he rests his head on yours, and you drape your arm over his shoulder, leading him to his bed. He drops his body on it and oh he looks adorable. His arms curved in front of him almost in a praying motion, and his knees slightly bent. You notice his shoes are still on and reach to take them off, he doesn’t even move as you do so, and you set them down neatly on the floor. You know what’s next, you’ve gotten used to it: you crawl on the bed beside him, and wrap an arm around him from behind, the other creeping from under his body so you can hug him properly. You bury your face on his shoulder and squeeze him tight, your legs lying just behind his.

Peter likes being the little spoon. You wonder if he’s always been like this or if it was born out of an extreme need to receive the physical affection he lost after his divorce. Those thoughts are quickly brushed off but everlasting, you probably shouldn’t be thinking about that. This happens every night now, to the point Peter doesn’t sleep without you anymore. If you take too long to crawl into bed, he tells you in a groggy voice, “Come hereeeee…”

One time you got up in the middle of the night to drink some water, and in comes Peter, wearing his grey pajama shirt, rubbing his eyes as he sleepily asks you, “Why'd you go?”

The first time you fell asleep cuddled together was a little over a month ago. Peter’d been quiet that entire day and you left him alone, figuring he just wanted time for his thoughts, until eventually you lifted a gentle hand, resting it against his shoulder as you asked, “You alright? Wanna talk?” And a few minutes later you found yourself holding a sobbing Peter, his hands desperately clutching to your back as you rubbed his, his face pressed against your chest as his own heaved. Wet trailings ran down your body and made your shirt damp, trailings that’d grow salty and sticky on your skin, but that’d you pay no attention to.

You don’t even know how long that lasted, you just held him for as long as he needed, until his weeping subsided and the sobs were replaced only by the shuddering breaths one gets after crying so desperately. Then even those went away, Peter’s breath completely evened out and calm. You noticed he was heavier in your arms, and whispered his name as you leaned your head down, looking for his face, only to be met with one of a sleeping Peter. His lashes were wet and eyes were shut and relaxed, as if he hadn’t just had a full breakdown in your arms. You stayed like this for a moment, wondering if he’d wake up, and knowing you didn’t have the heart to do it. Eventually you leaned back on the couch, your back resting against it as your head was placed awkwardly on its stiff arm. He slid down on your body a bit as you did, his face now at your stomach, and he tightened his grip and pressed his nose into your skin. You still don’t know if he remembered he did that.

And now Peter has you climbing into bed beside him every night, trying your best to envelop his body with yours even though your frame is much tinier.

You turn your head to him as you feel him shift and take a breath.

“I wanna…be big spoon…” You can barely make out the words due to his raspy mumbling, and before you could even process them, Peter was turning around and grabbing your arm, flipping you on your side as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. Tight as if to ensure you wouldn’t try to escape his grip.

Woah. Is this what MJ felt every night when she was with Peter? Again, probably not something you should be thinking about, but still. This? This comfortable?

If you were MJ you would have never given up on this. Ever. No matter what.

God, he’s strong. I mean, you knew he was strong, he’s Spider-Man for crying out loud. But you’d never thought about how that came into play in moments like this, where he could wrap his arms around you with such a firm yet tender grip that it felt like absolutely nothing could tear you two apart.

Though you were still quite a bit frozen. Peter had never done that before. This was new and sudden. And slowly you could feel that information seep back into Peter’s presumably more awake mind as well, with the way he turned his head slowly to the left, and his body straightened and stiffened on your back.

“Uhh, is this okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” You replied. He was probably awake right now, mortified by his own actions but too comfortable and scared to pull away. And so were you. So you placed your hand on his arm, and gently ran it back and forth, telling him you really were okay with this, and if anything you wanted him to keep it up. His body remained frozen for at least 3 seconds until he lifted his arm from under your hand, and placed his palm over it, enlacing your fingers together. He pressed your arm in the front of your body and buried his nose in your neck. It sent a few shivers down your spine, you won’t lie. But you just took a deep breath and toughed it out, closing your eyes as well and relaxing. His breath on your neck slowly lulled you to sleep.

Hopefully, this is your new night routine.

#peter b parker #peter b. parker #peter b parker x reader #peter b parker x you #peter b parker x y/n #into the spider verse #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman #spider man into the spider verse #spider man itsv fic #spider man x reader

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sammysmaddy · 7 months

Text

Normal (Winchesters x Reader) - Part Two

Summary: Growing up as the baby of the Winchester family led you to be constantly guarded. Soon enough, you start to learn what's normal between families and what's not.

Pairing(s): John x Daughter!Innocent!Reader, Sam x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Incest, naive!reader, manipulation, graphic descriptions of porn, fluff, virgin!reader, oral (female receiving), daddy kink *I guess*, praise kink, soft n fluffy, angst (?), light thigh riding, smut implied

W/C: 5.7k+

A/N: I forgot I was supposed to be posting this story! Happy almost Thanksgiving to my American followers!

Normal Masterlist

Masterlist

Some time ago...

Things started off innocently. Sam and Dean were at school and you were at the motel doing what you usually did- you read, and read, and read, and read until John walked through the doors.

You were ecstatic to see him. John had been away for a few weeks too wrapped up in the case to even call home. The look of relief in your father's eyes when he saw you was like no other, he loved you more than anything in the world.

John took you to lunch, saying it was to make up for all the time he missed with you- not bothering to pull Sam and Dean out of school like he usually did. Things seemed normal all throughout lunch, you chose of course, but things changed drastically when he asked you a certain question during the car ride home.

"Do you know what sex is?" John asked, looking over to you as he kept a firm grip on the steering wheel.

Your brows furrowed at the question. It sounded familiar, it really did, but you had no idea what it actually meant.

"I don't think so," You told him calmly and he let out a low chuckle.

Judging his reaction, it definitely seemed like something you should know about, so you began to feel a little embarrassed at your lack of knowledge.

"You mean, your brothers never taught you what it was?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and keeping a small smile on his face.

You shook your head and he didn't seem particularly pleased or displeased.

"Normally, by your age, you know what it is. You're already legally an adult." John mentioned.

"So then... does Sammy know about this?" You asked, tilting your head, and wondering why your twin had never said anything about sex.

"I'm sure he does, sweetheart. Caught him with one of Dean's not-so-private skin mags," John chuckled and you scrunched your nose.

"What's a skin mag?" You asked him and he continued to chuckle at your question.

"It's pictures of sex. We call it porn," John answered and you frowned, still not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

"Daddy, I don't know what that is," You reminded him and instead of the instant explanation you wanted, he looked over smiling and shaking his head.

"God, I wish you could stay little forever," He sighed and you continued to frown, wishing that you knew why this conversation was occurring or why it was so important for you to know about. "When you and Sammy shower together, does he ever touch you?" He asked and his face shifted to concern.

"Yeah, he helps me wash my hair sometimes, but mostly he just uses all of the hot water," You huffed out, crossing your arms, and John shook his head.

"I meant, does he put his hands on your body?" He reiterated and you shrugged your shoulders, not knowing what he was gaining with these questions.

"Sometimes he helps me wash my back," You answered and John nodded his head.

"Do you ever wonder why you have different body parts than him?" He asked and you slumped your face, of course, you wondered why, but you knew that it was just because you were of different sexes.

"I guess, but Sammy says it's just because I'm a girl and he's a boy," You told him all the information you knew and he nodded his head.

"So, you know that boys can't get pregnant right?" He asked and you nodded your head. "And you know that boys don't get periods?" He asked again.

"Yeah, because Sam doesn't get them and neither does Dean. Only I do," You crossed your arms, thinking about how unfair it was that they didn't bleed once a month.

"Okay, well at least you know the basics," John sighed, rubbing at his temples with his fingertips.

"Is this the part where you tell me what and why we're talking about this? You said you didn't want to talk about when I get my periods," You turned your head to look for his reaction, and he just shrugged his shoulders in return.

"I don't. It's just- It's just important if we're going to talk about sex," He muttered and you rolled your eyes.

"I don't know what that is," You reiterated, growing more and more impatient by the second.

"I, uh, I never had this conversation with your brothers. They kinda figured it out on their own," He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding on tightly to the steering wheel.

It wasn't even worth responding to, so you decided to stay silent until he said something else. You could tell that he was feeling awkward, but you weren't- you were just impatiently waiting.

John looked over and gave you a small smile to which you just raised your eyebrow, then his face straightened and he knew you were waiting for something more.

"You know what, sweetheart? I think it just be better if I showed you."

•••

He dragged himself in and out of her at an excruciatingly slow pace. His eyes were locked into hers as his forehead began to form sweat beads, panting like he was running a marathon.

Their lips connected and their tongues ran against each other as he continued to move above her. When he pulled his lips back, she had her mouth parted slightly, close to tears falling out as she cried out profanities.

But she wasn't actually upset and he wasn't actually hurting her, they were enjoying it- John made sure you knew that.

You stared at Sam's computer in awe, they were so in love with one another- so happy to be together like this. You didn't understand what was so awkward about it, you were confused as to why you had never seen anything like this before- confused as to why you had never done it.

They both looked so pretty like this, so close together and in complete and utter bliss. She was gorgeous, her breasts were perfectly symmetrical- almost like she was handcrafted. Her lips were stained with red and her body was glistening in the bright lighting that infected the room.

He had the perfect body too, big strong arms that held onto her like she was a breath of fresh air. His chest was chiseled flawlessly and he reminded you of John and your brothers, they were all just as handsome as he was.

"Remember: You only do this with people you love," John reminded from behind you, watching you closely as you reluctantly peeled your eyes away.

"I can do this with Sam?" You asked as your eyes reached his.

John frowned at your question and you grew impatient as your excitement only grew.

"I love him. How come we don't have sex?" You questioned again and John's face fell into the palm of his hand, his fingertips rubbing harshly against his temples.

"Sweetheart, you don't do that kind of stuff with your brothers," John answered with a sigh, picking his head up to look back at your confused stare.

"Oh, right. That's her Daddy. I almost forgot." You said and his eyes widened.

"I think you've had enough for today," John cleared his throat and his hand reached over you to stop the video playing in the background, but your hand reached his first.

"Daddy, don't turn it off. I like it," You told him with a small smile, his wide eyes staring at you as you watched his Adam's apple move up and down as he gulped.

John nodded his head slowly, bringing his hand back to rest at his side, and you turned your head to watch the screen again.

