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studioghibelli · 4 months

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burnt- a joel miller x reader

summary: life is sweet, but your big, tough, roughed up husband is sweeter. just for you…. only ever you. domestic life is full of happiness, bliss and….. kinky sex?

warnings: daddy kink (sorry not sorry), no outbreak!au, big fat girthy age gap (20s/late 40s), smut (finger sucking, thigh riding, light choking, f receiving oral, creampie, pinkus in vageenja sex, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink.) no use of y/n.

note: this hasn’t been proofread, so sorry for any grammar errors. xx

You couldn’t remember when it happened.

When the sleepless nights tangled up in his arms, where neither of you quite knew where the other would end or begin, bled into the quiet mornings spent tangled in the other’s arms. When breathy moans evolved into deep conversations about the afterlife and family values. You couldn’t remember when Joel went from the wild, rugged cowboy you rode for hours on end, to the supportive husband who protected you, made coffee for you, mowed the lawn and took care of you.

It happened quietly. Naturally. Perfectly.

No more were the nights of stumbling around drunk, fooling around behind your friends’ backs, leaving the labels far away and out of sight.

Oh, no. Not anymore.

The silver band engraved with flowers, a pretty, shimmering gemstone sitting on top, reminded you every day of that.

Now, Joel still had that wild streak in him, that dark tint to his eyes. He still let you know he could, and would, fuck you in to high Heaven, show you just how good of a girl you are. But the sweet, simple domesticity of dancing in the kitchen, grilling for friends, watching the news and shaking your head together- that was all new.

Autumn was dawning over the sticky heat of Texas, the air cooling off ever so slightly, days shortening toward cool, navy nights. Your front porch in the mornings, as the sun rose up, offered you solace away from the sappy humidity, that seemed to cling against your skin like tar.

So, each morning before the world would awake, you would sit on the rocking chair that your doting Joel made just for you, and you would drink your coffee, your tea, your chocolate milk- whatever you were in the mood for during that particular moment- and you would watch your front lawn come alive with bursting rays of light.

Occasionally, on a particularly quiet day, you would see a wild bunny hop through your yard, or a sweet black cat drag its side against the white picket fence of the house across the road.

You relished in these little interactions with nature. You craved them.

And when they were done, before the clock even had the chance to click past 8AM, you would climb back in to bed with your bear of a husband, wrap your arms around his back (which had inevitably turned away from your side through the night), and fall back into a peaceful snooze for the next hour or so, until the blaring alarm on Joel’s phone would begin ringing.

And then, he would awake.

Joel would turn to you, with a goofy, love sick grin on his face, and gently kiss your nose, pulling you flush against his warm, sleepy chest. His deep breaths would vibrate against you, his hands inevitably finding their way to the band of your panties or hem of your shirt, and you would spend the first half hour of your morning feeling his cock inside of you, or his fingers in your mouth, or his tongue against your clit.

Being married….. well now, that was a treat. One you would never get tired of devouring.

The clock had slowly been ticking towards 6 P.M.

Husband Joel would be walking in through those doors at any moment now, and you were still struggling through the recipe, the book propped up on the counter, the shiny pages now tarnished with the smears of paprika, melted butter- anything you had touched in the kitchen, really.

The house was alive with the smell of cooking chicken and boiling pasta. You had tried, and failed, to make garlic bread from scratch. You enjoyed cooking, but Joel never expected it, and what was what you loved.

He never treated you like his slave, or his subservient house wife. You were equals, partners. If whatever dinner you were cooking failed, he had no problem ordering chinese, or making you breakfast for dinner, fluffy pancakes and all.

The thought made your stomach grumble.

You figured today was a beautiful September day, and your husband was a wonderful husband, and he deserved some delicious fucking pasta when he walked through the front door.

When he walked through the front door…..

Sweaty from an honest days work, those curls slicked to his forehead, arms bulging beneath the tight sleeves of whatever old shirt he chose from his closet, worn and faded from the hand of the sun.

Oh, when he walked through that door….

Your knees were already growing weak.

You clutched the edge of the counter, nails gently digging in to the wood. You focused your eyes on the boiling pasta water, your mind wandering with thoughts of Joel. Always of Joel.

His hand had wrapped itself around your neck, belly pressed against the cool counter of the kitchen. The feeling of his fingers gently pressing in to your skin sent shock waves of pleasure rippling throughout, straight to your pussy. He hadn’t even touched you anywhere south of your tits.

Joel was kissing you like a starved man, his hot lips searing your skin, like a poker branding your skin with the mark of his love. His undying, unwavering, steadfast love.

“Joel,” you whimpered, “I need you. I need you to touch me.”

“Touch you where, babydoll? Here?” He asked, his fingers gently tweaking your left nipple. You shook your head no, stifling a moan. “Oh. Hmm. How about here?” He gently brushed his fingers against your belly, tickling your skin until a soft laugh erupted. You shook your head again. “I think I know where.”

Joel used his knee to spread open your legs, pressing you down flat into the counter, your cheeks now resting against the cold surface. His rough palms lay flat against your skin as he dragged them down to your ass, spreading them open as the searing heat of shyness spread through your chest.

“Let me see.” Joel pondered a faux thought, before a smirk overtook his face and he dipped his fingers into the soaked entrance of your cunt, knuckle deep as his body pressed against your back. You felt the outline of his hardening cock jutting through his tight boxers, a shiver running down your spine. “Here. Right?”

“Y-Yes!” You squealed, your nails digging into the wooden countertops. You felt it flaking beneath your grasp, and you knew an indent would be left. Oh well, you thought.

“That’s what I thought-”

Your deep, emphasis on the deep, thought was cut short by someone grabbing you quickly, showering your neck in familiar kisses.

“Joel!” You gasped, jumping as his hands made contact with you. You burst into a fit of laughter, his stubble tickling your jaw line as he spun you towards him.

And there he was. Just as you suspected.

His graying curls were soaked with sweat, framing the sides of his face ever so slightly, and a love sick, honey sweet grin reserved just for you was atop his perfect lips. The sun had almost set, and the amber light flooding in through the transparent curtains had shrouded his figure in a burst of light.

“Evenin’ my-” Joel paused, nose lifting into the air. “Somethin’s burnin-” The fire alarm cut him off, just in time.

“God dammit!” You turned around to see your chicken black as charcoal, smoke fanning from the pan. You were so lost in thought, you completely ignored the food. “Fuck!”

Joel had undone the fire alarm atop the ceiling quicker than you had fanned the smoke away, opening all the windows with a groan. You fell on the couch, dejected and annoyed, holding a crocheted pillow to your chest in a moment of well-deserved self pity. Joel turned to look at you, amusement behind his eyes.

“I was trying to make you a nice dinner!” You explained with a dramatic fling of your arms.

“Mhm… and what happened?” There was a sense of charming fun poking at his words.

“I was…. I was just, uh, I was thinking about some things.”

Joel was getting closer to you, his steps slow. “I’m sure. You are quite the thinker, sweet girl. What was it that was so important, you completely forgot about everything else?”

“Taxes!” You blurted out before you could even stop yourself.

He couldn’t help but laugh, sitting down beside you. His hand gently rubbed your stomach, down to your thighs, your body like jello beneath his touch. Joel’s face was close to yours now, his nose brushing against your cheek ever so slightly. “‘S that so?”

“Y-Uh…. mhm.”

“Now I trust you’d never lie to me.” His breath was hot on your face, and you shivered as his hands ran up and down your torso, paying extra attention to the hem of your sports bra.

“I wasn’t thinking about taxes.” You admitted, guilt evident on your face.

“There’s the truth. Now that’s daddy’s good girl. C’mere.” He patted his lap and you willingly obliged, straddling his thigh as Joel wrapped his strong arms around you, fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pressing against the small of your exposed back. “Now,” he brushed a stray piece of hair away, “what was it you were thinkin’ about?”

“You.”

“Me? Well darlin’, I am flattered. What about me?” His voice was low, right against your ear.

You ignored his question, tilting your neck instinctively as his lips found their way to your skin. You whimpered quietly the first time he kissed you, right beneath your ear, squirming against his denim clad thigh, thick and tantalizing beneath you.

Joel found the waistband of your leggings, slipping his fingers down your panties, into the sticky hot mess that had made itself home in your underwear. His index finger traced your folds, your cunt aching beneath his touch.

Right now, the world was him, and he was you, and your movements were one. Nothing else was as important to you as Joel Miller making you orgasm, over and over and over.

“Oh.” Joel tutted, removing his hand, ignoring the protests that escaped you. “I know what you were thinking about.” There was a charmingly sardonic pull to each of his syllables.

“Do you?”

“Mhm. You were thinking about me fuckin’ that tight little pussy. Weren’t you?”

A sharp breath caught in the back of your throat. You felt that coil, sharp and deep within you, just waiting to be cut, waiting to be relieved.

Even after all this time, Joel still sent shivers down your spine. He still made your knees weak, still made your heart flutter.

You remember people telling you he was too old for you, that he was going to slow you down. That, one day, the honeymoon phase would wear off, that one day it would feel like you had settled for an old man who you’d have to end up taking care of- that was many moons ago…

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You looked into the eyes of Joel, his orbs darkening as he caught sight of you. He removed his fingers from the waistband of your pants, slowly moving them up towards your mouth, lips thick and glossy with desire.

“Suck.” He commanded.

You obeyed, gently grabbing his wrist with both your hands, inching his ring and middle finger slowly into your mouth. You made a spectacle, put on a show just for him, as you began swirling your tongue around the tips of his digits, giggling quietly as he hummed out in satisfaction. With his free hand, Joel gently grabbed the side of your head, his fingers running through your hair.

“Good girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

You grounded yourself against his thigh, humming softly as he moved his hands to your waist, his grip tight, secure, protective.

“That’s right, grind that little pussy on my thigh. Give me a show, girl.”

You smiled at him, that charming, dazzling smile that made Joel’s heart pound, and slowly took your shirt off, your red bra on full display in front of him. Joel grabbed your tits, kneading them in his rough palms, calloused fingers gently pinching and twisting your nipples, the friction making you moan out.

“Been thinkin’ bout these all day.” Joel murmured, leaning forward and burying his face in the valley between each of your breasts. He groaned into your soft skin, licking a thick, hot strip up your neck as you moved against him. Your clit, swelling and screaming beneath the fabric of your underwear, dragged circles against his jeans as his bare hands grasped the curves of your hips, helping you move and sway against him.

“Joel.” You whispered, begging.

“What, honey? Use your words.”

“Fuck me.”

“‘S that what my pretty girl wants?”

“More than anything.”

Joel pushed you beneath him on the couch, the leather cool and comforting against your bare back. He looked at you, devouring you with his eyes. He was drunk on you now, orbs blown black like charcoal, lips tightened in a carnivorous snarl.

He was hungry.

“God damn, girl. Never gonna get tired of this view.” He moaned out your name as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your belly before taking your pants off, his thumb dragging across the soaked strip imprinted into your panties. Joel leaned forward, following the line his thumb made with his tongue, his ears perking at the sound of your moans.

Joel thumbed the skimpy fabric down your legs, his palms rubbing against your smooth skin, before he propped your legs on his shoulders, face to face with your throbbing, soaked pussy.

His index traced over your fold, watching as it became coated with your wetness.

“All for me?” He hummed out, the pad of his digit now grazing over your clit. It thrummed against his skin, your pussy clenching wantonly against nothing. “Guess I should do somethin’ about this, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly to leave my lady hanging like this. All wet and ready for her daddy.”

You whimpered, lips pressed in a tight line, as you watched your husbands every move.

Joel leaned forward, his tongue flat against your clit, looking up into your eyes. He left his tongue there, no hint or movement, as the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smirk.