You stared intently as you began to focus on all of the sex happening right in front of your eyes. She sounded so pretty every time he shoved himself fully inside of her. He was grunting and telling her how much of a slut she was and at first it confused you- it was a bad word and Dean used it negatively when he didn't like someone. So why did she seem so happy to hear the mean name?

After watching the first few minutes, you discovered she actually liked being called slut. She kept saying yes yes yes, and it only made him go faster, which in return made her cries louder. Her begging was like music to your ears, and for a second you began to imagine yourself in her position.

What if someone made you feel that good? What if they made you so happy that you were screaming in pleasure?

Thinking about being her brought out a feeling that you had never felt before. First it gave you the chills and you had goosebumps prickling on your skin. Then you started to feel it in your stomach- almost like period cramps, but in a good way.

After that, having pants on almost seemed uncomfortable, especially after feeling a new type of wetness in your panties. You watched as he dipped his head down to kiss her again, so passionate and raw, and it made you jealous.

"Why don't you kiss me like that?" You snapped your head around to look at John.

His face became flushed and it took a few seconds for him to respond back- which were mostly incoherent mumbles.

"Don't you love me, Daddy?" You asked and he instantaneously jerked his arm away as you absentmindedly placed a hand on it.

"I do love you, baby, I do. I just- they're not real. I didn't mean to- uh, they're not related." John managed to muster out, obviously flustered by your comments.

"She kept calling him Daddy," You frowned, once again thinking about how much you wanted to be in her position.

"I know, sweetheart. It was just the first video I clicked on. I wanted to get this over with." He sighed and it hurt your heart that he didn't want to do it with you.

What if he didn't love you enough to do those things? What if Sam or Dean didn't love you enough?

"Don't be sad, Y/N. It's just a video." John said, picking up on the sudden mood change, and reaching over to cup your cheek.

Usually, it would make you feel better- it's something that he always did when you were upset- but it was different this time.

"You don't love me enough for sex," You said, pushing his hand away and looking down.

John had put you through all of this trouble of telling you about it- even showing it to you, and now he was going to deny the pit you felt in your stomach?

"Y/N, you didn't even know what it was thirty minutes ago. You're not ready to have sex," John said in a quiet tone and you continued to frown.

Why was he being like this? Why would he show it to you if that's not what he wanted?

"I'm ready. I want to be like her, Daddy. The video made me feel things." You told him honestly, gaining the courage to look back up at him.

Just as your courage regained, you could tell that his was suddenly gone. He looked as pale as a ghost as he swallowed down whatever liquid was in his throat.

"What kinds of things, princess?" John asked nervously, almost sounding like he was guilty of something.

His eyes were locked on yours and you couldn't help but feel like you might be able to break him. A perk of being Daddy's little girl was getting whatever you wanted.

"I don't know how to explain it," You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to explain the way your core was aching for something.

"It's called being horny. It's natural," He chuckled nervously, a light sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Do you feel it too?" You asked, seeing the way that his pants were tightening around his lower region like a tent.

"Fuck, sweetheart," He sighed aloud, and your eyes watched as his hand pressed against the crotch of his pants.

"I want to be like her, Daddy," You confessed as your eyes began flickering up and down between his face and his legs, not sure which was a prettier sight.

The sweat and the bulge were both good indicators that he was ready to do things that were in the video, you just knew it. With a sudden whiff of confidence, your hand reached back and landed on his thigh, rubbing circles with your fingers.

John didn't say anything. He didn't move either. You watched closely as his pants became more restrictive and it was evident that your hand on his thigh was doing something for him. Smiling at the reaction, you looked back up to him and saw an unusual darkness in his eyes.

It came as a surprise when his hand came to meet yours and you expected him to move it away, but instead, he trailed it higher. Your fingers traced the rough denim material until they landed in between his legs. A small groan left his lips and you grinned at the sound because of how much it resonated with the guy in the video.

After your hand sat there for a few seconds and you admired how hard he felt underneath you, he stood up without warning. You frowned, wishing that he never moved.

Sighing aloud, John looked down at you as you looked up at him through your lashes. His hand came up to rest on your cheek as his thumb lightly brushed your bottom lip.

You held onto his hand, relishing any touch that came to your body, and just as soon as it began, it ended. He pulled his hand back and you watched as he walked towards the opposite side of the room.

"Come here," John commanded in a low and gruff voice, sitting on the edge of the unmade motel bed.

You weren't sure whether to be eager or concerned as you stood up from your chair and made your way to him. His arms opened up as an invitation and you straddled his hips, lazily hanging your arms on his shoulders as you began to realize how intimately close the two of you were.

You looked down, feeling instant relief as you pushed the weight of your core on him. It wasn't much, but even through your jeans and his, you could feel how good he felt pressed against you. His fingers came to the bottom of your chin and motioned your head up so that he could look at you.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked, his eyes begging for you to say yes as his arms wrapped around your waist.

"Yes, Daddy. I love you," You confirmed, breathlessly waiting for him to do something to relieve the rapidly burning coil in your stomach.

John's lips connected with yours as soon as he got his answer and you tried your best to copy his movements. It was effortless when your mouth began to move in sync with his. Each time his tongue reached into your mouth you felt like you knew exactly what to do.

His lips felt like soft pillows every time they ran against yours- he was so perfect, you wanted to make him happy just like the guy was in the video. You chased his mouth as it pulled away, but didn't complain when you felt the wet kisses on your neck.

John was sure to be careful as he took his time, giving you soft and warm kisses all along the crook of your neck, occasionally stopping to nip at your ear.

Your fingers raked their way through John's hair and you heard him groan when you shifted your hips in an effort to get more comfortable. His fingers reached down, pulling the fabric on your torso over your head.

You felt the goosebumps on your skin in reaction to the colder air and you traveled his gaze to your breasts. John brought his hands up, cupping through your bra and marveling at the sight in front of him. You took the initiative to reach around and unclasp your simple cloth covering, letting it slide down your arms and shoulders as your nipples hardened.

"You are so beautiful, sweetheart," John said breathlessly, his eyes completely focused on the stiff peaks in front of him.

Your cheeks swelled with his approval and you moaned when he brought his mouth to one of your breasts, tweaking the nipple with his tongue and running small circles around its entirety. Something about the way he was sucking made your core itch for attention, so your hips pressed up as close to him as possible.

John moaned against your breast, his lips ghosting the skin on your chest and latching around the other nipple, treating it just as well as its predecessor.

His hands trailed down the sides of your body, reaching the middle, and undoing the button on your jeans before encouraging you to stand up. As you raised, he slowly pulled your jeans down and let his fingertips touch your skin as they moved south.

When the denim was pooled around your ankles, you held onto his shoulder for support as you kicked them off lightly.

"Sit back down, Y/N," John told you and you followed directions.

Straddling his hips once again, feeling much less constricted, he gripped tightly onto your sides. He shifted you slightly so that you rested completely on his thigh, instead of in between, and began to move your body back and forth.

Small whimpers fled your mouth as you felt the friction rubbing against your aching core, it felt so unfamiliar and foreign to your body- but it felt so good.

"Feel good, princess?" You heard John chuckle lightly, as his hands continued to move you.

The wetness from your panties was sure to have made its way out, but you didn't care. Being like this with him like this felt so good.

"Daddy, I want to make you feel good too," You told him, looking back into his eyes.

John's hand reached up and brushed a stray hair away from your face, smiling at you.

"Let Daddy make you feel good first," He answered in return and you nodded your head.

His lips collided with yours as his grip on your hips tightened, picking you up and laying you flat on your back. He continued to kiss you passionately as he hovered above you, his hand reaching down and dipping into your soaked panties.

You felt him smile into the kiss as his fingers easily glided through your slick and you moaned every time they would ghost against your clit.

"You're so wet for me, baby."

"Is that a good thing?" You asked him and he chuckled at the question.

"A very good thing," He told you and you smiled with the praise.

Placing a quick peck on your lips, he adjusted himself so that his knees were on the ground. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your soft cotton underwear, pulling them down, and encouraged your thighs to open more.

John brought his calloused thumb up to work small circles on your bundle of nerves and you moaned at the feeling. Everything that he did made you feel more and more relieved, you could practically feel how much he loved you. When you situated yourself on your elbows so you could see what he was doing, he looked up at you.

"Can Daddy taste you?" He asked, licking his lips, as he looked directly into your eyes.

"Please," You squeaked out, feeling hot and bothered and needing as much of him as you could get.

Watching as his head disappeared in between your legs, you bit your lip as his tongue trailed once up your slit and collected as much wetness in his mouth as possible. You could hear his groaning in approval just before he began to delve into your core again.

Not bothering to suppress your satisfaction, you moaned as his tongue flicked itself over and over on your clit, bringing out a type of burn that you'd never felt before.

You could feel your core heat up as he relentlessly attacked you with his tongue, alternating between circling and flicking, perfectly timing when one or the other became too much or dull. He began to suck down lightly, pulling more moans out of your throat, and you felt the uneasiness in your stomach waiting to spill itself.

Your fingers locked themselves in his short hair, gaining a grunt from him as he began to go faster with his motions. His tongue was hammering your sensitive bud at a furious pace, leaving you a moaning mess as something suddenly snapped inside of you.

"Daddy," You whined when he didn't stop.

Your hips buckled and your thighs tried to shut themselves as John's hands wrapped around and held you down. He kept the pace as he helped you get through whatever it was that just happened. Once he was satisfied, he came to the surface, leaving your legs shaking.

"What was that?" You asked him, panting as you tried to stop your legs from moving on their own. He continued to hover above you.

"That was an orgasm, sweetheart," John told you before placing a tender kiss on your lips. You could taste yourself when his tongue reached into your mouth, moaning at how satisfied and happy he seemed to be.

•••

Things were never the same after that day. John insisted on not taking your virginity until he was sure it was going to be special. He wanted the whole candle-lit dinner and the rose petals on the bed, but mostly- he wanted it not to occur in a shitty motel.

John wanted the whole nine yards just for you and as much as you wanted that too, you didn't really care about the fine details. You wanted him as soon as you could get him and you didn't care what the circumstances were, even if that meant losing your virginity in a crappy motel where the beds creaked.

Plans were whisked away from the two of you, a hunt would come up or Sam and Dean would stick around for too long. It almost seemed impossible to find the 'right' time.

In between, John helped you learn different things that surrounded sex. You could only assume that those acts were just as satisfying as the real thing, but it only made you crave him more.

You were so eager to please John and he seemed to feel the same way about you, making you feel more special than Sam or Dean ever felt. Everything just made so much sense, everything seemed so perfect.

It was hard to contain yourself around your brothers, but John wanted to keep your relationship a secret. You didn't understand why. Why wouldn't he want to show Sam and Dean how happy he made you? Was he embarrassed? Were you not good enough to boast about?

Those questions didn't matter in the middle of the night when he would steal you away to his truck. Every bliss-filled night brought a euphoric feeling that lingered for the following days... but then he would leave. Again.

It became a routine. Things would seem so hopeful that maybe in a few days, he would be able to steal you away for the night- make it special, but those plans seemed almost hopeless as the weeks went on.

The hunts became more frequent, especially after Sam came home from school, and John wanted both of his boys as strong as possible- so he chose to hunt by himself most of the time.

John also became a bit hunt-hungry, losing days of sleep and trying his best to find the monster that killed your mother. It was consuming him and John only really ever seemed to be at peace when he was with you- when you helped suck out every ounce of worry from his soul.

But a strange guilt was burning slowly in your core. Sam was the one person you trusted in your entire life. The one person you could trust with your secrets, the one person you could trust to be on time, the one person you could trust to be there for you.

When Sam would come home from school and tell you about his day, or come back from a small day hunt with Dean, you would have nothing to say to him.

You weren't reading like usual, you were too busy with John or learning new things from porn. You weren't supposed to tell Sam and it ate at you every day.

It hurt to keep something so special and important away from him. You've told him everything since the moment you could talk- the only saving grace was that he was keeping things from you too.

First, it started off with him not telling you about sex or what it was. Then, it turned into getting girlfriends that he wouldn't tell anybody about. He was hiding things from you for the first time in your life and you didn't understand why.

Was he upset with you? Did John say anything to him? Or was he just growing apart from you?

Showers seemed to be less fun for the past three months. Sam barely talked to you. He barely cracked a joke, he didn't even turn the water cold on purpose to make you squeal. It was just a shower now. You got in, you washed your hair, he washed his hair, you washed your body, he washed his body, and then you both got out.

Sam wasn't the same Sam that you knew and loved, but you tried your best not to notice.

It was another day. Another boring and quiet shower. Sam hogged all of the water while you focused on trying your best to be normal.

To be honest, you were upset. All of these months, waiting for him to say something. You were waiting for Sam to explain why he was acting so strangely, but he didn't.

Sam closed himself off from everybody and every shower that remained silent, other than the casual 'pass the shampoo' that seared into your heart. Maybe Sam didn't love you as much as he used to. Maybe he found someone else.

You couldn't hold it in anymore- you couldn't live without knowing what was going on in Sam's head.

"Are you okay?" You asked Sam quietly. He just shrugged his shoulders in return.

Sam muttered 'I'm fine' and nodded his head, turning back to finish washing his hair. You frowned, knowing that he was probably not fine, and continued to pry.

"Sammy, please. Just talk to me." You frowned, watching the soapy water fall down his back.

"Talk to you about what?" Sam asked in return, bitterness in his voice that shocked you to your core.

His tone definitely showed you that he was upset about something, and it hurt to know that he was bottling it in himself. You trembled when he snapped, shivers running down your spine that brought you to cross your arms, and you watched the way he glared at you when he turned around.

It hurt especially because it was the same glare he often gave your father. It was the same hatred in his eyes and you didn't know what you did to deserve it.

"Y/N, I'm not angry. I promise. I'm sorry for scaring you." Sam must have picked up on your hurt as his face slumped into concern, placing his hand on your arm.

You immediately pulled away as Sam continued to look at you sympathetically.

"I just wished you talked to me, that's all," You replied quietly.

"Yeah, well, I wished you talked to me too," Sam muttered in a voice so close to a whisper you almost couldn't hear. You decided to look back up at him.

"That's what I'm trying to do, Sam," You told him just as softly as before, looking into his soft eyes.

Sam gave you a small smile out of courtesy, and you could tell it was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you.

"I just feel like you are avoiding me. Like you don't want to tell me what's going on in your life anymore." You admitted.

"What about you?" Sam scoffed and you raised an eyebrow at him. "I mean, you don't talk to me about your life. Why should I?" He asked, crossing his arms.

"I don't go to school anymore and I barely leave the motel. There's not much to say," You sighed, frowning at how his aggressive switch was flipping on and off with each comment.

Sam didn't get upset with you often, but most of the time he was irrational and tended to say things that he didn't mean.

"Just- just tell me about a book you've read recently," Sam struggled to get out and you shrugged your shoulders.

"Um, okay. I read The Little Prince recently. The guy in the story crashed in the Sahara desert and-" You were quick to explain.

"You told me about that book months ago, Y/N," Sam cut you off with hints of a low growl. You furrowed your eyebrows and tried to reach his eyes as they ran away from yours.

You hadn't read it in a while, but, it was the most recent book you had read- that part was true. The truth about what had been preoccupying your past few months was a secret, a secret that John didn't want anybody to know about.

For a second, you thought about telling the truth- maybe Sam would be happy to hear about it. Happy that John loved you so much. Happy that you weren't sitting at home miserable every day.

Ultimately, you decided that you didn't want to upset your father. What if he stopped whatever it was that was going on between the two of you? That, in addition to Sam and Dean, was the only thing that ever made you truly happy around here, and you didn't want to take it for granted.

"I, uh, I reread it. It's a great book," You lied, this time trying to look away without being too conspicuous.

It hurt every part of you to lie to Sam like this, especially because you were lying about one of the most important things in your life.

You never lied to Sam, ever. When he didn't say anything back, it ate you completely. The guilt you felt was pounding in the back of your throat. It only took you a few moments of silence to realize that you couldn't take it anymore.

"Sammy, I'm- I'm lying to you." You told him, feeling a rush of relief flood your body as you looked down to the ground.

"I know, Y/N," Sam told you quietly and you nodded your head, the guilt vacuuming back into your body.

This is why you shouldn't have lied to him in the first place. He knew you so well, too well to let anything slip by.

"Do you want to tell me the truth?" He asked softly, bringing his fingertips to your chin so that you could look back up at him.

You nodded your head, tears threatening to spill out of your eyes as he looked at you with so much care- something you missed dearly from him.

"I- I can't." You told him, jerking your head to look anywhere but at him.

You loved Sam more than any person in the world, but this was something that you needed to keep from him.

"Because Dad said you can't?" Sam asked you and your eyes shot up to look at him, widened at full capacity.

He knew. That's why he was so upset. That's why he didn't talk to you, why he closed himself off from everybody. But, why? Why did he seem so upset about it? If Sam knew, why hadn't he brought it up sooner?

"It's okay, Y/N, really. It's okay, you can tell me the truth." Sam told you, pulling you close as you frowned into his chest and began to let your mind run.

What if John found out you told him? Would he not want anything to do with you anymore? Even though the shower was still running against the both of you, the only wetness you could feel were your tears.

"He's going to hate me, Sammy," You told him, sniffling as you pulled back to look at him. His arms were lazily hung around your torso as he stared down at you with soft eyes.

"Y/N, did he hurt you?" Sam asked softly, gripping your waist tightly and gently forcing you to keep focused on him.

"What?" You asked, furrowing your brows as you noticed that Sam seemed to look sad. "No- no, he didn't hurt me. Why would he hurt me?" You questioned again and his grip loosened around you, looking just as confused as you did. "Are you upset?"

Sam took a few seconds to answer, head shaking a confused expression formed on his face.

"I, uh, no- I'm not upset. I just thought-" He trailed, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I just thought he was hurting you."

"Daddy would never hurt me," You gave him a small grin, shaking your head at the silly comment. "Sammy, he's made me very happy." You purred, feeling his body tense as your fingers glided up and down his sides.

It was a small chance that you took- if he wasn't upset... then maybe he was happy. Maybe he was just jealous this entire time.

•••

Next Part

#fanfic #supernatural #spn #spnfamily #dean winchester #dark!dean x reader #sam winchester #sam x reader #darkfic #dubcon #smut #dark!John x Reader #dark!sam x reader #Dark!sam winchester #dark!sam winchester x reader #dark!dean winchester #Dark!Dean Winchester x Reader #Normal

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behindthesoul · 7 months

Text

MK Characters and Thanksgiving

Masterlist

Note: Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! I figured I should post something for the holiday. This is also my announcement to let everyone know it’s time to send in the Christmas/winter themed requests!! <3

Characters: Johnny Cage, Liu Kang, Raiden, Kenshi, Kung Lao, Ashrah, Syzoth.

Warnings: Food and alcohol mentions

Note: This is all based on things my family and I do/have done for Thanksgiving.

Johnny Cage

His own family is kind of ehhh so he jumps at the opportunity to host his new pals for Thanksgiving. He’s happy to be the one to introduce the holiday to the non-Americans/non-Earthrealmers. Can’t cook for shit so most of the food is catered, but he does know Grandma Carlton’s apple pie recipe by heart and tries to make it himself. Surprisingly, he isn’t bad at cooking.

He shows everyone the classic special A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. It’s important for everyone to view the cartoon that shaped his childhood. Has the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade on TV and later watches the Cowboys, Lions, and whatever other NFL teams play that day.

Johnny Cage is your stereotypical American whose favorite dish is apple pie.

Liu Kang

Says he’s only coming to show his face and wish everyone a happy holiday but he truly wants to be there. It brings him a sense of nostalgia and comfort. Johnny Cage from his timeline used to throw holiday gatherings. Seeing everyone together “again” is bittersweet. He’s emotional, sad that he’ll never see his buddies again. No one could ever tell what he’s feeling; Liu Kang has mastered stoicism.

As a god, he doesn’t feel hunger, nor does he eat much. He may try a few bites of something after Johnny nudges him to, only out of sheer politeness. Liu Kang prefers watching everyone else eat and talk to each other. Everyone’s happy, Earthrealm’s at peace, he’s happy.

Liu Kang thought the turkey was fine, even if it was a bit dry.

Raiden

Accepted the invitation immediately. Enjoys what Thanksgiving is supposed to represent, a little miffed to see no cares about that; only the food. Tries to instill gratefulness in the get together. Makes everyone go around and say what they’re grateful for. Probably stands up and gives a speech about how he’s grateful for Lord Liu Kang and his new allies. It would be annoying if it was anyone else lmfao.