“Please.” Your voice was pathetic, a quiet, distant plea.

“Ohh.” He chuckled between his syllables. “You want me to lick you? Want me to suck on this pretty clit if yours?”

“Please!” You repeated, practically a shout.

Joel chuckled, a deep, throaty, gorgeous chuckle, before wrapping his lips around your clit. His hit tongue swirled slowly around it, your pussy throbbing against his face. He moaned against you, hands grasping ahold of your thighs as he kept your legs apart, his mouth focusing on your pussy.

“Oh, Joel. Oh!” You ran your fingers through his graying hair, curls falling in his forehead as you held him there.

He pulled away, replacing his tongue with his fingers as he spread your lips open, exposing your cunt to his eyes. Joel ran a tongue over his lower lip, pushing into your tight hole with two of his digits, knuckle deep as he watched you squirm and moan for him. Your nails dug into the leather couch, marks you knew would inevitably be left there. You didn’t care right now. How could you? Joel had set you on fire, every nerve panting his name like a chant. No thoughts of the world, of taxes, of burnt dinner- only of him.

Your back arched against the couch as he ducked you with his fingers, his thumb rubbing circles around your button as he kissed his way up your belly and to your chest, stopping to pay extra care to your tight, stiff nipples. You watched as he sucked them, his every move burning in to your brain, before he came face to face with you.

The curve of his nose pressed into your own, the scruff of his cheeks burning against your face as he pressed his mouth onto yours, a deep, passionate kiss engulfing the both of you. He continued thrusting your fingers deep inside your pussy, yet your hands travelled lower, undoing the buckle of his belt, the zipper of his jeans, until all that separated his thick, throbbing cock from your pussy was the right black material of his briefs.

A shaky breath escaped you as he pulled his hand away, slowly moving it to your throat. Joel was careful not to apply any pressure, instead focusing his grip on the sides, a devilish smirk glimmering down at you.

“Use your words, baby. What do you want from me?”

“Cock. Please. Fuck me.” You were begging now, hips squirming into him.

Joel pulled away momentarily and you watched as his long fingers pushed down his underwear, a thick, veiny, angry cock falling out, slapping against your thigh with a quiet noise. He wrapped his fist around his dick, slowly pumping it with one hand as he held you in place by your neck with the other.

“I could just hold you here, ‘til I cum all over your belly.”

You groaned out in protest, dejected.

“Not want you want? Hmm. Oh. You want me to fuck you, don’t you? Want me to fill you up with my cum, ‘till it’s dripping out of you? Yeah, that’s what you want. I see it in your eyes, girl. You want me to pump you full of cum, fill this cunt right up.”

“Y-yeah.”

He shook his head no. “Mhm.” He warned, tapping the head of his cock against your clit. “Words.”

“Yes please.” You corrected yourself, watching as his handsome face became plastered with a smile.

“That’s more like it. See? Manners maketh man.” He teased, his cock now resting right at your entrance. He moved his hand from your throat, both his arms now at the side of your face, before filling you up with one swift push of his hips.

You were full to the hilt, the tip of his leaking dick pressing against your cervix, a jolt of pain, pleasurable and electrifying, rushing through you. Joel pulled away slowly, watching as the folds of your pussy spread again his shaft, a dirty and sexy sight just for him. He groaned, lip caught between his teeth as he started fucking you proper.

“So tight. So fuckin’ tight. You’re such a dream, darlin’. Such a fuckin’ pretty girl for me.”

Joel reached down, thumbing your clit. He watched the way your back curved off the couch, the way your baby hairs stuck to your forehead, the way your lips parted, singing their sinful song of lust- oh, Joel could’ve cum just from looking at you.

“Wanna cum.” You gasped for air, his fingers dancing against your button as he pounded in to you, hips on hips cracking like whips, sweat forming between your bodies, glueing you together like puzzle pieces.

“I’ll make you cum, honey. Don’t you worry.”

His cock was thrusting deeper and deeper, his tip hitting against that spot that made you shudder. Your shoulders rocked forward as you threw your arms around him, bringing him closer to you. You kissed him again, hungry and wanting, fingers knotting into his hair as you felt your belly clenching. Your cunt wept against his cock, and you felt your orgasm brewing.

“Gonna cum.” You whispered. “Gonna cum on you. Gonna- gonna-“ Your orgasm washed over you, hips thrusting into him as you came.

“Thatta girl. Good girl.” He cooed, his hand rubbing your belly gently. “Look at me.”

You looked at Joel, face slack with tiredness, your orgasm wiping the energy out of you. Nonetheless you held him tightly, legs tight around his waist, his movements now sloppy and wanting as he drove in to you.

When your eyes met, Joel’s face softened, the hint of a smile on his mouth. “So pretty.” He whispered, gently holding your throat again. “I love you, you know that?”

You nodded, rubbing your nose against his. “I know. And I love you.” You whispered, promising, smiling against his mouth as he kissed you once more.

“I’m gonna cum.” Joel snarled into your mouth as his cock twitched, spurts of hot cum painting the inside of your pussy, his body tensing as he held you close and tight, groaning your name into your hair. “Oh, fuck.”

You sighed into his chest as he fell into you, rough hands massaging the softness of your sides as Joel drew you in closer.

You laid against him, packed tight like sardines on the couch, before he looked down at you, eyes glimmering with a sparkle of amusement.

“So.” He began.

“So?” You giggled.

“What’re we gonna do about dinner?”

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #the last of us fic #joel miller smut #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x y/n #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller au #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal smut #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel tlou

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makeitmingi · 4 months

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The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 11]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.3K

You tilted your head, staring at the bouquet that was now sitting in a glass vase on your counter top.

"Staring at it isn't going to make it grow legs and walk, darling." Seonghwa chuckled from behind you. You rolled your eyes, straightening up and turning to walk to the fridge. You grabbed a tray out and put it on the island.

"I'm still in shock, Hwa. A little empathy or even sympathy would be greatly appreciated. I've never gotten flowers from anyone before." You said.

"Wow...."

"You don't count." You hissed. You grabbed another tray from the fridge. But this one was covered with aluminium foil.

"What are you trying?" Seonghwa rounded the counter and came back to where you were, peering over your shoulder. You removed the foil to show him the second tray.

"I'm trying to see if I prefer the flavour of a dry brine compared to a wet brine for monk fish." You explained.

"Because it's meatier and tougher?" He tilted his head. You nodded.

"Usually for fish, we use a wet brine but since monk fish is so firm and can act like chicken or red meat, I was thinking if a dry brine might enhance the flavour a little more." You said. You took the pieces of fish out of the flavoured water, patting it dry between two pieces of kitchen roll.

"What's in the dry brine?" Seonghwa asked, taking a brush to help you brush off the salt seasoning mix on the surface of the fish. He wasn't going to wash it or it would get rid of too much flavour.

"One has salt, white pepper, kombu, dried shiitake. The other has salt, black pepper, rosemary, thyme, bay leaf, garlic and a hint of sweet paprika."

"Not smoked?" He turned to you.

"No, as much as I wanted a herbier, heavy flavour combination, I didn't want to overpower the flavour of the fish." You shrugged.

"Good choice. Especially since the monk fish can be sweet, it only enhances the natural sea water flavour that's already there." Seonghwa hummed.

"How should I cook it without impacting the flavour...?" You scratched your head.

"Ooh, you're making me think of a monk fish curry now." Seonghwa smiled, almost drooling at the thought.

"I said I don't want to impart any of flavours, Hwa. If we make a curry, all the dry brine flavour will be overpowered." You slapped his arm. In the end, you decided to lightly steam half of them and pan sear the other half. Seonghwa helped you manage the pan.

"As much as we should, we shouldn't baste it. Even butter will affect the taste." Seonghwa said. You agreed. When the fish came out, you left it to rest for a few minutes.

"So, you want to talk about that?" Seonghwa nodded over to the vase of flowers you were looking at.

"What's there to talk about except why did you put it in a vase?" You raised an eyebrow.

"You just left it on the table, sweetheart. They'll die if you just leave it like that, you have to put them in some water to let them survive." He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, so you're the flower expert now?" You asked.

"We're digressing here... Tell me what he said to you when he gave you the flowers." He said.

"I already told you. He wanted to 'cheer me up' and give me energy so he got me sunflowers. And he thought sugary sweets would also do the trick so he got me donuts, which were rather tasty, by the way. I'll be curious to try more flavours from the shop." You shrugged and took the tray of fish to start slicing.

"And what did you reply to that?"

"I said thanks and split the donuts with him. You know I don't eat sugary things much... What else was there for me to say or respond to him?" You questioned.

"Well, I guess it's the first time he's seen you in your... grumpy tantrum mode..." Seonghwa sighed.

"I wasn't grumpy and/or throwing a tantrum." You frowned.

"Sweetheart, there was a literal dark cloud floating above your head." Seonghwa chuckled. You glared at him with a small pout before focusing back on slicing the fish pieces.

"Okay but that's all? You didn't say anything else?" Seonghwa went back to the topic.

"Oh. I... patted him on the head..." You said, remembering your actions. Seonghwa's eyes widened before he burst out laughing at your words. You sent him a flat look for laughing at you. You ignored him and put the fish slices on plates.

"HE'S NOT A LITERAL DOG, (Y/N)!" He exclaimed amidst his laughter. You felt your cheeks heat up at his words.

"I know! I didn't mean to, I don't know what came over me so I just reached out to pat his head. It's not my fault he caught me as I was snoozing." You muttered.

"Still... You must have surprised him." He laughed, wiping a tear that had formed in the corner of his eye.

"Now that you're done laughing at me. Here." You handed Seonghwa a fork with gritted teeth. You both dug into the fish, quietly tasting and savouring each one for their different tastes.

"Oh, wow." You were amazed.

"The different dry brines bring out such different flavours." Seonghwa said as he chewed.

"Between the dry brines, the delicate seasoning of the kombu one fits steaming method while the heavier seasoning benefits from the pan sear." You noted.

"I think because the pan sear toasts the herb flavour on there like how we usually toast our herbs to bring out the aromatic oils. So after searing this piece, you taste a lot more rosemary, thyme and paprika." Seonghwa theorised. You nodded your head, writing all this down in your iPad journal.

"It takes on more flavour with the dry brines. But the texture is softer with the wet brine." Seonghwa took another piece.

"I think the dry brine has been able to remove more moisture so it's firmer in texture. If serving on it's own, I would like the dry brine. In stews or curries, wet brine for sure." You concluded.

"Should we do something with monkfish for tomorrow's dinner service then?" He suggested.

"Lotte à l'Armoricaine (French tomato based stew cooked with white wine and monkfish)?" You looked through your recipe archives.

"Good idea. Since it is served with rice. I think customers will like that." Seonghwa nodded, moving to start on the dishes. You took a piece of paper to write this down.

"The supplier said he has some nice pears so shall we make baesuk for dessert (Korean poached pears)?"

"Yeah. What will you poach them in?" He asked.

"If we go Korean inspired, I think a light honey, ginger poaching liquid. Maybe add some pink peppercorns instead of black peppercorns for a more berry-like flavour. We can accompany it with yuja sherbet and candied ginger." You said.

"That sounds good."

"I think we should do burgers tomorrow. Cheese stuffed burgers with bacon on top and caramelised onions. Koreans love burgers and fries." Seonghwa laughed.

"That doesn't sound too bad though. But I'd hate to be the one stuck on deep fryer duty." You cringed.

"We should do at least one savoury dish that has Korean flavours." Seonghwa reminded.

"Hmm... Scallop, kombu angel hair with perilla oil? It's light on the taste buds." You scrunched your nose, trying to come up with a dish and flavour profile.

"That'll work. I was thinking for appetisers, we can do mussammari (Julienned vegetables wrapped in a thin slice of pickled radish) with a gochujang sauce." He finished the dishes and sat with you.