Tries almost everything just to be nice but mostly eats food he’s used to. Can’t blame a guy for having his likes! Raiden eats until he’s full. He’s the one telling Kung Lao to not take so much food so everyone else can have some. Raiden talks to all of his friends but probably sticks to Liu Kang and Kung Lao. It’s just natural for him.

Raiden liked the mashed potatoes.

Kenshi

Wanted to leave Sento at home so Johnny wouldn’t get ideas but…he also needed to “see” so Sento was brought to the event. He just made sure to keep it far away from Johnny. Probably shows up with alcohol.

Only eats “normal” food. Anything that looks like it came out of Johnny’s imagination will not be consumed by Kenshi. Like Raiden, he only eats a modest amount. Most of his time is spent bantering with the others. Jokingly says no when Johnny asks if he wants to come back next year. He definitely will though.

Kenshi liked the alcohol he brought the sweet potatoes with the little marshmallows on top.

Kung Lao

Is the one who eats several plates of food and packs several to-go plates. Almost starts a drinking contest with Johnny but is stopped by several people. Just decided to postpone the drinking contest to another day. He’ll bet on the NFL games with Raiden. Neither of them know what the hell is going on. Gloats when his team wins.

Tells Johnny what food he wants to see next year, and the year after that, and the year after that. Promises to ask Madam Bo to make some food to bring to the next Thanksgiving. He and Johnny have the next 10 years planned out.

His favorite dish is probably something savory like roast beef.

Ashrah

Delighted to be invited to a group event. She never expected to have a home, Ashrah is forever grateful to Earthrealm for letting her in. She’s very happy to have her first taste at an Earthrealm holiday. Ashrah shows up bright and early! She and Johnny watch the Thanksgiving parade together. There’s a childlike gleam in her eyes when she sees all the balloons. She also watches the football games on TV. Not because she particularly cares about it, but because she wants to participate in all the traditions.

Ashrah tries each dish but can’t find one she likes more than the others. All the new textures and tastes are a bit overwhelming, so she passes on the opportunity to try more. Maybe next year!

Ashrah doesn’t have a favorite dish, she still has to get used to Earthrealm food.

Syzoth

Same as Ashrah - he’s just happy to be there. Spends most of his time talking to others…and by “others,” I mean Ashrah. The food is hot and makes the air slightly warm. It makes Syzoth incredibly happy. He’ll come back every year just to feel the warmth in Johnny’s house.

Syzoth can’t stomach human food. His stomach rejects food by giving him intense pains. It usually doesn’t bother him, but today he’s a bit upset. Everything smells nice! He wants to try everything :(

Maybe someday Syzoth will be able to handle human foods.

#mortal kombat fanfiction #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat fanfic #mortal kombat 1 fanfiction #mortal kombat headcanons #johnny cage #kung lao #liu kang #raiden mk #ashrah #syzoth #reptile mortal kombat

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shojislady · 1 year

Text

2. SO SCANDALOUS

"-ess.. princess. wake up, we need to get ready. kacchans making pancakes right now."

grumbling, she turns over to look at her clock. it's 10:15am, izuku let her sleep in a bit. today, the class was going out to the mall then the arcade to have class bonding time. with everything that's gone on, from the USJ incident and the tension from the sports festival, to the fight with stain (where endeavor unfairly took credit, causing the girl to have a "slight" hatred for him), and even the final exams, having to go against All Might with Bakugo and Midoriya, it was just a lot to handle. they're just kids, and kids need breaks.

walking into the bathroom, the girl began her daily morning routine.

"damn.. i look ROUGH..!" she said as she looked in the mirror. her bonnet looked as if it was trying to run away, her tank top was all twisted up, right boob was up in russia while the left one stayed home in america. she had eye boogers all around and her angel bite piercings were no where to be found.

she slept good.

"you know what... let me just wash my face right now and i'll do everything else after i eat."

her face care routine consists of ; black african soap, witch hazel, hydration drops, and a bit of coco butter.

finishing up and putting away her stray boobs, she found one of bakugos stolen hoodies and made her way downstairs.

(i would just like to add that she sleeps in boxers so yk that ass lookin fat 😋)

"good morning guys!" she greeted everyone, with a slight smile and wave. almost everyone was up, with the exception of a few people.

"hii y/n!"

"mornin bestie!!"

"Good Morning, Y/n! Glad to see you awake!"

and so on and so forth

"mornin angel.. im making your pancakes right now, but there's bacon on the tiny burner and i made u a tiny omelette. those burner thingies really come in handy, you know?"

"its a heating tray, katsu. and yes, that's why i bought them." she bought them for holidays like christmas and american thanksgiving, but since there's 21 kids living in one dorm, it's used more than expected.

"is that my fucking hood?? i've been looking for that for weeks!" bakugo exclaimed, turning around to give the girl a plate so that she could fix her food. "when the hell did you even- whatever.. as long as i get it back."

(Spoiler Alert, he doesn't)

"erm.. anyways..! so guys, what time are we supposed to be leaving??" asked y/n, going to take a seat next to shoji.

"Well, we're trying to leave for the mall around 12:45 since it isn't far, then leave the mall no later than 4:30-5." yaomomo began to explain. "I was able to rent the arcade from 6:15 to 10:30, food and drinks included, along with lazer tag , and we get the option of going in the bounce area, so when we get there just let me know."

"damn yaomomo... i knew you was stacked but DAMN!!"

"ong, bro's LOADED.."

"i'm calling you if i need to bailed out of jail."

"honestly guys it's not much, i just want us to have fun and relax as a class while being safe!" yaomomo said with a small smile on her face. she was literally loaded, like pockets so deep they could fit 3 gallons of milk each, pockets so swole they need an ice pack, pockets so fat they need they own TLC show type rich. but even so, she didn't like to flaunt her wealth. she'd rather use her money to pay for gifts and events for her friends, rather than to flex some diamond earrings or a gold necklace. She's still a teen girl though, so she still loves to go shopping. The girl is really just happy that she's found friends that actually love her for her, and not for her money.

"you're so cute yaomomo! i love you!"

"well thank you y-"

"if anyone, i mean ANYONE fucks with you, call me. these hands are rated E for Everyone. my fists are activists. i dont care if they're old, young, tall, short, fine, ugly, gay, straight. I believe in equality, and with equality comes equally distributed ass whoopings jus-"

"OK, n/n! i think momo gets how much you love her! since you're done eating can u help me?" midoriya interrupted the girls small rant.

"you gotta face the consequences of last night huh? you should've listened to me, but yeah i'll help!"

"you dont have to rub salt on the wound!" he whined. "i'll get stuff and meet in your room again?"

"sounds like a plan, izuku!" she replied, getting up to grab her plate and bring to the kitchen.

"OoOh y/n~" jirou began to tease. "last night? your room AGAIN? what scandalous activities have you been up to?"

"chill kyo, its not like that! he messed up his hair on his own and we always hang in my room bc its more.. welcoming.. then his."

"i know, y/n! im jus messin' with ya."

with her plate in hand, y/n walked into the kitchen where bakugo resided. he was cleaning the and putting away the dirty plates before he started to soak the pans.

"so, the nerd fell asleep in your room again huh?" he asked, washing a plate.

"yeah, he started to doze off a little while after you left, so he slept with me."

"i dont know why you guys dont just ask eachother out yet. you two are basically in love with eachother."

"katsuki, you know how i feel, and you know how zuku is. im pretty sure if he would act the same way with the rest of the class as he acts with us if he just trusted them more." she informed, getting ready to wash her plate before bakugo snatched it.

"don't even try it." ever since they could crawl, they've never let the girl lift a finger. hungry? chef katsuki at your service! scraped your knee? Dr.deku to the rescue! and yes, they know that she's the perfectly capable and well off to do these things on her own, but why should she when she has two men to do it for her?

"anyways. we've all known eachother since literally birth. i see things, i observe things. you two are literally inseparable. im pretty sure y'all first words were eachothers names. you know how you act around him, you see with your own two (or four) eyes the way he acts with you, and im pretty sure he peeps it too. just ask eachother out already and stop being pussies for fucks sake!"

"oh my gosh?? shut the fuck up?? you're so damn loud??" she said, slapping him in the back of his neck.

"aye. try me again and we gotta tussle. i'm not deku. i'll will beat the black off you. i strike so much fear into your melanin pigmentation that it will come to me."

"whatever katsuki, u can run me my ones later, i gotta go help zuku now."

"ight then angel, u better be ready. see ya later."

with that, she finally left the kitchen and headed towards her dorm to meet izuku.

.*•

"finally.." the boy sighed. it's now 11:45 am, and they (she) just finished detangling, moisturizing, and somewhat styling his hair. at this point, her fingers and wrists were tired, her back was aching, her feet were sore, and she had the very violent urge to go back to her black roots and pop this nigga with the comb.

"I know damn well YOU not heavy breathing like you did some work. all yo lazy ass did was sit there and watch Netflix. YOU COULDN"T EVEN HOLD THE DAMN SPRAY..."

"I'm sorry, ma. thank you so much, I should've listened to you last night. now do you already have clothes ready? or do you need to pick something out?" he asked, pulling her into a hug and rubbing her back.

".. you better be so lucky i love you. but yes, i need to pick. have u chosen?"

" yup, right before I came to wake you up. so i'll help you if you want?"

"yes please"

taglist: @ast4rg1rl

I FINALLY DID IT YALL..

and i already started the next chapter🙏🏾

well i split this chapter up into 2 to make things easier on me and y'all!!

so if its not out by next week then i'll post something embarrassing 🙏🏾

BUT ILL BE IN DUBAI FOR A WHILE SO JULY 13th IS MY DEADLINE

anywho

when i show outfits and stuff they're just there for ppl like me who can't visualize that well <3

WELL

UNTILL NEXT TIMEE

#bnha midoriya #bnha smau #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku smau #mha iida #mha fanfiction #shojislady #mha bakugou #mha deku #deku midoriya #izuku x reader smut

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bucky-fricking-barnes · 2 years

Text

Heroes in Our Midst

Title: Heroes in Our Midst

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: None, mostly fluff!

Summary: You invite the confused veteran at the grocery store to your Friendsgiving, but maybe you should’ve done a background check first.

A/N: Happy (belated) American Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! I’m so thankful for each and every one of you. I hope that everyone, whether you are celebrating today or not, is safe, healthy, and surrounded by those they love (and that love them back). Dividers are by @firefly-graphics

The man in the baseball cap has been staring at the stuffing for five minutes now, and you’re on a deadline. You don’t really want to tell him that he’s in the way and that he’s completely blocking the bags you need for your Friendsgiving, nor do you want to reach out and force your way in. He looks lost, the poor thing, and it’s when he flinches at the pre-recorded holiday message over the PA system that you decide to intervene.

“You can’t go wrong with Stove Top,” you say, stepping a little closer. He frowns, turning to face you just enough for you to see his profile.

What a jawline, you hum to yourself, and you, thankfully, manage not to say it out loud despite the fact that you’re running on only four hours of sleep. The holidays did you dirty this year.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

And what a voice! You melt a little at the deep timbre of it.

You gesture at the red box to his left. “Stove Top. It’s pretty easy to make and it doesn’t taste half bad. It’s not homemade by any means, but it’ll do if you’re in a pinch.”

“Right.” He clears his throat and picks up a singular box, then sets it in his cart as if it might break if he weren’t careful.

Peering past him, you frown at his bounty. Along with the stuffing, this broad-shouldered man has selected a pitiful rotisserie chicken, a slightly smushed sweet potato pie, and a dented can of cranberry sauce. No doubt it was one of the last ones in the bin. People in your neighborhood apparently really love cranberries, much to your dismay. His isn’t the Thanksgiving dinner you would have chosen, but you remind yourself that not everyone is as lucky as you.

Some people spend the holidays all by themselves. A pang goes through your heart as the man steps down the aisle, finally allowing you to load up on the bags of stuffing you’ve been waiting on.

You toss four into your already overflowing cart and you’re reaching for a fifth when you feel the man’s eyes on you. Silently, you glance over in his direction before grabbing the bag and adding it to your bounty.

“Do you need another recommendation?” you ask, hoping that’s the only reason he’s watching you. There’ve been too many stories about creeps on the news lately and your heart skips a beat at the thought.

“You definitely look like someone who knows what they’re doing,” he replies. He nods at the cart and you grip the handle a little tighter.

“I’ve got a big family. And a boyfriend,” you add, just for good measure. “He’s waiting on me in the car.”

The man shakes his head and holds up his hands. “I’m not trying to hit on you, miss. I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression. I’ve…” He clears his throat again and drops his hands, glancing back at his almost-empty shopping cart. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what? Shopped for a Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Something like that. Think you could help me out?”

Carefully, you push your cart closer so you can get a better look at his. He’s wearing dog tags, you notice, and a swell of sympathy makes your chest tight.

Of course, you think, and you could almost kick yourself. No wonder he’s so overwhelmed by all of the options.

“Well, the first thing I’ll need to know is how many people you’re cooking for. That’s a big factor,” you tell him.

Now that you’re closer, you’re able to get a clearer view of his face. He’s got kind eyes to go with the sharp jawline and beautiful voice, and you smile a little as he glances down at his purchases.

“Just me,” he says. “I couldn’t find a turkey small enough, hence the chicken.”

You frown. “Just you? That’s it?” He nods in confirmation and you purse your lips for a moment. “Honestly? You’re better off just getting one of the pre-packed meals by the deli or just going out to eat. Cooking a whole Thanksgiving dinner for yourself is a whole lot of hassle and a lot of stress for nothing.”

He shifts a little. “I’d rather cook as much as I can. This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time. I want it to be…” The man trails off, seemingly at a loss for what he wants.

“That’s understandable,” you say, nodding and offering him a small smile. “I noticed your dog tags. Where were you stationed?”

Automatically, he reaches up to tuck them inside his shirt, out of view. “Europe.”

“And you didn’t have Thanksgiving there?”

Your poor attempt to make conversation falls flat and the man forces a tight smile. “Is my dinner a completely lost cause?”

“Not necessarily. You’ve got a good foundation, you just need some fixings to spruce it up a bit. Some mashed potatoes, green beans, a salad, some mac-n-cheese, another pie…” He nods along, as if making a mental checklist as you speak. “That’s if you’re really dead set on this whole cooking thing, and obviously that’s more than just one person can eat. You’ll have a lot of leftovers to tide you over, which isn’t always a bad thing. Of course, there’s always another option…”

“Which is?” he asks.

The song changes overhead from a newer Christmas song to one of the classics and you can’t stop the next words that come out of your mouth,

“Come to my house for dinner.”

He seems just as surprised as you do, and you want to crawl into a hole. You scramble to correct yourself before the man, a complete stranger, can run away and tell all his friends and family about the weird girl in the grocery store who invited him to her house on one of the biggest holidays of the year when all he wanted was to know which brand of boxed mashed potatoes to buy.

“Of course, I’m sure you have other plans. I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, I’m not even really sure why I said that. I don’t normally—”

“I’d love to come, if it’s a genuine offer,” the man says, cutting you off. He smiles softly, a gratefulness shining in his eyes, even from underneath the baseball cap. “I’d hate to intrude on you and your family, though, or your fella. Boyfriend, I mean.”

You swallow thickly, looking down at your cart. “Well, it’s— I actually don’t have a boyfriend. That was more of a let’s-scare-off-the-creeps-with-a-fake-boyfriend type thing, you know?”

“I’m… familiar with the tactic.”

By the way he says that, however, you’re not really sure he is. It’s endearing that he’s trying to save face in front of you, and you smile a little. When you lift your head, he’s watching you.

“I can text you my address, and what time to be there,” you add. “No pressure if something else comes up. I’m actually celebrating later this weekend with my friends—you know, Friendsgiving—so you’ve got some time to think about it. You don’t even need to bring anything if you don’t want. I usually do a lot of cooking and everyone else just brings something to drink or their leftovers from their own family dinners. It started out as a potluck, but it’s grown into something more over the past few years.”

His posture relaxes slightly. “That sounds nice.”

Smiling a little more, you hold out your hand. “Phone?”

After a beat, the man digs into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out something you haven’t seen in years. You manage to hold back your laugh, but the surprised noise can’t be helped. He looks a little shocked at the high-pitched outburst, then embarrassed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel bad, it’s just… I haven’t seen anyone with a Nokia in years. I mean, I think my grandpa probably still has one at his house… somewhere. We got him onto one of those little cheap smart phone things for senior citizens a few years ago.”

The tips of the mans ears are a bright pink as he hands the phone over to you, and you quickly start maneuvering your way to his contacts list. It takes a minute, but you finally get your name and number in, then hand it back.

“Y/N?” he reads, glancing up at you.

You nod. “And you’re…”

“Steve.” He stands a little straighter, a little taller, and you catch a glimpse of the great soldier he must be. “My name’s Steve.”

“It’s nice to meet you Steve. Send me a text so I have your number, okay? Then I can text back with the info. If you change your mind, though, there’s no need. I don’t want you to feel pressured to come, especially since we just met. I know that stranger danger is still a thing for adults.”

Nodding, he pockets his phone and grabs hold of his cart again. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N. Maybe I’ll see you soon. Thanks for the help with the stuffing.”

You can’t help but smile. He’s genuine, that’s for sure, and you watch him push his cart forward and turn the corner toward the produce section before finishing your own shopping. There’s a little bit more pep in your step as you head toward the registers.

Three days after Thanksgiving, Steve shows up for your annual Friendsgiving. He’s not the first person you’ve welcomed today, but you know for a fact that he’s been waiting outside near the bus stop for at least a half hour before he’d come up to the door.

Poor guy must be freezing out there.

“Hi! I’m glad you came!” You step out of the way so he can come in, then shut the door behind him.

Steve stands tall in the little entryway of your apartment. He’s got a bright blue tupperware bowl in his hands and he looks entirely out of place, so you decide to take a gentler, less enthusiastic approach. For someone who hasn’t had a real Thanksgiving in a long time, your cramped apartment filled with strangers, festive decorations, music, and several different kinds of cooking food is sure to overwhelm.

“Hey,” you say, coming around from behind him. You soften your smile and hope he perceives it as genuine. It is, of course, but you don’t want to seem unsure of your invitation, not after he’s made the effort to come and even bring something to share. “I really am glad you came. Do you want to put your dish in the kitchen? I can get you something to drink. Then you still have something to hold onto?”

He seems a little taken aback that you’d even noticed his tight grip on the bowl, but he nods anyway and follows you as you weave your way into your galley-style kitchen. Your neighbor is at the stove, stirring a pot of mac-n-cheese, and she smiles wide when Steve fills in the doorway behind you.

“You must be grocery store guy. We’ve been waiting for you,” she tells him.

You gape at her and whack the side of her arm. She laughs. “Gloria! Enough! Focus on the food, please! If you’re just going to gossip and spill my secrets, I’ll take care of the cooking myself!”

“No, we’re not having a repeat of last year,” she chides, still grinning. “You turn into a real mother hen when you’re in the kitchen. We all offer to help and yet you still complain that no one’s helping you!”

Steve’s cheeks are pink when you turn back to him, and you have a feeling it’s not just from the heat of the kitchen. Your own face feels a little warmer than it should and you force away the nervousness that bubbles up in your throat, instead trying to focus on clearing a spot for Steve’s contribution.

He sets the bowl down in the empty space you create and you try to sneak a peek. The silicone lid isn’t clear and your mind whirls with ways to ask him what he’d made, especially since he hadn’t seemed like the type of guy that can cook.

"Something to drink?” you finally offer, glancing up at him. “We’ve got beer, wine, juice, soda, coffee, water… Pretty much everything. There’ll be more options once everyone gets here.”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

Nodding, you set about getting him a paper cup and scribbling his name on it with Sharpie, then making sure he gets his drink. You hand it off as the door opens and your work friends step in, cheering as the song changes to a newer favorite right as they arrive.

“I hate to just leave you like this, but I need to go say hi to them,” you say. “If you want, there should be some serving spoons you can use for whatever you brought. You can figure out what works best since it’s your dish.” You gesture towards the drawer next to the stove as you back towards the kitchen doorway, and Steve obediently nods. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures you, a small smile on his face. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll get the lay of the land soon enough.”

You try to take Steve’s words to heart as you head back to the living area. It doesn’t take long before you’re sucked into conversations and shenanigans with your friends, however, and when you finally remember you’d ditched him with Gloria, of all people, forty-five minutes have passed and you’ve finished the drink you’d poured just before his arrival.