"I like that. We can grill pork collar with salsa verde. And beef carpaccio with brine tomatoes and shredded shiso leaf." You turned to him. Seonghwa thought about the flavour profiles and nodded while you wrote it down. If Wooyoung and Jongho wanted to add other dishes, they were free to. Any of them could.

You put the paper aside, leaning back against Seonghwa's shoulder. Tomorrow's morning bake items had already been decided so you didn't need to brainstorm on what to bake.

"Tired?" Seonghwa asked.

"Not physically. But my brain is, I think it's fried." You sighed, closing your eyes.

"You don't need to tire yourself out so much. Don't think and overthink too much. It'll only lead to faster burnout." He said as his hands massaged your achy ones.

"I know..." You said.

"Hwa?" You called out. He hummed in reply.

"You don't have to always take care of me and watch out for me, okay? You have to make sure that you take care of yourself too." You told him.

"I know." He replied, reply identical to yours. He knew you always felt guilty that he was constantly taking care of you, especially because you're known to not take care of yourself. But Seonghwa didn't see it as an obligation to care for you, he just wants to.

"Don't feel guilty or bad. You take care of me too, (y/n). We take care of each other, it's what we do and what we have been doing since we've met." He said.

"But you take care of me so much more."

"It doesn't matter who does more, you shouldn't worry about that. We're best friends. No one is measuring." Seonghwa chided.

"I just don't want to hold you back from anything. Like you said, we're best friends. And I would want you to venture out and do what you want to do, what's best for you." You sighed.

"What I want to do is be here with you. My best is being by your side. You're not holding me back." He comforted.

"Sure? Promise me that if I am, you tell me." You looked up at him.

"I'm sure. And as silly as that is, fine, I promise." He said. You held up your pinky and he chuckled but laced pinkies with you, stamping it to seal the deal.

"Tch, we've been glued together for so many years and you're still worried about all this. I already told you the day that we met that you're not getting rid of me so easily. That's why we never had any other friends growing up, except each other." Seonghwa playfully scolded you, flicking you on the forehead.

"Oww!" You held the place his flicked. Seonghwa clicked his tongue, knowing you were exaggerating. He didn't even hit you with so much force. He would never actually hurt you.

"So technically, you admit you're the reason I was a loner growing up?" You raised your eyebrows in accusation.

"You weren't a loner. You were with me and that's more than enough." He scoffed.

"That's true. You always made sure I wasn't left alone, Hwa." You giggled. You couldn't really remember a time where you and Seonghwa were apart.

Sure, you weren't spending every waking minute together but you've both never really let the other person feel lonely.

"Alright, it's time for an afternoon nap." You stood up, stretching your arms over your head.

"Shall I order Vietnamese food for dinner? I know you've been craving it." Seonghwa said. You were not shocked at this point that Seonghwa remembered something that you casually said in passing. You nodded your head excitedly.

"Yes. I would like bun bo hue (spicy beef noodle soup), pork tau hu ky (fried beancurd skin rolls with pork filling) and lemongrass pork please." You ordered.

"Okay." Seonghwa took it down.

"What are you having?" You asked as you laid down in bed, getting under the covers. Seonghwa took the spot beside you.

"My usual, bun rieu cua (tomato, crab and pork noodle soup). And some other sides to add on." He said, scrolling on the menu. You hummed, snuggling into your pillow.

Seonghwa has a large appetite so you could usually order a variety of food and he'll help you with finishing them.

"Go to sleep." Seonghwa put his phone down, turning to you. You hummed again, already starting to drift off. Seonghwa was always encouraging you to sleep more since you've had insomnia for as long as you can remember. It could build up and lead to you sleeping for a few days. Hence, you being sleep deprived the other day.

"Hwa, it doesn't mean anything, right?" You asked, half asleep.

"What?" He was confused by your question and what you were referring to all of a sudden.

"The flowers... He's just nice, right? I shouldn't be mulling over it or thinking that it means anything more." You clarified. Seonghwa was quiet for a while.

"If he meant something else, I'm sure he would have said it. Yunho wouldn't do one thing and mean another." He said.

"You sure?"

"We've known the guy for a like two weeks, (y/n). There's nothing really to be sure about when we barely know him. I'm just stating based off intuition and observation so far." He chuckled.

Yunho smiled stiffly as he sat at the table with his parents and younger brother at their family favourite steakhouse. He wasn't listening to their conversation at all, only plastering a smile but his mind was elsewhere.

"Hyung, what's up with you? Your head is in the clouds." Yunho's younger brother, Gunho, teased. Yunho sighed, his head wasn't in the clouds, just focused on something else.

Or rather, someone else.

"Is it work, Yunho? Something with the restaurant?" His mother asked. Yunho shook his head.

"No. It's nothing, don't worry about it. Sorry for not paying attention." He bowed his head, cutting into his steak and taking a bite.

"Which reminds me, we should pop by for dinner one of these days. You know, to support hyung." Gunho suggested to the two. It was true, Yunho's family had not visited since the opening.

"That's a good idea. But we don't want to pressure you, Yunho. We'll go when you're ready." His father smiled.

"Thanks, appa. I'm confident in my team. So please, when you're all available." Yunho smiled. His father was a lawyer and his mother was an accountant. Yunho knew that they were always trying to make up for the fact that they were never around while the two were growing up. But Yunho never really blamed them.

Them being busy also meant that Yunho was able to form such a deep and rich bond with his grandmother. And that was something Yunho would never, ever regret.

"That is exciting, I can't wait to see how things are." Mrs Jeong said with a big grin.

"As long as you're not helping out in the kitchen, hyung." Gunho snorted, making Yunho glare at his younger brother.

"I'm a lot better now. I'm slowly learning small things to help out in the kitchen. My head chef is always ready to teach me." Yunho rolled his eyes.

"Oh, tell us about him." Mr Jeong said in interest.

"Her, actually. She's an amazing chef, the whole team is. They work well together and you can tell when you watch them. It is almost like watching an orchestra play." Yunho explained.

"They must have been working together for a long while then." Mrs Jeong said.

"Yeah, they've known each other for a long time to know each other's likes, dislikes, work habits, skills, everything. I think you will be just as impressed by them as I was when you come to the restaurant." Yunho smiled proudly.

"That's good, Yunho. I'm glad you found a team that can work well not only amongst themselves but with you and your friends too. Good job." Mr Jeong commended.

"Thanks, appa. I couldn't have done it without my friends as well, especially Mingi." Yunho chuckled.

"Ah, you and Mingi hyung are inseparable as always." Gunho said.

"We just went to his mother's restaurant the other day to eat and see how she is doing. She sounded so happy that her son is working in the food industry too." Mrs Jeong giggled.

Of course with Mingi and Yunho being best friends since middle school, their parents were also close friends.

"San's father was proposing a fishing trip for all the fathers soon." Mr Jeong laughed.

"The mothers should take a trip too while the fathers go fishing. You all deserve it." Yunho said, glad that his parents were friends with his friends' parents. Mrs Jeong smiled softly, her son was always so caring and considerate of others. Mr Jeong nodded in agreement, raising his glass to clink it against Yunho's.

"But Yunho, I take it the restaurant has been well?"

"Yes. Business has been going well and we've been receiving lots of compliments and good reviews despite being so new. I pray it'll only go up from here." Yunho said.

"We know you can do it. If you ever need any help, you know you can always ask us." Mr Jeong said.

"I know, I am very grateful for that. But I hope to not rely on both of you, I want to be independent in this." Yunho spoke firmly.

"You're right, that's a good thing to want." Mrs Jeong reached over to pat the back of Yunho's hand. Yunho nodded his head with a hum, holding his mother's hand.

"However, you should make sure to have some time for yourself. Find a girlfriend." Mrs Jeong added.

"O-Omma!" Yunho stuttered nervously.

"Aren't you just gonna marry Mingi hyung?" Gunho laughed. Yunho kicked Gunho under the table, too flustered to respond back to the teasing. Yunho's mother was always invested in Yunho's love life, encouraging him to 'venture out' and find a partner.

"Dear, he's too busy running the restaurant. He doesn't have time to find a partner now." Mr Jeong said, taking a bite of his food. Yunho agreed with his father.

"Plus, I'm not in a rush to find a girlfriend, omma..." Yunho muttered.

"I can only dream, can't I? Both you and Gunho don't have girlfriends, I want a daughter to pamper and do girl things with."

"What sort of girl things?" Yunho asked.

"Oh, you know. We can go shopping, do mani pedis together, go get our hair done, all that stuff you can do with a daughter. You boys never want to do anything with me." Mrs Jeong scoffed.

"Omma, sounds like you have your own motive in wanting us to get a girlfriend." Gunho pointed out.

"Of course I want you both to be happy too! Who knows, maybe Yunho can settle down and start a family." She said.

"Alright, I think we're thinking a little far here, omma. Who knows if I'm going to settle down with the next person I date? But anyway, I'm currently focused on getting the restaurant up and running before looking for a partner." Yunho spoke. Honestly, he hadn't thought about settling down or starting a family.

"Like I said, I can only dream." Mrs Jeong sighed dispairingly.

"Look, omma, when the time comes and I meet the right person, then I'll start thinking about all that." Yunho said, trying to somewhat appease his mother.

"Sorry to say hyung, but you can be a little... how do you say? Oblivious when it comes to girls." Gunho snickered.

"What do you mean? I'm not oblivious." Yunho said.

"When a girl tries to flirt with you, you always think it's just her being a nice person in general. Meaning, you don't flirt back or reject her. You're too impartial to everyone you meet." Gunho explained.

"It's good to be impartial. And being nice isn't a bad thing, Gunho ah." Yunho crossed his arms.

"But you never know, someone might misunderstand your kindness as something else. Let's hope your future girlfriend doesn't get jealous."

Series masterlist

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undobutton · 7 months

Text

warnings: swearing. barely proofread. spelling mistakes.

genre: fluff? head-canon

characters: Hobie Brown my beloved

synopsis: Hobie can cook!! it's not debatable!!

a/n: finally i talk about hobie my dearest. I've been waiting for so long to begin rambling about him expect more alongside the reveal of my oc! who is not a spider-varient but rather, hobies "friend" named Bunny. anyways enjoy!

Hobie can cook. He cooks very well!

the thing is he knows like four recipes and over time he's developed them into his own creations.

so when you come over, lead by your nose and hug him from behind, looking at the... stuff he's making and ask "what's all this, Bee?"

he shrugs, "fish 'nd chips. Maybe."

now, your eyebrow is sky high but you trust Hobie so after a while when you finally sit down to eat and you try the 'fish 'nd chips'... its so fuckin good

like your new favorite food. Like Hobie should open a restaurant-

after a while you bring him recipes to try and you both bounce off each other, eating as you go and singing along to the music playing. it's lovely! till you realize that the two of you can't possibly eat all the stuff you made. so ofc yall go out and share the food with any and everyone. bringing it to shelters and to any homeless people you see.

soon enough the two of you have a "perhaps cookbook" where theres a mix of handwritten recipes, it's more of the essence of the recipe than anything

"add some salt or paprika. if you want"

"maybe some butter now"

"what if we added sugar?"

"bake it for half an hour.. or longer if you want to fuckin burn it"

that last one was after hobie convinced you to take a nap while the 'most likely mac 'n cheese' was in the oven. the house nearly burned down.

overall, HOBIE CAN COOK AND HE COOKS WELL. i will climb up this hill and stay here till i get cold and go home.