Grabbing the empty cup, you hightail it back to the kitchen, only to find him leaning against the counter and nodding along with one of her long-winded stories. He looks up when you stumble into the room and offers you a concerned look, but you quickly wave him off when he reaches out to help you. From the way he looks you over, you can tell he thinks you’re drunk, but you don’t know how to explain that you’re just frantic that Gloria is spilling your deepest, darkest secrets to the cutest guy you’ve met in months.

“Oh! Y/N! I was just telling Steve that story about my great aunt who worked for the USO during World War II,” Gloria says, and you glance over at her, confused.

“That’s great. I don’t think I remember that one. Did Steve tell you he was a veteran?”

Gloria’s brows furrow and she looks between you and Steve. He’s suddenly very interested in the empty cup in his hands and your stomach drops. Nerves set in as Gloria makes some paltry excuse for the two of you, then pulls you into the tiny hallway off the living area.

You wrench your arm from her grip in front of your closed bedroom door. “Gloria! What’s wrong with you? I mention that Steve’s a veteran and you suddenly start acting weird? I’m trying to make him feel welcome and you’re not helping!”

She shakes her head at you, scoffing lightly. Amusement twinkles in her eyes. “You have no idea who you invited, do you?”

The nerves are back, extinguishing any frustration you might have held with her. “What— I mean, I know he’s a nice enough guy. I didn’t exactly do a background check, but you’re starting to make me wish I had! Why?” you hiss.

“Y/N, that’s Steve Rogers.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but it doesn’t exactly ring any bells, so you just stare at her. “Okay? Does he work for the government or something? Is he a spy? Do I need to call the cops?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls her phone out of the pocket of her apron. You watch in silence, looking between the screen and the doorway to the kitchen. You can just barely see Steve still leaning against the counter, his shoulders slumped. Your heart clenches a little at the sight.

He looks so lonely.

“Here,” Gloria says, shoving her phone into your hands.

You almost drop it, but you quickly right it and start reading. With every word that you’re able to process, your heart starts beating faster and faster.

Captain America? World War II? Frozen in ice? Born in 1918?

“Holy—”

This time when you glance back at the kitchen, Steve is gone. You shove the phone back at your neighbor and hurry back down the hallway to see if he’d just moved out of your view to refill his cup, but there’s no sign of him at all.

The living room is filled with your friends chatting, leaning into each other, snapping pictures in front of your decorations, and chowing down on the appetizers, but there’s no Steve. You’re turning in circles when you catch a glimpse of him out the window. His cap is back on and his head bowed as he walks back down the street, his hands in his pockets. He looks every bit like he’s making a run for it, albeit a casual one.

Heart pounding, you throw on the first pair of shoes you can find and race out the door. You’ve never taken the two flights of stairs faster, but Steve is still turning the corner when you finally make it out onto the street.

Curse his long legs!

You have to push your way through the early evening crowds, throwing out “excuse me’s” and apologies every which way until you finally catch up with him a few meters away from the stairs down to the subway.

“Steve!”

You grab at the arm of his jacket. He pushes you away from him on instinct, sending you flying into another passerby. His reflexes are quick, however, because he’s steadied you before you’re even halfway to the ground and the other person is only a few steps away. They grumble at the both of you and you and Steve both send them half-hearted apologies as he leads you out of the flow of traffic.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Sometimes I forget—” He shakes his head. “Are you okay? I should’ve been paying better attention.”

“I’m fine,” you reassure him. “I’m more worried about you! Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Is everything okay?”

He drops his gaze to the pigeon scavenging around the discounted pumpkins nearby. “I’m fine, Y/N. You should be back in your apartment. It’s freezing out here, and it’s getting dark.”

In your rush to get out the door and catch up with him, you hadn’t thought to grab a jacket, but you hadn’t processed the cold until now. You shiver, and he quickly sheds his own to drape over your shoulders.

“You left your bowl,” you dumbly tell him.

The corner of his mouth crooks up, but it’s sad. “Don’t worry about it. I can get another.”

You shake your head. “Steve, I— Why did you leave? Is it because of something I did? Or something someone said? I promise that they’re all good people, it’s just sometimes when they drink, they get a little—”

“It’s not anything you or your friends did,” he says. “I promise. They were all wonderful and Gloria was very nice to me. I’m grateful that you welcomed me into your home even though we barely knew each other. Most people wouldn’t do something like that, not nowadays.”

“Then why?”

He sighs and looks up through the windows of the store behind you, watching the customers aimlessly browse the aisles for a long moment. Steve doesn’t meet your eyes when he speaks again, but you watch him fervently, searching for any sign of dishonesty or distress.

“Because I was worried that you’d be uncomfortable around me now that you know who I am,” he finally answers.

You shake your head again. “I don’t understand. Who you are? I know who you are. I mean, I already did, before Gloria showed me that article.”

His jaw clenches and you draw the jacket tighter around you when he steps away and adjusts his cap against a chilly breeze. His face and ears are pink from the cold, too. It’s not quite winter yet, but it’s rearing its ugly head.

“You’re Steve,” you continue, closing the distance between the two of you. “And you’re my dinner guest.”

“Y/N—”

“If we made you uncomfortable, then I understand you wanting to leave. You have every right to go home, if that’s the case. But my perception of you hasn’t changed now that I know more about your past. Knowing all the amazing, wonderful, selfless things you’ve done makes me want you to stay even more now, because it reminds me that it’s people like you that I’m thankful for. Who knows, I may not even be here if it weren’t for you saving New York.”

You take a beat, catching your breath a little in the cold evening air. “Steve,” you continue, as earnest as you can, “I want you to stay. Please.”

He ducks his head and you have to crane your neck to see his face underneath the brim of his hat. If the lights from the shop were a little brighter, you might be certain that there are tears in his eyes, but you’ll play it off as a trick of shadows for his sake.

“I’m more than just that guy in the article. They exaggerated things, and I am a veteran. I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he tells you, and you nod. After a moment, you hold out your hand.

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Steve Rogers. I’d really like to get to know you. All of you, not just the published stuff, if that’s okay.”

Steve stares at your outstretched hand for several moments, and you’re inwardly cringing and trying to think of a graceful way to recover when he finally shakes it. You have to hold back a relieved sigh as you smile.

“I don’t suppose I could invite you to my Friendsgiving for a second time?” you ask.

Much to your surprise, Steve chuckles. His hand is warm around yours and you shiver once he drops it. You tuck your hands into the pockets of his coat as the two of you turn and start walking back towards your apartment. He measures his stride to keep step alongside you, his body a barrier between you and the surging flow of people on the sidewalk, and you glance up at him with a smile.

“Well, I did leave my bowl,” he says, smiling down at you.

“Of course. That’s irreplaceable, so you’ll have to come back and get it. And while you’re here, you might as well stay for some dinner. I’d hate to send you home hungry.”

He holds open the door to your building and you duck under his arm into the overpowering warmth of the lobby. “Of course,” Steve replies. “That would be rude.”

“And I’d hate to have you think I’m a bad host.” You’re still smiling as you head up the stairs and open the apartment door, and you and Steve are greeted once again by your friends, most of which had never even realized that you’d disappeared. They’re none the wiser to your little escapade, and to Steve’s identity, but that’s just another thing that you’re thankful for.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

If you want to support me further, consider buying me a ko-fi! My ko-fi is also under my SPN fanfiction blog, but I promise it’s me.

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siempre-bucky · 2 years

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kitchen dancing

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Dancing with Bradley on Thanksgiving morning

wc: 730

A/N: another blurb based on a tiktok? yeah.... happy thanksgiving to my american friends.

You went to bed Wednesday night with chaotic thoughts, and scenarios of your and Bradley’s first thanksgiving as hosts created a fiery game of racquetball until sleep finally soothed you. Thursday morning you didn’t wake up to your early alarm, you woke up to a song stuck in your head. Etta James played softly from another room but just loud enough for you to pick out its sweet lyrics.

Peace and Thanksgiving were never two things you thought had any correlation. You didn’t smell your kitchen burning or your boyfriend yelling at the game on tv—just a pretty song and how your sheets sounded as you rolled over to nuzzle your nose further into the nice smelling blanket.

The song changed when you finally crawled out of bed, a smile gracing your features. Bradley played the slow song when he felt most relaxed. He played it the night you moved in, the light from the tv the only thing lighting your first apartment. You could still feel the ghost of his hand and the tickle of his mustache when he asked you to dance amongst the cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

He played it at your wedding after all the guests tiredly stumbled out of the venue. He didn’t ask for much for the wedding, just to dance to one of his favorite songs in an empty room with his new wife. His chest felt so full, his hands memorizing how you felt in your gown while you were pressed against him. You remembered how he hummed the lyrics, the vibrations against your joyful tear-stained cheek.

“Morning, honey,” he greeted with a determined rasp in his voice as he saw you from the corner of his eye. Bradley’s hazel eyes were locked on the aluminum foil wrapped turkey he was lifting from the oven to check on. He placed it on the counter with a thick thunk and shucked his hands of the oven mitts.

“Everything smells so go-” you were cut off by the aviator grabbing your hand and spinning you around, his other hand finding its place on your hips. You let out a surprised laugh and put your head on his shoulder, letting him sway with you side to side.

“Good? Only the very best for our crew,” he chuckled, “you know how Mav gets about the bird.”

Your laughs mixed in with the soft music, creating a memory in your mind to look back on while he was away. Bradley felt warm and smelled of his cologne and a hint of herbs that came from the spice rack he built for the occasion. He whispered sweet nothings, his eyes closing to focus on having you in his arms and not on the food covering the island in front of him.

He liked dancing with you. One dance at a Naval Academy party led to two, and those lead to slow dances on ships in the middle of the ocean and apartments and into an eventual home in Fighter Town. He liked it—even when there was an addition to the family.

"Mommy?" Nicky asked, his little hands tapping your thigh, the other gripping the fabric of Bradley's sweatpants.

"Yes, baby?"

"What are you guys doing?"

"I'm dancing with your mom," Bradley answered him, his hand falling from your waist to run his fingers through Nick’s bedhead. Nick smiled softly and leaned into the comforting touch, his eyes looking up at him hopefully.

“Can I dance with mom too?” he asked, rising to his tippy-toes in an effort to appear taller. Bradley chuckled and scooped the boy up, effortlessly placing him on his hip. Nick wrapped his arms around your neck while Bradley stepped forward, his arm protectively on your back.

“She likes when you hum the song,” Bradley whispered, sharing a secret. Nick nodded against your shoulder and did his best to follow along as his dad hummed the beloved tune, his voice getting softer when he didn’t know, letting Bradley’s comforting voice take over.

You almost cried, feeling the pressure behind your eyes build. Warmth blossomed in your heart; your little family huddled together and danced in the empty kitchen that would fill with people in a matter of hours. “I love you guys,” you muttered under your breath.

Bradley’s mustache brushed against your temple leaving a soft kiss on your skin and Nick’s arms tightened around you in a silent response, “I love you too, honey. Now, waltz me over to the oven so I can finish dinner. ”

#bradley radshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooter x reader #rooster x you #rooster imagine #rooster fluff #top gun #top gun maverick #thanksgiving

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taraross-1787 · 7 months

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This Day in History: George Washington's Thanksgiving

At about this time in 1789, our country observes its first day of Thanksgiving and prayer. “[I]t is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God,” George Washington told the country, “to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor . . . .”

The sentiment wasn’t new. Indeed, Washington often expressed his conviction that America would not exist but for the intervention of divine Providence—and that public thanks is a duty incumbent upon Americans.

“The singular interpositions of Providence in our feeble condition were such, as could scarcely escape the attention of the most unobserving,” he told his soldiers at the end of the Revolution, “while the unparalleled perseverence of the Armies of the U States, through almost every possible suffering and discouragement for the space of eight long years, was little short of a standing miracle.”

So, yes, today is a day to eat, spend time with family, and watch parades, but Washington would have said that there is more to this day, too. Given all the turmoil in the world, perhaps we should consider taking his advice?

“[I]t is, in an especial manner,” Washington said in 1795, “our duty as a people, with devout reverence and affectionate gratitude, to acknowledge our many and great obligations to Almighty God and to implore him to continue and confirm the blessings we experience.”

Happy Thanksgiving Day, everyone! Permalink: https://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-washington-thanksgiving

#tdih #otd #this day in history #history #America #Thanksgiving #thanksgiving day #sharethehistory

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alex-rambles · 2 years

Text

Happy Thanksgiving! Who wants random character oneshots?

I do! Here's some oneshots literally no one asked for, because I'm just like that!

Reader is gender neutral

(If you couldn't tell, I was thinking about Mikami, which is why he's first)

Teru Mikami

You can hear a faint "delete, delete, delete" as you dish out pie.

"Teru," you say, attempting to earn his attention.

"Delete, delete, delete!"

Is he ignoring you, or is he too caught up in his so-called "duties?"

"Teru," you say again.

"DELETE!" He makes big, dramatic strokes with his pen, causing you to roll your eyes.

"Teru!" you snap, causing him to finally look up.

"What's wrong, love?" he asks.

You smile at his use of the word love.'

You slide over his cut of the pumpkin pie, earning an odd look. "Why is the dessert first?" he questions.

"Happy Thanksgiving." You roll your eyes.

"What's that?"

"An American holiday celebrating colonization, death, and destruction. At this point it's just an excuse to pig out, though."

"And why are we celebrating this holiday?"

"Because I'm hungry?"

He gives you a blank look that looks funny on his normally serious face.

"Because I'm American, Teru," you finally say.

"I'm busy, Y/N. God said-"

You kiss him on the head. "All you do is work, love. Kira can wait. Have pie! It's good!"

His cheeks turn slightly pink at the suddenly display of affection, and he wipes his glasses. "You think he won't mind?"

"Just spend time with your oh-so-loving partner, and you can write names for the rest of the night."

"A fair compromise. I... don't see why not."

"Happy Thanksgiving," you say with a smile.

"Happy Thanksgiving."

L Lawliet

"Ryuzaki, you've never expressed any interest in this holiday. You just want sweets."

L hums in response. "You don't have to call me Ryuzaki, you know."

"I know, but that's how you introduced yourself to me, so it's my nickname for you now..."

"I am aware."

L places pie, an odd Oreo cake, and a stray cookie on his plate. "It's nice to celebrate foreign holidays."

"You did not cook turkey, gravy, stuffing, or any of the actual foods. You just want an excuse to eat sweets!"

L pouts. "That is not true."

L pouting is a common, yet still hilarious sight. It contrasts with his serious, sleep-deprived exterior, and it never fails to make you laugh.

"I win, Ryuzaki," you say with a smirk, playing on his competitive nature.

"No, you haven't gotten me to admit anything."

"I'll throw out your food."

"No!" His typical monotonous voice momentarily turns almost angry.

He grabs his plate and holds it. He manages to balance it on his pulled-up knees, and drops an Oreo in his mouth.

"How aren't you diabetic?" you sigh, finally giving in.

It appears L Lawliet has won once more.

Bonus: Lumity

"Luz, you never did explain... Thanksgiving... to me."

Luz laughs, attempting to serve Amity a decent piece of the turkey. "Oh, Amity. There's no need to explain it, it's just a day where we're thankful for things!"

"But that's every day, right?"

"Yes, but today we celebrate! By stuffing ourselves!"

"That's odd."

Still, Amity sits down, and bites into her turkey, quickly gagging. "Luz, I think you did it wrong..."

"What? But I did it how-" Luz bites into her own, he eyes widening in shock.

"Yuck. This is bad."

The pair share a chuckle.

"It's okay, we'll just have something else!" Amity suggests helpfully.

"Yeah, let's... let's do that."

#Thanksgiving #Toh #the owl house #lumity #luz x amity #owl house #death note #death note x reader #l x reader #l lawliet x reader #teru x reader #teru mikami x reader #mikami x reader #alex writes

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fukanouna · 2 years

Text

thinking of you (wish you were here)

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Rating: G

Word Count: 787

Warnings: Fluff with Angst

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! Please enjoy some WandaNat angst :)

---

Wanda thought back to her first Thanksgiving after moving into the Avengers Compound.

As a Sokovian, American traditions were still very foreign to her. She understood the holiday sentiment and what the occasion brought to American families, but she felt very out-of-place to be spending it with the people she once fought against, and truthfully, she thought they'd feel the same way towards her.

Yet here Wanda was assisting with meal prep in the kitchen. She and Vision were tasked with cutting the vegetables for the stuffing.

Steve and Sam were arguing about how the turkey should be prepared, the latter insisting they season it the way they do in Louisiana. Rhodey left the compound to grab some pies at a local bakery that he swore on his life made the best pies in the world while Tony would stop by later with Pepper with a wide selection of wine, courtesy of Pepper's friend who owned a vineyard.

And Natasha? She was in charged in making the mashed potatoes.

Temporarily leaving Vision's side to take a break, Wanda curiously peaked over Natasha's shoulder. "Is that cereal?" the brunette asked with a puzzled expression as Natasha sprinkled the cereal over a layer of shredded cheddar cheese that sat atop the garlic herb mashed potatoes.

"That's right. They're plain corn flakes," Natasha responded, her eyes never leaving the dish to ensure every spot was covered. "Gives it a nice, satisfying crunch after you put it in the oven."

"I take it that this strange addition to mashed potatoes was something you learned here and not in Russia."

Natasha chuckled. "Definitely not. The idea actually came from Cooper, Clint's oldest son. He suggested it a few Thanksgiving dinners ago, and I thought, why the hell not? Let me give it a go. The end result was surprisingly delicious, and I've continued to perfect it since."

Wanda had to admit that the presentation alone was pleasing enough. "Your praises have made me more excited to try your mashed potatoes than the actual turkey."

"If you can wait about thirty minutes for this bad boy to be warmed and toasted, your taste buds will be knocked right out of the park," the redhead grinned.

After patiently waiting, the glass serving tray of Natasha's mashed potatoes was taken out of the oven. The spy insisted that Wanda received the first plate, eager to know the witch's thoughts. When Wanda tasted the cheesy buttery goodness of the potatoes and the light crunch of the corn flakes, her eyes widened by the simple blend of flavors and textures, which made Natasha smirk in satisfaction.

"This is too good to only be cooked once a year," Wanda praised. Her eyes shone with a childlike wonderment that Natasha found endearing.

"I'll gladly make these mashed potatoes whenever you want, Maximoff. All you gotta do is ask."

But Wanda never did.

She never got the chance to, not when the world needed the Avengers not too long after.

And now, Natasha was gone.

Forever.

After Tony's funeral, Clint invited her to have Thanksgiving at his home with his family. Wanda refused several times, but when Clint said, "it's what she would have wanted", it was impossible to deny the invitation any longer.

Laura was a sweetheart and welcomed Wanda into her home with loving, open arms. The Barton children were as welcoming and friendly as their parents. Cooper was polite and kind, no longer a boy as he was almost as tall as Clint. Lila was an adorable yet sweet girl. As for Nathaniel, the youngest Barton wasted no time clinging to Wanda, and she had to do her best to keep smiling and not to cry when looking at the small boy whose name was inspired by the two people Wanda loved the most and lost.

What Wanda didn't expect at the table was Cooper setting down a small bowl of cheesy mashed potatoes that were covered with toasty corn flakes in front of her. A wave of nostalgia washed over her.

"This is..." Wanda trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Auntie Nat taught me how to make her famous mashed potatoes once Mom said I was old enough to cook in the kitchen on my own," Cooper explained, fidgeting slightly. "It's definitely not as good as hers but Dad said you really liked Auntie Nat's mashed potatoes so... I hope I did them even a little justice."

Wanda placed a small forkful into her mouth and the familiar taste sent her back in time to a period when she was happy with her Natasha.

A teardrop slid down her cheek, but Wanda gave Cooper the brightest smile she could muster.

"It's perfect, Cooper. Just the way Natasha used to make them."

#wandanat #wanda maximoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #scarletwidow

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allthewriteplaces · 7 months

Text

Magnolia in May ~ Chapter Four

Author's Note: Oh, look, I'm actually on time for once! Anyway, to all of my American friends who are celebrating today, Happy Thanksgiving, and to the rest of you, I hope you're having a great week, but if not, here's a big hug!

Chapter Summary: Jessie spends more time with the kids, who give her a tour of the house.

Chapter Warning(s): None

Word count: 2466

Chapter Four

Mrs. Milligan arrived shortly after we left the ballroom and so we had to cut our tour short, much to Ruby’s disappointment, since she was really looking forward to showing me the upstairs, but I promised her that we would continue the tour later once they were finished and that she and Charlie could show me what they learned in class if they wanted to, seemed to lift her spirits again.

Frances showed me to my room while the children were starting their music lesson. She led me up a flight of stairs, where a family portrait hung from the walls.

The woman, I assumed, was Mrs. Shelby.