#hobie brown #hobie brown fluff #hobie x reader #hobie x you #atsv hobie #hobie x y/n #hobie brown x reader #spiderpunk x reader #spider punk x reader #spider punk #atsv x reader #miles x reader #miles morales #miles morales x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader

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thevampirelevi · 5 months

Text

Stuffed Like A Turkey | NSFW

cw: eddie x fem!reader, holiday fluff, drug use, smut, p in v, creampies, 18+ only! MDNI

The Munsons are invited over to your house for Thanksgiving dinner, so you really show out and slave the whole day away cooking the meal to perfection. To show his thanks, Eddie rewards you with a cream pie.

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You grab a dish towel and wipe flour from your hands, the sound of the phone ringing interrupting you as you ask your best friend Parker to take your place and finish making the biscuits.

"Hello?"

"Y/N," you can practically hear the man's smile through the phone, "Hey, um, it's me Eddie. Just wondering what time you want me and the old man to come over?"

You look back at the kitchen to approximate an estimate time. You're about to say an hour from now when the sight of Parker struggling to pry dough from the rolling pin makes you guess again. Better make that two hours.

"How about five thirty?" you answer finally.

"Sounds like a plan," Eddie says. "D'you need me to bring anything?"

"No," you respond, before an idea pops into your head. "Well, actually. Do you have any magic mushrooms?"

The sound of Eddie's laugh fills your ears from the other end. "I'll see what I can do for you, sweetheart. See ya soon."

"Bye Eds," you hang the phone up, sighing as you turn around and come to Parker's rescue just as she's about to put the unrecognizable mounds of dough into the oven.

She looks up at you, embarrassed, "Maybe I should just stick to bringing the cranberry sauce next year."

You take the tray from her, laughing as you set it on the counter to fix. "What the hell happened?"

She shrugs, "I warned you I wouldn't be much help."

You flour your hands once more, chuckling as you salvage what you can and shape the deformed biscuits back into dinner rolls. "Well I just got off the phone with Eddie, I told him to come a little later but I figure everyone else'll probably come at the same time. Think you can handle getting the door for them?"

Parker nods affirmatively, chestnut curls following the movement. "That I can do!"

After you put the biscuits into the oven, basting the turkey while you're there, you get started on the mac-n-cheese. Parker's in charge of shredding the cheddar while you begin a roux, mixing a concoction of eggs, flour, paprika, garlic salt, and onion powder. When that's done, you breeze through making greenbean casserole and mashed potatoes, Parker proving herself to be helpful after all (as long as the tasks are simple enough, like peeling the potatoes and boiling water.) Just as you're finishing the stuffing and buttering the biscuits, the doorbell rings.

Bruce Kyle is the first to arrive. A friend of Parkers is a friend of yours, though lately it's become clear that the two are not just friends.

"Hello party people," greets the tall Poindexter. "I bring you candied yams. And rum."

You and Parker cheer in response, Parker helping him inside and pouring herself a glass as she snacks on olives and cheese. You wiggle your eyebrows at her when Bruce isn't looking.

The next to arrive are actual guests of your own, the newlyweds Harrie and Minnie. When you open the door, you're surprised to learn that Minnie will be eating for two tonight.

"When did this happen?!" you exclaim, hugging her as Harrie and Bruce introduce themselves to one another.

"I'm thirteen weeks today!" she beams.

Everyone is taking their coats off as you guide Minnie to the bathroom, heart full from the news. You'd known her long before Harrie, going way back to Hawkins Middle School. Harrie was her high school sweetheart, the two finally tying the knot last year.

Finally, Harrie is carving the turkey while Bruce and Parker set the table. You're making trips to carefully carry everything to the dining room, now on the pumpkin pie made by Minnie. The doorbell rings, and your heart flutters as there's only one household missing.

"Hi Wayne," you smile as you swing the door open. With him is a mousy brunette with wrinkles around her hazel eyes. This must be the date he told you about when you'd first invited him and his nephew over for the holidays.

"Nice to see you Y/N," he starts. "This is Carlie."

"Nice to meet you," she greets, smiling. You step aside to let them both inside, now able to see Eddie further back at his van parked across the street. The butterflies return.

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At first, you'd been very nervous since you first woke up this morning. This being your first time ever hosting Thanksgiving at your place, you worried about how everyone would like what you cooked and even moreso how everyone would get along. The theme this year was 'found family.'

But your doubts proved themselves to be baseless, everyone easing into the ebb and flow of conversation as soon as everyone was seated comfortably. You'd also been on your fifth compliment of the night, promising Eddie as many leftovers as he could carry.

Eventually, your party was reduced to 'Friendsgiving,' Wayne having to be back at the plant tomorrow and taking his date home with him. You nudge Eddie under the table, motioning for him to follow you outside.

"Did you bring it?" you whisper, as if anyone would hear you from outside over the sound of the game on the television.

Eddie grins, dimples making their timely appearance, holding up a baggie he'd hid in the pocket of his leather jacket. "Just what the doctor ordered."

You both take seats on the stoop mere inches away from one another, Eddie producing a joint from the sandwich bag and a zippo from his pocket. He flicks the lighter open, holding the J to the flame.

"Couldn't get my guy to bring me shrooms at last minute," he mumbles as he holds the joint with his teeth. "But I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Even better," you smile, taking the blunt as he passes it to you, blowing smoke from between his plush lips.

The two of you spend enough time away to start raising concern. You sigh out a puff of reefer, standing up as Eddie ashes the J out on the bottom of his boot.

Everyone, apart from Parker, are all too polite and too engrossed in the plates in front of them to be the first to make a comment about your absence. As soon as best friend's eyes are on you, you know what's coming.

"So," she starts, smirking. You're rolling your eyes already as you and Eddie both sit back down at the table. "Where did y'all go?"

"Just a little smoke break," you assure her.

"Without me?" she pouts.

"Don't you worry," you grin, "I've got goodie bags for everyone - except Minnie, sorry."

Minnie fakes hurt, but everyone else is hooting.

"Courtesy of yours truly," Eddie adds. Everyone thanks him while you pass around dessert, munchies now taking over.

Eddie's hand is on your knee and you can see him watching you from the corner of your eye as you squirt whipped cream onto your slice off pie.

"Don't get too full, sweetheart," he whispers in your ear, voice husky. "I've got more for you later."

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Guests don't start to leave until around ten, too wrapped up in catching up with (or meeting) one another to notice the passing time. But Eddie sure noticed.

"Call me when you get home safe," you tell Parker inside of a hug. Bruce tangles his arm with hers, helping the woman down the stairs after too much to drink. You laugh, "Take care of her."

Bruce gives you a thumbs up, "Thanks for having us," and the two are off.

You close the door with a sigh, full of food but your social battery empty as you start to feel tired from all of the cooking, all of the interaction, and from the weed.

"Hope you're not too tired," Eddie's hand is in yours, pulling you towards your bedroom. Tingles radiate through out your body, still buzzed and still excited after all of Eddie's teasing through out the entire night; his hand under the table trailing up your thigh, the naughty words he'd whisper in your ear, his eyes undressing you.

Your creative mind, enhanced by your high, wasn't helping either. It was hard to keep your hands off him and remain proper in front of your guests when all you could think about was his hands gripping your waist, fist squeezing your throat, fingers pumping in and out of you while you couldn't peel your eyes away from his rings, Eddie flashing his hands as he'd tell a story.

"Go easy on me," you plead, limbs still heavy, knowing already that it's fruitless when Eddie's eyes darken down at you.

"No dice, sweetheart," he mumbles, trailing wet kisses from your ear down to your chest as he exposes more of it, nipping at the crook of your neck and your collarbone. "You've kept me waiting all night..."

"But, I cooked for you," you pout, sighing as he leaves a new hickey on your neck.

He stops, thinking for a moment. "Fine, I guess you have earned yourself a reward."

The next thing you know, he's pushing you down onto the bed, your hair fanning over the pillows as he bunches up the hem of your dress. You lift your hips to help him as he pulls down your panties along with your tights, you give his belt loop a tug.

"Uh uh," he tsks. "Not yet."

The whine you let out is interrupted by a moan as his fingertips graze over your clit. He licks his lips, tracing a circle as he watches your reaction. He's going painfully slow, dragging out every minuscule movement of his finger making you ache more and more in the process.

"Eddie," you breathe exasperatingly. "Please."

He smiles, that being the magic word apparently as it's all it takes for him to push his now wet finger inside of you, hissing at your warmth. He curls his finger, slowly pulling it out and earning another whine from you. Remembering his promise of a reward, he adds another finger just as he pushes back in, curling again. He's tickling that spot now, making you squirm. Your hands trail his body before finding the spot growing in his pants, palming it. When his lips attack your neck once more, it sends heat directly from the spot where he sucks on your carotid straight down to your core, making your eyes flutter closed.

"Open up wider for me," he mumbles. You do as told, wanting more of him but only opening yourself up to be teased even more. He's practically edging you as he plays with you, refusing to touch you anywhere else except to give you a lovebite. You're on fire where his hands are, but feel cold and lonely everywhere else - this keeps you in the middle, never quite teetering over the edge yet.

But then suddenly he's moving faster, lowering himself to attach his lips to your pussy. You gasp, instinctively closing your legs at the sudden stimulation. Eddie sucks on your clit, groaning as he harshly opens you back up, one hand pinning your thigh to the bed and the other spreading your wetness.

"That's it, princess."

You can't help but to cum, both at his words and the way he's practically making out with your pussy. He doesn't stop, tongue flicking your clit as he overstimulates you.

"Eddie please," you moan, fingers tangled in his hair. For a brief moment, you open your eyes to see him staring up at you in a devilish manner. He releases his grip on your thigh, easing the strain, ghosting his free hand up your body under your dress - the movement gathering the fabric further up and revealing your breasts. His rings graze over your nipples. He's still eating you out, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers work faster than the first time, forcing your second release as you arch your back.

Finally he finishes, lips leaving your clit with a pop. Pulling off his shirt to wipe off his mouth, you let your hands touch his v-line. Your head's still cloudy as you do away with the rest of your clothes, feeling way too hot and just needing there to be nothing separating your bodies. You saunter over to the edge of the bed, biting your lip as you undo his belt. He breathes deeply, caressing your hair. You waste no time undressing him, his dick smacking his stomach when you finally free it.

You can see that he's rock hard, veins bulging from his shaft and his tip swollen with a bead of precum. It throbs as you wrap your hand around it, laughing at the hiss that escapes his swollen lips - glossy from your climax.

He cups your jaw, gently moving your gaze up to meet his. His hips push forward and you don't hesitate to open your mouth for him, blinking up at him through your lashes. Cottonmouth makes it harder for you to breathe than you normally would, but when he juts his hips too suddenly at the sensation of your tongue swirling his tip and hits the back of your throat, saliva starts to pool in your mouth. You pull off of him slowly, teasing him slightly, coming up for air with a string of spit connecting you to his dick.

"You okay baby?" he checks in, caressing your cheek. You nod, not giving him a moment to adjust before you're swallowing him whole, eyes watering. "Oh my god-"

Eddie's biting back his moans as you gag on his dick, head bobbing. You can tell he's close, only punishing hisself when he was teasing you earlier. Just as his hips begin to stutter, you stop again. You glare at him as you kiss the head of his cock, tracing circles with your tongue, enacting your revenge.

He throws his head back, hair falling from his shoulders. "Y/N, baby."

But before you know it, he's the one stopping you, pinning you back onto the bed by your wrists. He laughs darkly before he kisses you, tongue swiping your lip and tip lined up at your entrance. He holds himself up with one hand and uses the other to move his dick up and down, rubbing your pussy. You gasp, giving him entrance into your mouth as he pushes both his dick and his tongue into you simultaneously.

You take every inch of him, practically pulling him in. You moan into eachother's mouths as he finds a rhythm.

You break away from the kiss, moaning when he grinds into your sweet spot, "Oh Eddie,"

"Right there?" he hums into your neck, sending chills down your spine. "Fuck baby-"

You're wrapping your legs around him, thrusting up into him, both still so close but wanting to make it last forever.

Your everpresent high still having the effects of an aphrodisiac of sorts, you feel the horniest you've ever been in your life - especially when Eddie's eyes meet yours, deep and glinting. Both way you're biting your lip and the way you're looking at him do something wicked to Eddie, giving him butterflies as he gets closer and closer.

"Nut in me," you beg, not an ounce of inhibition left as you become desperate to fall over the edge. "Please Eddie, I need you so bad,"

Eddie whimpers in response, head falling down into the crook of your neck as he bites you, fucking you harder and harder.

All that can be heard is the bed creaking, threatening to break as Eddie pounds into you, and the moans you can no longer bite back as Eddie whimpers into your neck. You tighten around him, squeezing like a vice, making his hips snap into yours - you practically scream as he bites down on your clavicle.

You can feel him release inside of you, his load hot and plentiful. He's still grinding down into you, riding out both of your highs. "Fuckkkk..."

You're still cumming, throbbing while stretched around him. He kisses you sweetly, shushing you and mumbling sweet nothings. Finally he pulls out of you, both of you whimpering as his cum spills out of you and onto the sheets.

Eddie trails his fingertips against your entrance in a daze, tasting the both of you as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

"Compliments to the chef," he laughs, collapsing next to you, out of breath.

You tangle your sticky limbs together, your head on his chest as it rises and falls, cuddling as your eyelids begin to droop.

Suddenly you can't help from saying, "Thanks for giving me your banana cream pie."

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an: this was my first time writing smut (for eddie) ever, i hope u liked it! obviously i'm loving the idea of smoking with eddie a lot rn, as you can tell by this and the latest chapter of adventureland lol

-levi

#stranger things eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #smut #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader smut #fluff #eddie munson fluff

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penny-anna · 3 months

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I don't think I can call this one lazy cookery but here's what we got tonight

Pancettas. I got a double pack a while ago so I've been using it up!

I put this chicken in a lemon juice marinade earlier in the evening (its just olive oil + lemon + thyme + some seasoning)

Skin side down here we go

Ok all done onto what is (tbph) the main event

Generous spoonful of butter

2 cloves of garlic + paprika. There's a lot going on in this pan!!

1 person worth of rice!!

Veggie stock + some more thyme + a little spoonful of Dijon mustard. ngl I'm hungry n pumped to eat this rice

Ok!! This is getting covered w foil and going in the oven about 30 minutes

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xythlia · 5 months

Note

can we have the stew recipe pls I've been saving all the ones you share because they're really good!

yea!

ur ingredients: 1 1/2 pounds of stew meat (look for the cubed beef in most butcher sections), 10 cups broth (I use water mixed with better than bouillon for five cups then the other five it's straight beef broth), 2 diced white onions, 2 tablespoons butter, 1 teaspoon caraway seed, msg in place of salt to taste, 4 cloves of garlic, 2 tablespoons hot paprika, 2 tablespoons sweet paprika, 1 ripe tomato peeled and cubed, a whole bag of carrots, 1 pound of potatoes

you wanna saute your onions in a stew pot on medium with your butter but don't brown them, just let them get glossy/transparent. next add ur beef to the onions and let them cook up for about 10 minutes, you just wanna brown the meat. while that's cooking mince your garlic good. after ten minutes add ur paprika & garlic & caraway seed then cook until the paprika is all incorporated then pour in the broth. DO NOT USE COLD LIQUID it'll shock the meat and make it tough n chewy.

cover that bitch for like three hours im not kidding. Let it simmer and check it like every half hour/hour. while that's going soak the tomato in boiling water for like 3 minutes then peel off the skin & chop it. peel & chop up the carrots and potatoes (potatoes get cubed). After the first hour of simmering add in the veggies and let it go for the other two hours.

tada you have beef stew I always eat it with nice crusty bread & red wine

#𓏲 ࣪₊ 💭 \ inbox #recipes #I'm happy u guys enjoy the ones i share!! :3

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cakeboxie · 29 days

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@avocado-writing’s tav + Charlie enjoying some birthday soup bc it’s their birthday today and mine is in 5 days so!! Soup!! (My actual birthday soup recipe is under the cut)

Birthday soup

Don’t forget to get silly w it. That’s like, required. It’s your BIRTHDAY (or someone else’s birthday) you deserve to get silly.

I stole this from my mom btw, also make sure you know the difference between a herb and a spice.

Oh yeah also it includes soup dumplings.

Kitchen items:

Big pot w a lid

Cutting board

Knife

Ingredients:

2 tbls Butter

1pkg Stew beef (or chicken hearts, that’s the original ingredient I just don’t like em)

2 medium onions, one diced, one quartered (keep separate)

1 whole head of garlic, minced (jarlic works very well here)

3 cups of stock (beef if you use beef, veggie if you use chicken, do not use chicken stock it fucks up the taste)

3 medium carrots, chopped

2 medium potatos, chopped

1 celery stick, chopped

1/4 head of cabbage, chopped (optional, I just like cabbage an unreasonable amount)

1 whole package of frozen spinach, defrosted (do this in a bowl this shit is WET also keep the water)

Can of green beans (you could probably use fresh, I don’t like fresh tho so, idk)

Can of diced tomatoes

Rosemary

Thyme

Fennel

Mustard seed

Celery seed

Sprinkle of Cloves (ground)

Sprinkle of Nutmeg

5% Vinegar or lemon juice (or your favourite other edible acid, tomato juice would in theory work, lime juice is mid.)

Salt + pepper

1 tbls Paprika

Steps:

Butter in that pot, medium

Spices, add em, leave ‘em until they smell good, it won’t be long.

Beef and a splash of your acid in that pot, cook until 1/4 done

Carrot and celery in that pot, get em hot but don’t cook em too long.

Diced onion, spinach, and paprika + salt n pepper to taste in that pot, med-low

Stir, cover, leave it alone for 5ish minutes

Uncover, add garlic to that pot, cook until it smells like garlic

Stock + the canned bean and frozen spinach water, add it.

Canned tomato, add it.

Potato, add it.

Cabbage, add it.

All them herbs, add em to taste (I use roughly a tablespoon each of em dried, but I like my shit strong.)

Bring it to boil on high

Let that bitch simmer, you may need to periodically add water if he’s goin too hard. (START MAKING THOSE SOUP DUMPLINGS RN IF YOURE DOING THAT)

When the potato is 1/2 done that quartered onion (and the dumplings)

Finish the potato.

Bam. Soup. I like it more cold, but it is intended to be eaten hot.

Soup dumplings

I stole this from my roommate and add em to most soups tbh

Kitchen items:

Bowl,

Wood spoon,

Your Hands,

You could probably do this in a stand mixer but I don’t have one of those so, you’re on your own man.

Ingredients:

2 cups Flour

Water, hot as you can handle touching, volume required varies,

Salt

Pepper

Onion powder

Garlic powder

Whatever fresh herbs you like (dried don’t work here unless they’re ground absolutely tiny)

1 tbls of your favourite liquid fat (I use olive oil, canola and sunflower also work for sure)

Steps:

Flour, into the bowl

Seasonings, into the bowl

Mix well.

Add the fat

Slowly add water, mixing often until you get a slightly sticky ball.

Knead for a bit, I don’t really know how to describe the texture bc I’ve been making bread since I was a kid (and this is just a yeastless bread dough) but its finished when it stops really sticking to your hands (it’ll be tacky, not sticky)

Divide into 1 inch balls

Drop into the soup roughly 30 minutes before it’s finished.

Serve in the soup

Congrats, soup balls.

#cakedraws #charlie [tav]#bg3 tav

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liz-allyn · 2 years

Text

heat of the moment, pt 4 - it's a wonderful (horrible) life [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]

summary: the five stages of grief, times infinity. angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - "mystery spot"

words: 7.6k

warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly. in this chapter: tw gore, blood, burns, smut (but not really graphic), references to drug and alcohol abuse, references to sex, body horror, s*lf h*rm, su*c*de

a/n - I know I promised this would be done in 4 parts, but once I hit this word count I decided that we needed a break. whooops sorry.

STRONG CONTENT WARNING: SELF H*RM - SEE END OF CHAPTER FOR DETAILS.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

“You’re in what now?”

“A time loop.”

Peter sat slack-jawed across from you at a diner booth. The restaurant was humming with the hustle and bustle of the breakfast crowd, filled with chatter from diner patrons and the smell of freshly roasted coffee. You pitched your fork into a short stack of peanut butter and chocolate chip banana pancakes, topped with whipped cream. And birthday sprinkles, because why not.

Scooping the sugary chunk into your mouth (which really resembled a cake at this point), you moaned a noise that would’ve normally gone to a primal part of Peter’s brain. Instead, he was distracted by the side dishes of strawberry and mascarpone French toast, a “breakfast burger” featuring Portuguese linguisa sausage and muenster cheese, and a “Tuesday special” skillet of bacon mac and cheese featuring two over-easy eggs and thick-cut pork belly slices marinated with paprika and brown sugar.

You reached over to take a sip of your caramel-drizzled, iced coconut latte, then waived your fork to signal your waitress. The plump, red-haired woman wearing a traditional diner dress and apron approached your table with a cheery smile.

“How’s everything, darlin’?” she grinned warmly. She had a “friendly aunt'' vibe about her that you adored. At least that’s what you told Peter when you insisted on coming here for breakfast. Or whatever this “feast” was called.

“Oh, it’s sublime, Doris,” you gushed with a charming flutter of your lashes.

Peter considered for a moment that he hadn’t heard the waitress mention her name before.

You add with a singsong voice, “But I think my boyfriend and I would like to try something refreshing. Something fizzy...” You pick up the menu and scan over it quickly, although you already knew it by heart. “How ‘bout a beer?” You glanced at Peter. “I could go for a beer, how about you? With orange juice, maybe? A beer-mosa?”

He lifted his brows in surprise, stumbling over his response. “Uh... it’s... like... nine in the morning?”

“Ah, of course,” you respond sheepishly, then flick your eyes back to Doris. “I’ll take a Bloody Mary, then.”

The waitress nodded, somewhat impressed with your bold, Tuesday morning audacity, but said nothing as she turned to leave.

“Wait!” you called after her. “Actually, make that a Bloody Maria. Jalapeño-infused tequila. Top shelf. Please.” You punctuated your sentence with an endearing wink, and Doris might’ve respected you even more as she headed for the bar.

Now left alone, Peter surveyed the table incredulously, masking his concern. He glanced down at his plate, thinking he was overindulging himself by ordering the $21 avocado toast. As if you could read his mind, you pushed the plate of pancakes towards him.

“Have a bite of this,” you insisted, before slamming back the iced latte and emptying the glass. “I’ve got another short stack of pineapple upside-down pancakes coming.”

He quirked an eyebrow at you. “I thought you were allergic to pineapple?”

You shrugged nonchalantly, licking whipped creme off your fingers. “Not the worst way to go.”

“Wait a sec. Can we just— rewind it back... to the—”

“Time loop,” you supplied. You scooped a bite of the cheesy macaroni onto your fork and leaned across the table, directing the fork towards his mouth. “Open,” you said— an endearing order.

With a blush, Peter opened his mouth as you fed him the bite. “Soi’m jus’ confoosed...” he mumbled through the gooey food, “s’you’re sayn moo’ve w’ived ‘dis day mef’fore?”

“Yes, we’ve had this conversation before. Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you gently admonished. “It’s a dumb way to die.” You reached over and took a massive bite of your burger, chewing thoroughly.

“A time loop,” Peter repeated, thoughtfully. You could hear the sound of his signature skeptical smirk, usually right before he makes a reference to...

“Like in—?”