Adorned in a mahogany dress that complimented her figure perfectly, she stood, facing the painter and her lips, which matched the colour of the dress, looked as though she were holding back a smile. Her blonde hair was curled and brushed against her blushing cheeks.

On her lap, Charlie sat, dressed in a mustard-coloured shirt with buttons, blue stockings and a pair of black dress shoes. His head was almost dead centre, his hair was much darker back then, I noted, though his eyes still held that mischievous sparkle, and he was facing away from the painter, instead, looking up at his father.

Several things told me that he was the main focus of this painting, the first being that he was framed by the bodies and inclined heads of his parents. Secondly, the light, possibly coming from a lamp in the room where this work of art was created, hit his face fully, unlike the part-shaded faces of his parents. Thirdly, his posture unified the composition as he looked towards, though probably not quite at, his father from his mother’s breast.

Yes, Charlie was the centre of their universe, that much was clear.

Thomas hadn’t changed much, I noticed. He still wore that same, thoughtful expression, as though his mind was elsewhere, no matter how hard he tried to keep himself tied down to Earth.

There was another painting as well that caught my eye.

Her expression was far from warm, unlike in the last portrait, in fact it could be described as judgemental, like she could see through me and my confident facade; but there was something, almost like devotion, in her eyes as well. She was bathed in a halo of white light, making her appear almost angelic and for some reason, I found it difficult to tear myself away from her gaze.

Walking down these halls, I thought, was like entering a museum.

Everything was pristine and perfect and elegant, and my room, which was not far from the staircase, was no exception. The windows were huge and framed in fine, elaborate frames and they looked out over the sweeping countryside.

Where else am I going to get a view like this? I thought.

The sound of a car door slamming shut prevented me from speaking my thoughts out loud. In the corner of my eye, I saw a silver car pulling up in the driveway and a pretty brunette opened the passenger side door and stepped out of it, a smile spreading on her face as Thomas approached her, placed a hand on her lower back and led her away to the stables.

“That’s Miss Carleton,” said Frances, nodding to the woman and then leaned in to add. “Comes around here every week to train Mister Shelby’s racing horses. She’s quite wealthy, they say. Owns her own prize-winning stud.”

“Apparently she stays overnight as well?” Frances’ eyes became saucers, widening in horror at the question I just asked.

“Ah, I suppose Master Charlie and Miss Ruby already told you about Miss Carleton,” she sighed while shaking her head, “they’re too smart for their own good, the pair of them. I’m warning you now, Miss, they will keep you on your toes until it feels like you’re dancing on a tightrope keeping them out of trouble.”

“Don’t worry. This isn’t my first time as a governess. Besides, I have five younger cousins at home. I’m used to it.”

“Good. Having an extra pair of hands will be a blessing.”

Laughing, I turned away from the window and my eyes landed on a wardrobe. It was dark oak, or at least that’s what it looked like to me, since I had seen similar ones in my friends’ houses. My hands gripped the handles and I gently swung open the door, expecting it to be empty, but it was full of clothes.

Dresses. Expensive ones, too.

“Those are the clothes you will wear while you stay with us,” said Frances. Shock was written on my face, I could see it in the mirror. It sounded almost too good to be true, these nice clothes, a spacious bedroom, it was more than someone like me, of my station, could possibly ask for. “Mister Shelby insisted that you have something new, as a way to symbolise your new life here. Speaking of which, he requests that you join him and the children for dinner this evening, shall I tell him you will be attending?”

All I could do was nod in response.

“Very well then. I will send someone up in a moment to collect your old clothes, in case you would like to have them washed. There’s a basket just there.” She nodded toward a wicker basket in front of the wardrobe. “In the meantime, I’ll give you some time to settle in, and if you need anything else, give me a shout.”

“Of course.” I replied, “Thank you, Frances.”

With a polite bow of her head, she scuttled toward the door and the second it clicked closed behind her, I exhaled. Now I was alone, standing in the middle of the room, the light of the window shining in. I stepped over to it, taking a moment to admire the view.

Never had I seen such beauty, and I could only stare in amazement. I saw my suitcase against the wall. Having some free time on my hands meant that I could start unpacking my belongings.

Unzipping the suitcase on the floor, I kneeled in front of it.

First, I took out my Bible, the one my mother bought for me, my name written in pen on the front cover, and set it on the floor beside me. My aunt had also packed a new diary for me. At home, we were encouraged to keep a diary, as a way of reflecting on ourselves, but also as a safe space to sort through our thoughts and feelings. It was small, with a black cover and a gold bookmark. I set it on top of the Bible.

The portrait of my family went beside them. I wouldn’t be seeing them anytime soon.

Next, I began to sort through the layers of clothes Eliza had packed. The clothes I regularly wore — loose dresses, frilly, puffed blouses and fluted skirts — were more suited for housework, and some of the nicer ones were reserved for Sundays, picnics or house parties, which we were sometimes allowed to go to if they were held by close friends or neighbours.

Keeping them all folded, I set them nicely into another pile. The few things I had managed to bring with me didn’t add up to much, but they were the last few things tying me to my life back home, my family, and my faith.

God has always been by my side during the toughest times in my life, showed me where to go when I was lost and unable to find my way, and it’s His will that brought me here to these children and to help them prepare for the world outside these doors.

Standing up, I started putting things away in drawers and wardrobes and put my Bible on my bedside table. I didn’t pin Thomas as the ‘Church going’ type, but perhaps on Sundays, I would be allowed a few hours in the morning to pray before tending to my other duties.

With my suitcase now empty and the old clothes in a small brown basket, I settled into my chair by the window with a sigh and a soft smile. The warm sunshine and gentle breeze from outside served as the perfect companion. A sense of peacefulness washed over me.

I could definitely get used to this.

I uncapped my pen, and opened my diary, turning to the first blank page.

Saturday, May 10th 1930

Gosh, where do I begin? One minute I am in the nursery, playing with my cousins and now I am sitting in my room in a breathtaking mansion that looks like it’s been standing here for hundreds of years! If you had told me I was living in a museum, you wouldn’t be that far off. And you should see the new clothes in my wardrobe! They are the kinds of dresses I would see all the other girls wearing to garden parties and evening soirees. Don’t get me wrong, I am incredibly thankful that my employer has gifted me with such lavish dresses, but I would have been just as content wearing my old clothes — though I suppose I might donate those once we get them washed.

I was deep in my thoughts when there was a soft knock on my bedroom door. I lifted the pen from the paper, laid my diary on top of my Bible, sat down on the mattress, and then told whoever was on the other side of the door that they could come in. The door clicked open to reveal Frances standing in the doorway.

“Pardon the interruption, Miss,” she began and then glanced down at Charlie who stood next to her, clutching his violin and bow in his hands and smiling rather proudly. “Master Charlie said he wishes to show you what he learned today.”

The boy nodded eagerly and judging from the wide smile on his face, I could tell he was impatient to regale us with some music, so I fixed my position on the bed and then beckoned them both to come in with one hand.

“Well, then, there is no time to waste!” I said, enthusiasm in my voice, and watched as he prepared himself to play. He knew exactly how to hold the instrument and where to put his delicate fingers, and when he dragged the bow across the strings…. Let’s just say it wasn’t the most pleasant sound, but he just looked so happy and proud of himself, that neither Frances nor I had the heart to discourage or criticise him.

The piece only lasted a few minutes and when he finished, we both clapped and he took a deep bow. He set the bow and violin to the side and then sat next to me on the bed, catching his breath. “It’s not as good as when Miss Milligan plays it, she makes it sound like fairy music.”

“Practise makes perfect,” I said, hoping I sounded encouraging and proud of what he did manage to learn. “The more you keep working on it, the better you will become, and who knows? In a few years, you’ll be standing up there on a stage and people will be cheering your name.”

“Really?” he asked, excited.

“Really,” I answered. I glanced toward the doorway again when I heard someone else knocking. Frances opened it and Ruby came bursting in. She plopped herself on my lap, which took me by surprise, but I held onto her so she wouldn’t slip. “Hello, there, Miss Ruby.”

“Jessie! I learned a new song today, too!” she exclaimed, practically jumping up and down because of how excited she was, “and I can play it all by myself!”

“Tell you what,” I said, adjusting her body so that she was seated more comfortably, “perhaps after dinner, you can show me what you can play. In the meantime, I think I was promised a continuation of our tour.”

We still had a bit of time left on our hands before we would need to start getting ready for dinner, so I didn’t see the harm of continuing to explore the estate. Ruby slid off my lap and then dashed out the door and Charlie followed after her, leaving his violin behind.

“I’ll take that in,” Frances volunteered, “you’d better go.”

Thanking her, I called after them. “Wait for me!”

“Hurry up!” Charlie yelled back. “You’re like a turtle!”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” I tutted and they started running, their shoes slapping against the hardwood floor, as I allowed them to lead me through the halls, show me all their favourite rooms, including a playroom, filled with toys and books, and even a rocking horse.

“Wanna try it?” asked Charlie and I laughed.

“Hm, I’m not as small as I used to be. I might not fit.”

“Please?” Ruby begged, her brown eyes twinkling in the light coming from the window. Charlie aided her in her pleas, making saying ‘no’ to them even more impossible. I relented, sighing and shaking my head, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Satisfied, they clapped their hands as I approached the horse, one leg on both sides and I sat, being careful not to put too much weight on the wooden back, so as not to damage what might have been a priceless treasure.

“Giddy up!” Charlie cheered and I did my best imitation of a horse, making it rock a few more times, before I got off and then fixed up my skirts. I couldn’t help but smile. I had a feeling that I was going to have a great deal of fun playing games with the children, and it was impossible not to feel excited at the prospect. We could do anything, and I had a feeling that no matter what it was, it would be an absolute blast having them as my opponent.

“Wanna play another game?” asked Ruby, taking my hands in hers.

“How could I pass up on the offer?” I said. “What shall we play?”

“Tag!” she said, tapping my shoulder. “You’re it!”

Without any further warning, I suddenly grabbed her by the waist and swung her up into the air, making her squeal and giggle in surprise and when I put her down again, Charlie took her hand, made a run for it, and I chased them around the house, the three of us laughing and shrieking as we ran and tackled and dodged each other.

Seeing the kids so full of laughter and playfulness, I could feel the stress and anxiety of the day melt away and I felt a wave of relaxation and peace wash over me. What better way to spend the time than playing and laughing like this?

To Be Continued

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