“Groundhog Day,” you finished. You then added, pointedly, “Which—frustratingly, doesn’t even bother to explain why Bill Murray’s in a time loop in the first place! I mean, how stupid! How can you just not have an explanation like that? Is it a gypsy curse? Is it aliens? Is it the goddamn groundhog? Who knows! Complete bullshit.”

He batted his head from side to side, considering your perspective. “Um, well, I mean... it’s... not a documentary?”

“Well, it did have some good pointers,” you replied, signaling to the buffet spread across the table. “Like—it doesn’t really matter what I eat,” you stated with a bit of pride. “I don’t need to exercise. Ever.” You picked up a slice of French toast and shoved it in your mouth, savoring the creamy mascarpone. “I don’t even need to brush my teeth. Or floss. It doesn’t matter how much sugar I eat. I’ll never get a cavity.” You took a strawberry in your fingers and sucked the delectable mascarpone from the fruit before popping it in your mouth. “I don’t even remember the last time I shaved.” You couldn’t help but sound giddy in your nonchalance. “The other day I even tattooed my face. It was awful. But then I woke up and it was like it never happened!”

“Wait, when?” Peter blinked at you, overwhelmed with confusion.

You rolled your eyes. He wasn’t getting it. He’s not getting it.

You turn to Doris as she brings a highball glass with a Tajin-seasoned rim, filled with red liquid and ice. “You’re an angel, Doris,” you fawned over the glass, raising it towards her in a toast. “We’re going to need some boxes. Like ten of them. Please?”

Doris nodded dutifully and was off again. You glanced at the tall glass, removing the straw (a choking hazard, at this point), and brought the rim to your lips, tilting your head back. Peter gawked as he watched you gulp down the tequila cocktail in mere seconds. You exhaled a spicy breath, your tongue burning, the acid surely searing the lining of your stomach. It would kill you, eventually. But not today. Probably.

“We gotta run,” you told Peter, who was still struggling.

“I agree,” he replied with a more serious tone. “I know I’m supposed to be paying attention right now, but honestly—”

You took your index finger, swiping it through the whipped cream on your plate, and dragged the digit through your lips. You locked your eyes on him, teasing him as he absorbed the lewd gesture with an open mouth.

“You’re realizing that watching me shove stuff in my mouth gets you hard?” The finger slips out of your mouth with a loud pop.

He blinked. His face turned pink. Brain shorts out. “Uh.. how did you—?”

“The same way I know that I can make you lose your mind beneath this table before she comes back with the boxes,” you wink at him fiendishly.

He blinked again. Several times.

“But not today,” you cheekily wink.

You moved briskly down the sidewalk as the sounds of the city rang out around you. Peter watched as he followed, hurriedly, with a stack of takeout boxes piled up to his chin. He noted that you were swift, but not rushed. You moved down the street like a dancer, every step choreographed. You seemed to know where you were going, although he didn’t have the slightest clue. When he asked, you’d only speak in riddles.

He noticed you slow down as you approached an alleyway, glancing the side of the buildings up and down. You carefully jump over a crack in the sidewalk, surveying the uneven surface, and avoid crossing beneath the ladder of a fire escape, before coming to a stop near a dumpster.

Peter spotted an elderly woman, hair in disarray, wearing a tattered, stained overcoat several sizes too big. Her once-pink fuzzy slippers were caked with months of mud. She held the lid of a garbage dumpster open, peering down at the options inside.

“Morning, Gina,” you greeted her pleasantly as if you’d known her for years. The woman was startled as she turned towards you. You took one of the styrofoam takeaway boxes off of Peter’s hands and offered it to her. “Here you go, still nice and warm. I asked them to put clean utensils inside, and one of those little hand sanitizer wipeys. Bon appetit!”

The woman took the box of hot food with a cautious expression but was quickly entranced by the delicious smell.

With a kind wave, you were off again. Perplexed, Peter glanced back and forth between you and the woman, leaving her with a kind smile and nod, then promptly returned to your side.

“Nice lady,” you remarked, continuing on your path down the sidewalk. Your eyes darted from corner to corner, thoroughly scanning the busy street. “You know she used to be a concert pianist?”

“Okay, slow down—you’re not giving me all the details here,” Peter anxiously pleaded, confused by your actions all morning. “Why does it seem like you know... everything?”

“I’ve been down this road before,” you sigh. “Figuratively and literally.”

Before Peter can respond, you place a protective hand on his shoulder, slowing him to a stop. Your eyes lifted towards the sky as you stopped near an active construction site. He glanced over at you, your eyes fixed warily on the scaffolding of the half-built tower. He heard you groan with frustration. In an instant, you took off in a different direction towards the front gate of the construction site. Peter followed you, watching carefully, as you march towards the foreman.

“Excuse me!” you harshly shouted as you approached. The foreman, who was in mid-phone conversation, glanced over at you, baffled and annoyed at your interruption. You reached up and took the phone right from his hand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you snapped, pulling his phone away. Eyes widening with alarm, Peter hurried towards your side immediately, placing himself between you and the foreman.

The foreman sized you up from head to toe indignantly. “What the hell—?”

“No phones on the lot when heavy machinery is in motion!” you admonished, pointing to the cherry picker parked nearby.

The foreman glanced over at the hydraulic crane and its operators, then sneered at you with a side-eye. He shifted on his feet, planting his hands on his hips, fixing you with a ‘now-look-here-little-lady’ look. He sighed deeply, “Ma’am—”

“Don’t ma’am me,” you sneered, putting a finger in his face. “My name is OSHA and I’m your worst fucking nightmare, ‘kay? And where’s your hard hat, asshole? What is this? Amateur hour?”

The man’s face began to flush, with either anger or embarrassment—Peter wasn’t sure.

You pointed up towards the scaffolding, continuing your rant. “You got one guy up there not wearing his harness the right way, not to mention the toolbox next to the leading edge! You need a tape measure or something? Three feet is three feet!”

The foreman took a step backwards, glancing around with embarrassment as your tirade drew snickers from his crew and curious eyes from pedestrians. Peter held his tongue uncomfortably as you shoved the phone into the foreman’s chest.

“Here’s your phone back,” you spat. “You might wanna call somebody in who knows how to run a goddamn construction site. Maybe Bob the Builder.” You took Peter by the elbow and marched away, leaving your stunned, thoroughly-eviscerated victim behind.

(You hadn’t an ounce of sympathy for him. You’d been eviscerated. Fuck his fragile masculinity.)

Peter followed your lead, letting himself be pulled by you. And for the first time in his life, perhaps—experienced what it felt like to feel dumb.

He stuttered incredulously, “What in the—?”

“Did you know a penny dropped from a high enough distance can lodge through your skull?”

“I... am... so confused right now.”

“It’s okay, it’s hard to understand, I know,” you explained. “You’ll get it.” Peter turned towards the bright yap of a corgi pulling on his leash towards you. “Don’t make eye contact,” you gravely warned.

“What?”

“Eyes on me,” you ordered, alarmed dread in your voice. “Don’t engage. Don’t make eye contact. Gouda can’t see you if you don’t move.”

With a quirked brow, Peter followed your instructions, despite how baffling they were. The both of you stood motionless, staring at each other, and avoiding looking at the dog as it dragged his owner down the street. Once it was safe—whatever that meant—you moved towards the sidewalk curb, pausing for a five second count, then proceeded to walk across the street.

“Bug, you’re really starting to freak me out,” he called after you, trailing behind you in more ways than one. “Now if what you’re saying was even possible, which it isn’t, because it would break every law and notion of what we perceive as physical time that’s ever been theorized—”

Your eyes narrowed on a tall, stone-chinned, moderately-handsome young man with gelled-over hairplugs, wearing an expensive camel wool coat over a finely-tailored suit. He marched forward in the opposite direction, as he approached you and Peter on the sidewalk.

“Uh huh....” you replied, only half-listening.

“I mean, science fiction aside, time loops don’t just happen, because that would suggest that time is a linear construct anyway, when it’s actually more of a fifth-dimensional, state of reality—”

Your wealthy target held the latest smartphone device outwards in his hand, while wearing a bluetooth earbud in his ear, while simultaneously shouting into the speakerphone for everyone to hear, “—swear to fuckin’ god, you can tell McKinsey to shove it up her cunt. Tell her I said that! Tell her she can shove the whole SEC up in her cunt and get fucked! She wants a hostile fuckin’ takeover, then we'll go to war—”

Idly, you sidestepped and slammed into his shoulder as he passed. Despite the bump and the overwhelming stench of cologne and sweat, you kept walking without making eye contact. From your periphery, you saw him spin on the heel of his leather soles and hiss in your direction. “Fuckin’ watch where you’re goin’, yeah?!” he bellowed, with an aggressive tone that was enough to make Peter puff up his chest.

You saw your boyfriend begin to engage and you calmly intervened. “Don’t bother,” you shrugged.

“Tough guy, eh?” Peter called after the man. “He’s a prick!” His voice echoed and was loud enough to be heard by the offender. It didn’t matter, as the stranger was already marching along to concern himself with more important things.

When Peter turned back to you, you were holding a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. Proudly, you pocketed the cash.

“Did you just steal that?” Peter exclaimed, scandalized.

“No...?” you replied, somewhat offended by the completely accurate description of events.

You thought he’d break his neck by how taken aback he was. “Really?”

“You gonna arrest me?” you snickered deviously. Peter stared at you, open mouthed. “Now’s your chance!” you added playfully.

He watched as you sprinted ahead of him, bounding towards two uniformed, New York City police officers strolling out of a bakery. Lost in their own world, in the middle of a lively conversation, they were on their way towards their parked police cruiser when you called out to them.

“Oh, my god, Officers! Officers!” you breathlessly wailed as you rushed towards them. The hairs on Peter’s neck stood up as he witnessed your dramatic performance. You looked flushed, with tears coming to your eyes, chest heaving and breathless. The two cops—the rookie Officer Cage and the more senior Officer Conner, stopped mid conversation as you approached them.

You threw yourself at Officer Cage, pressing your full chest into him and fluttering your lashes above your distressed eyes. The younger officer looked down at you, flustered, and shot a nervous glance towards his partner.

Peter stood back with a brow raised as Officer Cage attempted to keep his hands visible as you threw yourself at him. “Please, you’ve got to do something!” you declared, sounding like you were on the verge of hyperventilating. Cage began to sweat.

“Alright, just calm down, ma’am,” his more senior partner ordered. “What’s the matter?”

You gripped Cage by the collar, so distraught you struggled to stand upright. Anxiously, the rookie cop fought the urge to grab you by the hips to steady you.

Peter did not like it at all.

“You’ve got to do something!” you repeated, fanning your face with your fingers as tears threatened to break through. “There’s a-a man at the con-construction site back there!” Still holding Cage’s body towards yours, you turned and pointed down the street in the direction you and Peter had just come from. The officers followed the end of your finger, past a food delivery truck being unloaded into the bakery. They angled their heads around the truck to see your line of sight. “There's a worker who’s dangling from a rope! He’s going to fall!”

Cage and Conner glanced at each other with growing alarm, and they both took off down the street towards the site of the impending trouble. You watched them go with a self-satisfied smirk. It technically wasn’t a lie if it hadn’t happened yet.

Peter watched the officers rush off, then turned towards you with a mix of confusion and annoyance. His eyes grew three times bigger as he saw that you had Cage’s pistol in your hand.

You dutifully disabled the weapon like a seasoned pro—unloading the magazine, ejecting the first bullet from the chamber, and smashing the firing mechanism against the edge of a metal garbage can, before tossing the weapon down a storm drain. The bullets you took with you, pocketing them right next to the cash.

“Who the hell are you?” Peter exclaimed, barely able to speak coherently. “When did you get so terrifying? How did you learn how to use a gun?”

You responded with a careless shrug. “You should see the other way I unload it. It’s way more fun.”

Peter stood speechlessly as he looked down at you, with a disappointed tilt of his head that did the same.

“Hey, I’m not the bad guy,” you retorted, offended by his apparent judgment. “Trust me. That cop needs a few more hours of training time on the range— not to mention years of therapy— to address some deep-rooted childhood trauma.”

Peter looked back over his shoulder past the delivery truck, sizing up the retreating officer.

“And that Wall Street Douche?” you added. “The only reason he was carrying that cash for was to buy some cocaine party favors for a big ‘rager’ tonight. I mean, what better way to celebrate a successful insider trading payout, amirite?” You used haphazard air quotes to match your cruel tone. “Too bad he doesn’t know the coke’s laced with fentanyl. Guess you shouldn’t try to cheap out on your drug dealer.” Your boyfriend stared at you, his brow furrowed. “I just saved that guy’s life!” you spat pointedly, with a bravado tone, your voice bellowing throughout the busy street. “Him and the Blockchain Gang.”

You retrieved the roll of cash, holding it up for Peter to see. “Let’s just call this a ‘thank you’ for my service.”

“So that’s it? That’s what you think saving lives is about? That’s what it means?”

“Everybody dies, Peter,” you sneered coldly, shoving the cash back in the pocket of your coat. “Who cares what it means?”

He gazed at you with tight lips, jaw locked in place. “I do,” he softly replied, after several long moments. His face was elongated with a sour expression. “I care.”

A long beat passes as you stare at him—the poor, pitiful fool— and you remember that he hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. By contrast, you haven’t survived in the same way he has. You recalled the way death has been a constant presence in his life. Between the death of his parents, his surrogate father, and his high school sweetheart, grief was just a condition of his being.

You breathe a heavy sigh, and recognize that while you may not be the bad guy, you are an asshole.

Dying was making you bitchy, and there were few things that could adjust your attitude when it soured. Your eyes land on the parked police cruiser, and they lit up like a Christmas tree.

“You wanna fuck on the hood of this cop car?” you grinned deviously, as if you were suggesting something as innocent as swiping an extra handful of Halloween candy.

He leveled a stone-faced, deadpan look at you.

Your devilish smile only faltered slightly. “No?” You tried to reel it in, sombering yourself. “Some other time, then.” Displeased, he rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, still carrying the pile of takeout boxes in his long arms. You gritted your teeth and groaned.

He doesn’t get it, you thought. “Peter, just wait up.”

He paused.

“I’m sorry, okay?” You kick your toe into the sidewalk. “I just feel like... like maybe— We shouln’t take all of this too seriously, y’know?”

“All of what? Life?”

“Yes!” you exclaim, but agreeing with him doesn’t ease his growing frustration. “I just think that in the grand scheme of things, none of this matters.” The ‘this’ you were referring to was all around you. It was everything. Everyone. All the days had become the same, and every event in them—including your death—had bared the same dreadful monotony. Time was meaningless. Time is meaningless.

He glared down at you, quirking an offended eyebrow. “How couldya say somethin’ like that?” His accent rears back to life again.

“Maybe you need to hear it,” you state matter-of-factly, with a shrug of your shoulders. “Your entire world is built on the foundation that you need to save everyone, and that’s somehow going to make the world a better place. But if any of us dies, Peter, it doesn’t matter. If I die, it doesn’t matter.”

“Shut up.” Even over the sound of traffic, you can hear the pain in his whispered reply. He jutted his finger out towards you, warningly. There’s a quiet intensity in his voice, and all the humor had drained from his demeanor. “I don’t wanna hear any more.”

“No, Peter. I’m gonna die.” You’re bold with your statement. Confident. It’s an edict. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I don’t know if God even exists, but regardless, you’re not him.”

“Stop it,” he seethes now, inching closer to you. He looks like he’d web your mouth shut—right there in front of everyone on the street. Maybe you want him to.

There’s venom in your voice, not certain who its reserved for. But you serve it to the love of your life anyway. “You. Cannot. Save. Me.”

And it’s right about that time when the delivery truck driver emerges from the back carrying a giant sack of flour. The wind picks up, and the fine, white powder is carried with it. The cloud wraps around the both of you.

The static electricity of Peter’s dry hands across the surface of the styrofoam food containers creates a spark. The dust cloud in the air ignites, a fireball erupting in midair. The grease-soaked food containers go up in flames, reduced to a burning pile in seconds. Peter is stunned, dropping the burning food containers on the sidewalk, and now you both are alarmed by the burning pile. Both of you start kicking at the fire, in order to put out the flames, but it just creates more of a flaming mess.

The embers of bacon-soaked styrofoam fan up and catch on your coat. You’re quick to recognize it, and shed yourself of the garment just as it starts to burn. You slink it off your shoulders and drop the coat to the ground, just as Peter renders a stunned look of horror on his face.

He gazes up at you over the small bonfire, amazed beyond belief. “Time loops are real?” he squeaks out.

At about that time, the bullets in your pocket ignite in the flames. It sounds like popcorn— if it were made in a steel vat with the volume turned up about 100 times.

Peter flinches at the sound. You jolt as your body becomes riddled with bullet holes, tearing through your flesh like swiss cheese.

You were getting warmer. And colder. You followed his line of sight down and gaped at a whirlpool of crimson torn through your chest. You watched your life force drain out of you, spilling onto your feet and across the floor.

By far, the most nightmarish of visions was the dread you saw in Peter’s eyes.

You watch. His light extinguishes. Swallowed up. Drowned in anguish. Cue darkness.

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

The ceiling. You stare. Still. Motionless.

Your eyes sting with tears that are fighting to be shed. Some days it’s harder than others to keep them back.

“Mornin’, Sunflower!”

He pokes out his head. His expression naive. Serene. Joyful. Alive.

You wonder how many times you have to die before you’ve evolved.

Before you devolve. Into something less than human.

You glance over at Peter. Despite being half dead, your heart flutters at the sight of him. A glowing freckled face. Sparkling amber eyes. A beautifully-mischievous smile.

His smile.

“We need to talk,” you respond quietly. His expression falls, confused. “Take me somewhere with a nice view?”

It’s quiet on the roof of the high rise that overlooks Central Park. You appreciate the view, and how the sun hits the vertical, towering, puffy clouds just so, threading golden rays of sunlight into their indigo plumes.

It’s not Peter’s first choice, but there’s a rainbow out and you can see it better from here than from the Empire State Building.

There was something poetic about rainbows, you’ve come to decide. Something about a pattern of refracting light, laid out into a pathway that could only be seen if you’re in the right place at the right moment. You chuckle quietly. Rainbows really are magical.

Peter paced anxiously beside you, muttering a monologue, mostly to himself. It didn’t bother you much. He would get this way, and you found that his nonsensical mumbling actually soothed your nerves. Almost like a white noise machine.

You sat on the rooftop listlessly with your back against a wall. Your eyes would follow him sometimes, lids heavy with apathy.

By contrast, Peter was a livewire; synapses firing, his eyes alight as they tabulated variables and ran through formulas. He looked like one of those internet memes with greek letters and roman numerals circling his head, rummaging through the endless, note-scribbled index card catalogue of his mind on quantum mechanics and chaos theory.

It was exhausting.

You wished that he would just sit down next to you, so you could rest your head on his shoulder again. Maybe close your eyes and sleep.

Dying was exhausting.

You continued to watch him dig a trench with his Spidey-clad boots. You considered not saying anything at all this time. Then, you opened your mouth, “Pe—”

“I’ve got it!” Peter said triumphantly, with a ‘eureka’ vibe. He turned to you, his amber eyes glittering with hope. “It all makes sense now. The temporal loop limited to less than 24 hours. The blatant disregard for the Novikov self-consistency principle—”

You rolled your eyes.

“This all sounds like that presentation from last winter at Horizon Labs!” Peter blurted out, half still talking to himself, mostly. “Who was that guy? He was theorizing the possibility of quantum computation with a negative delay—”

“You know I have no idea what you’re saying, right?” you deadpanned.

“Time travel!” Peter explained. “He was talking about time travel! I bet Horizon is tied up in this time loop thing somehow. That-that guy must be behind this—”

“What guy?”

“Agh,” he gripped his head, squeezing his eyes shut, “what was his name? The chunky guy with the mullet? That guy!”

You nodded your head once. You knew exactly who he was referring to. “Grady.”

He pointed an index finger at you. “Yes!” Then, he paused, letting his arm drop. “Wait, how do you know—?”

“It’s not him,” you declared simply, picking at your nails.

“What do you mean it’s not—”

“It’s not him.”

“How do you know—?”

“Because we asked him. Interrogated him. Ripped his research apart. Tore Horizon Labs down to the studs, and it wasn’t him. Same with Oscorp. Tricorp. Alchemax. They’re all busts.”

He locked his jaw, looking down at the ground, fingers digging into his hips. “You know, this smells like Quentin Beck—”

“Not Mysterio either.”

His shoulders dropped. “Okay. Then what about Fisk?”

“Nope.”

“Kraven, then.”

“Not Kraven,” you shook your head.

Peter bit his lip, gritting his teeth, his frustration building. “How can you be so sure?” he argued.

“Time loop, remember? Nothing changes, Peter. Ever.” You shrugged your shoulders and picked at your nail again, bored. Or did you shrug your shoulders and pick at your nail? Time was meaningless at this point. At every point. “This isn’t a problem you can solve by punching it.”

“You know what—you’re right! I can’t,” he spat, indignation hot. “I can’t solve any problem! Not with your attitude! Or would it actually kill you to try to be helpful?

You chuckle again, without lifting your eyes from your cuticle. “That was a good one. New.”

“Is there something funny about this to you, huh?” he raised his voice, shutting you up. You look at him, seeing a fury in his eyes he usually reserved for someone at the end of his interrogations. You stilled your movements under his steel gaze.

Way to go. You pissed him off. Again.

“You’re telling me that you’re gonna die today,” he glowered darkly, voice thick with aggrevation. “Why are you acting like this is a fucking joke?”

“No,” you sigh regretfully. “No, I’m… I’m sorry. Look—please. Let’s not fight this time.”

“This time?” he snapped. “Stop saying that! Stop saying that you’ve had this conversation before!” He leaned in, pointing down at you in the way he does, veins bulging in his neck. ”Stop saying that you’ve lived this day before!” He lowered his voice, but lividness still punctuated his words. “I’m sorry,” he spat viciously “if this is getting repetitive for you, but for me this is a goddamn nightmare and you’re telling me I can’t do anything but—”

He stops. Chokes on the words. “No,” he declares, more calmly but with the same resolve. “Not gonna happen.” He wags his long finger, shaking his head furiously. “I won’t watch you die.”

It is an edict. You unpurse your lips. “Peter,” you softly, tenderly try to argue, “you can’t—”

“I’m trying to save you!” his voice erupted from his throat. He sounds so angry. So much anger in him. Angry and betrayed. “Why won’t you let me?” he pleaded.

“What’s your plan, huh?” you question. “Take on every bad guy in the city at once?” You take a beat, dropping your frustration back down to a manageable level. You add, bitterly, “I’m not gonna let you massacre everyone at Ryker’s Island in some futile attempt to save me!”

“Seriously?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes at your dramatics. “What makes you think I would ever do something like that?”

You remain still, your brow furrowed. Eyes locked on his.

“Because you have.”

A beat passes as he just stares at you, struggling to understand. Your voice was now quiet. Nothing louder than a whisper, and dark with a cold absolution. You take no satisfaction in being right.

You swallow on a dry throat. “It’s not Grady, not Beck,” you explain with a little more sensitivity. “Not Fisk. Not Toomes. Not Kraven. Not Lin. Not any of your enemies.” He blinked at you, and you watch his heart sink. “I know that because you killed them. All of them. And it didn’t make any difference.”

Your words settled in like a snake slithering into his bedsheets. He watched you, as if he was waiting for the punchline. Dread filled him as he realized there wasn’t one. Your word choice echoed in his mind. Face paled. Eyes glazed. A shudder ghosted down his spine.

Massacre.

Then you saw it. There was that look. He was terrified again, of what you’ve come to realize was perhaps his worst enemy: The monster he was capable of becoming.

Massacre.

Your eyes said it all, and then you watched him shift to his next reaction. All of this a rerun of an episode you’d seen before.

He looked sheepish. Exposed. Embarrassed. He didn’t know where to place his eyes. You could see he was running the math, scoping the variables. Calculating. Formulating the most likely outcome.

How far gone would he have been to do... ?

How crazy, out-of-his-mind...?

—Not only to be capable of that savagery— but to let you see it?

He would have to be mad, he decided. Absolutely unhinged.

Forget having occasional commonality with his enemies. Forget being the un-Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. Forget not “pulling his punches.”

His jaw locked in place, lips curving downwards. He looked like he swallowed glass. It would be a volatile mix. A fatal combination. Absolute power, meeting absolute desperation. Resulting in his absolute corruption.

Massacre. Everyone.

He looked over at you, just as you wiped away a stray glimmer of a tear. You cursed yourself for letting it slip this time, but it’s too late. He saw it, and now he knows. You’ve witnessed him do the horrific. Unforgivable. Unimaginable.

Tears formed in his eyes too.

He could imagine it. If he was desperate enough.

If it meant that he could save you.

You shook your head somberly, as if you could read his thoughts. Maybe you could, he wondered. To him, this day just kept getting weirder.

He pulled his gaze away from you, and that’s when the cable snapped. He’s overwhelmed by a deluge of cries. You watched him grab his hair and pull, the bridge of his sanity buckling and collapsing under grief.

He turned his face towards the skyline, letting out an animalistic noise. A yowl. Something between a groan and a scream, erupting from his soul and threatening to break through his teeth.

Now he’s getting it, you think.

It never hurts you any less, no matter how many times you watch it.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice as gentle as a lullaby. You know if you try to touch him, he’ll wrench himself out of your hold, as if he can imagine blood already staining his gloved hands. “It doesn’t always end like that. With anger.”

He lifted his gaze but refused to look at you. He stared at the city, thinking. Deciding.

“No,” he replied, barely above his breath. “It doesn’t have to end like that.” His calm puts you on edge. When he finally turns towards you, a renewed energy puffs up his chest. Fire in his eyes.

“But it’s gotta end some way, right? Some time?”

He sounds lighter, with a callous laugh in his tone.

You don’t like it at all.

He leaned back, standing straighter. “So we just end it now.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Both of us,” Peter explains grimly, with a dangerous resolve. “You go, I go.”

You stare at him, taking measured breaths. It’s important not to overreact here, you try to remember. You purse your lips, then began your objection, “Peter—”

“If you’re right about this—” he cut you off curtly, “—if there’s nothing I can do to save you— then none of it matters!”

His eyes were furious and razor-sharp, he pointed at you as if to silence your protests. As if his mind is already made up. Chest heaving. His eyes fall to his wrists, and without a second thought, he claws at them.

You quietly observe. He ripped the small web shooter devices from his wrists, crushing the watch-dial-looking machines in his palms with a crunch. He carelessly tossed them aside.

“How ‘bout that?” he spat, glaring at you challengingly. As if you were somehow responsible. You’re hurting him again. You always do.

You try to keep still, frowning as you watch him. Your stomach twists.

He glanced back at the edge of the roof, before stepping up on the ledge, peering anxiously down at the street below. Even for a superhuman, eighty stories is enough to crush him. You already were familiar with the sensation, but it’s not worth bringing up right then.

“It’d be over quick,” Peter called to back you with a tense shrug of his shoulders. “Straight shot down from the side. I’d be Jell-O in six seconds!”

The callousness of his voice tears a new hole in you. He’s being more cruel than he intends to be—you know that. He can’t help it. But it still hurts to hear.

You should be used to the pain by now.

His anger has given way to determination. He wants to provoke the gods. He wants the universe to open up and make this day never happen.

You’re motionless. Watching. Eyes glued to the crimson logo on his back. A symbol of everything opposed to what he’s saying now. That heavy fucking spider. It never left him. And never will leave. It clings to him, like a parasite. Like a Grim Reaper, trailing death behind.

He lowers his head, and the careless facade starts to crack. A quiet sob escapes his lips, betraying him.

“There’s no saving me if there’s no saving you,” Peter declared, his voice buckling. Breaking.

You consider how this never gets any easier. Witnessing the undoing of a person. Their unmaking — a murder while their heart is still beating.

Tears form in your eyes as you mourn him. “That won’t help you, Peter.”

“What won’t help me?”

You gazed at him, just shy of forever. Not nearly long enough.

“Bargaining.”

He glanced back at you, confused.

You swallow back your upset, finding your voice. “It doesn’t always end with anger,” you explain tenderly. “There’s the whole spectrum. Denial. Bargaining.”

The corners of his mouth pitch down again, and he turns away from you, gazing sorrowfully at the street below.

“You never go through with it, Peter,” you softly add. “Because that’s not who you are. Because you know it doesn’t change anything.” You speak up, loud, and clearly enough for the words to resonate with him. “It doesn’t make the world better. Having it go on without you.”

The tears return to his eyes, full force. Big, fat tears that threaten to drown him.

It’s time for you to stand. Your arms ache to hold him again, and it’s just about time for him to let you. Like the pull of a magnet.

“The pain you feel—the grief,” you explain, taking soft steps towards him, “I can’t imagine how awful it is. There aren’t any words. There’s nothing I can say that’ll make things make sense. Or make it feel like it’s all a part of some plan.”

You tread close enough to fall into his shadow, peering up at him as he gazes down at you like a statue of disdain, weeping furious tears.

“All I can say is that I’m sorry. I wouldn’t wish that agony on anyone.” You glance down at the busy avenue, cars and headlights moving about like ants. A fitting description of life outside of your timeless bubble.

“I wish it was me instead of you,” you declare, and it is the first time you’d done so. “If that makes sense.” You feel that familiar throb in your chest as you gaze up at his towering form. “I wish I was the one that had to be left behind.”

“Don’t.”

The gentle word slips from his lips, like a prayer. Like a crack in a dam. He shakes his head slowly, peering down at you.

His eyes beg. “Please, don’t...”

You reach your fingers out towards him, gathering his defeated hands into yours. Pulling him down from the ledge, he folds immediately, collapsing into your grip. He falls to his knees. Arms around your waist. He sobs into your belly, unleashing furious, wretched cries.

“Please, don’t leave,” he sputtered, shoulders shaking. “I won’t do this again. Please, I can’t...”

Again. It shatters your heart to know he’s not talking about last Tuesday. You bite your tongue, choking back a sob, your fingers carding through his hair.

You don’t say it, but this is the last stage that you get to witness. Pure despair. Unrelenting and unkind.

You don’t want to tell him that you’ve seen him like this so many times. Just yesterday you saw it — was it two Tuesdays, or two hundred Tuesdays, or twenty years of Tuesdays?

You don’t know.

Time is meaningless.

Except that it always ends with despair. Just shy of the final, blessed stage of acceptance that you wish for once you could catch a glimpse of.

But that kind of thing only comes with time — time you don’t have.

Except when it resets.

You let him cry into your flesh and you know that eventually, he’ll scoop you up in his arms and carry you gently back to the apartment. And when you get there, he’ll use a backup pair of web shooters to seal you inside of your home.

When you protest, he’ll web you inside of your room. To the bed, maybe.

He’ll say it’s the only way he can protect you, if you’re trapped in there, with every inch of space covered in the rapidly-dissolving, steellike cable he’s spun.

He’ll apologize, but he’ll say it’s for your own good.

You don’t mind. It gives you a few more minutes together.

Before a fire starts in one of the outlets in your room. The web catches quickly. It’s like dryer lint.

Or it’s carbon monoxide, his web having cut off the flow from the furnace. That way hurts less.

Or maybe it’ll be quick. Like the time you realized your fire extinguisher was faulty, and ended up with a handle lodged in your chest.

Time is meaningless. You have all the time in the world.

You close your eyes tightly, squeezing him to your body, just as the low rumble of thunder echoes in the low-hanging canopy of clouds above.

TUESDAY, 7:00 am

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT…”

“Bug, you’re really starting to freak me out,” Peter grinned with a light chuckle, moving in tandem with you in more ways than one.

The two of you strolled down the sidewalk. The mid-morning crowds parted around you. In one hand, Peter held a paper bag at his side, stuffed full of takeaway boxes. In the other, he held tightly onto yours — devotedly, with a deep passion, and lightheartedness of a man enthralled in love. Filled with hope for the future. Blissfully unaware of how this day would inevitably end.

“Now if what you’re saying was even possible—which it isn’t, because it would break every law and notion of what we perceive as physical time, that’s ever been theorized—”

“Maybe it’s not a science thing,” you replied, even though you still were wildly unfamiliar with the physics of his discussion, you were sober enough to follow his logic. “Maybe it’s just fate.”

“Babe, c’mon, everything is a science thing,” Peter countered. He spoke coolly and calmly, confident in his musing, comfortable in this element. “Science is everything. The real question is: what’s the inciting action? There’s not a single outcome in physics that’s attainable without some kind of initial source. I mean, that’s basic. That’s Newton.”

“But remember Nana Manners?”

“Right,” he nodded his head, recalling how you’d mentioned your great-grandmother earlier that day. He grinned, teasing, “Your crazy great-grandma told you she could see the future when you were a kid and now you think you’ve inherited some kind of clairvoyant superpower?”

You shoved him playfully.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’! Who are you gonna believe?” he turned to you with a charming smirk. He sparkled like a diamond in the sunlight. “Me, or a fortune teller?”

You barked out a laugh. “I actually did go to a fortune teller first,” you remarked.

He quirked an eyebrow at you. “No, you didn’t!” he giddily laughed. “What? Which one?”

“All of them. Well, all the ones in the boroughs that I could find, anyway.”

He took a moment to measure your words. “Geez,” he replied, taken aback. “How many Tuesdays have you had?”

“Who knows,” you laughed. “Enough to know that the fortune teller in the Village—the one from the commercials—has a fake accent and her husband’s cheating on her with someone who runs the crystal shop down the street.”

Peter snorted, amused. “Wow,” he remarked. “Wonder why she didn’t see that coming.”

You froze. Peter stopped walking when you did, turning towards you, unaware of why you stopped. He gazed at you, the adoration in his eyes cooling into concern.

You feel every goosebump on your body rise. Hair standing on end. Fingertips tingling. A sharp sting at the back of your neck. A shift, not just in your center of gravity, but in your soul. Your pulse quickens. Eyes wide. Chest tight.

“Bug?” he asked, wary of the way your face paled.

Ten millenia of evolutionary instinct passed down through your DNA was buzzing. Whirring. Screaming at you, even.

If you could imagine feeling “the tingly sense” that Peter spoke about—his mysterious enhanced ability—this must be it.

The question dawns on you:

Why hasn’t Peter’s ever worked?

Continue to Part 5

CW DISCLAIMER - Strong cw for su*c*dal ideation and discussion, as well as sensitive themes about death. The ideas expressed in this chapter are based on a science fiction scenario, by characters who are not of stable or sound mind. If you or someone you know is having difficult thoughts or experiencing a mental health crisis, please reach out to somebody because you're not alone. Dial 988 from any phone in the U.S., or go to 988lifeline.org

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