#TW: relationship with food

[the-kr8tor]

The Morning after

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Synopsis: you spend a peaceful morning with Hobie.

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (reader is mentioned to be smaller than Hobie though) TW food mentions, established relationship, FLUFF , lovestruck Hobie.

A continuation of this fic.

My Masterlist

*I don't consent to having my work translated/published on other platforms*

Hobie wakes up with his right arm aching, he groans from the weight slightly crushing his arm– wait what?

He opens his half asleep eyes with a confused look. Hobie cranes his neck down, he finally sees who the intruder is.

Hobie smiles to himself, Fully waking up, he remembers that he invited you over. He stares at your form, memorizing every bit of detail from how you clutched his jumper with a grip, your lips slightly parted as you exhale, the early morning sun shines at your back, bathing your form in a heavenly glow. Hobie moves you closer to him, as to not let the rays hit your face and disturb your peace.

He tries to move you both farther away from the edge of the bed, but he finds that your legs are intertwined with his, preventing him from moving.

He huffs, a lopsided smile on his lips. Hobie ghosts his thumb over your cheeks, the pattern from the knitted blanket leaves a mark on your skin. A sign that you've slept well, and in his arms no doubt. His forgotten comforter kicked to the foot of the bed.

He gets a whiff of your coconut shampoo, surely leaving its scent on his pillow.

He thinks about buying a proper toothbrush holder, so he could place his and yours together.

He really should invite you more.

Hobie's spidey senses wake him up from his daze– he clutches you closer to his body, carefully cradling your head. A wave from a moving boat rushes towards the houseboat, rocking it harshly. His busted alarm clock drops to the floor in a crash.

Hobie hisses as he sees you twitch. He curses whoever was in that boat.

"Ughh" you groan out, muffled against Hobie's chest. You grip his jumper tighter.

"Shit" his voice deeper than usual, you release his jumper and instead hug his torso. The waves get calmer, rocking you both softly.

"You alright?" He rubs your back just in case you feel sick.

You pop your head away from Hobie's chest, chin resting on his scratchy jumper, you tickle him a bit, but he won't tell you that of course. You open one eye to stare at him, yawning.

"Say that again?" You ask with a tilt of your head.

"Are you alright?" He hides his laugh by clearing his throat.

"Hmm" you grin "I like your morning voice"

He chuckles deeply, knowing what it does to you.

"Oh, you did that on purpose, you dork" you softly say.

"Yeah, bet it got you all hot and bothered for it too, huh" Hobie pokes your sides teasingly.

"Don't start" you swat away his hand, noticing his teasing mood this morning, you anticipate his tickling.

"You look pretty in the morning, you didn't wake up early and clean yourself up secretly, right?" He knows you didn't, sleep still sticking on your eyes, your hair looking disheveled.

"Nope, it's au naturel" you quip back. It earns a deep chuckle from Hobie.

He carefully rubs off the gunk from the corner of your eye, you sigh into his touch.

"You like my morning breath too?" He tries to blow air downwards but you're ready, you clasp your hand over his mouth, stopping his teasing.

You laugh victorious, that is until he licks your hand, recoiling your hand away, he laughs loudly.

"Hobie! That's it, I'm not making you breakfast"

"Alright, alright, I'll stop. For now" he grabs the back of your head pushing you back to his chest.

You move to the crooked of his neck instead, in case you're crushing him. You slyly wipe his drool from your hand on his jumper.

"I saw that" Hobie peeks downward.

"No, you didn't"

"This is vintage y'know"

"It's your own drool!" You laugh.

"Yeah! And you slobbered all over it while you used me as your personal pillow" he rubs the exposed skin on your waist, cupping the softness fondly.

"I don't slobber!" You grab his jaw downwards so you could look eye to eye.

"Tell that to my soaked jumper" he whispers, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Your heart skips a beat.

Knowing what he's gonna do next, you cover his lips over your hand, "let me brush my teeth first"

You push away from Hobie, your torso barely off the bed, he grabs you by the waist, pulling you back down. You gasp out.

"Nope" in one swift movement Hobie cups your cheek guiding you towards his lips, your lips crash against each other, you cringe when your forehead hits his a bit too loudly. Insecurity fills you when you remember that you still have morning breath.

He doesn't care though, instead he pokes your sides, making you gasp parting your lips, making him kiss you deeper.

You pull away breathlessly when you hear a rumbling noise underneath you.

"Ah, fuck" Hobie facepalms in embarrassment.

Hobie's stomach grumbles again, mocking him.

You grab his hand, peeking in "aww, my poor baby is hungry" you mockingly coo. "I'll make you breakfast, sunny side up right?" You push off him, finally noticing you're on the wrong side of the bed.

"Yes, please, love" he exhales out the embarrassment.

"How'd I end up on this side?" You point out.

"Huh, I probably dragged you with me"

You imagine what it might've looked like, you fluster. Even asleep he wants you near, you look at him adoringly, swiping away the sheen on his lips before leaving a kiss for good measure.

You leave for the bathroom, he stares at the door you entered in, a lovestruck expression on his face. Once he knows you're decent, he flips away the covers, following towards the sound of the faucet squeak open.

Hobie knocks, you hum while brushing your teeth. He opens the door, then leans against it, his arms relaxed on his sides, his sweatpants hang low on his hips.

He admires you bathe in white fluorescent light, his shirt on your form hanging loose on you. You looked out of place but at the same time fitting right in his tiny bathroom.

He thought you looked like you came out of an oil painting.

"You need to use the bathroom?" You ask as you place your toothbrush down.

"You should leave it"

"Leave what?"

"Your toothbrush, for next time" Hobie crosses his arms, a sudden shyness floods him.

"Of course" you smile, already getting what he's trying to say, "I was already planning on leaving it" you come forward, leaving a minty kiss on his cheek. "Your turn stinky" you pat his bum with a smack.

Hobie hears your laughter echo around the houseboat.

-

After washing up, Hobie opens the bathroom door, the smell of eggs and his favourite tea covers his senses. He chuckles to himself.

He could get used to this.

Hobie enters his modest kitchen, you hum along to the music from the radio, the inside of his houseboat looks a bit different than before, there's more light shining inside, fresh air wafts through the open windows, it seems that there's more life in his home.

He moves towards you, hugging you from behind. You giggle at the contact. He looks over your shoulder, he watches as you expertly flip the pancake over.

"Hello to you too" you crane your neck to look at him "I opened the windows, it's too nice outside. Hope you don't mind"

"I don't mind, we need the fresh air" he snuggles deeper on the crook of your neck. "Where'd you get pancake mix? I know that I don't have any"

"Ah, I brought it with me" you side glance at him, gauging his reaction.

"So, you were planning on making breakfast for me, hmm?"

"I did bring it, but it doesn't mean I was planning on cooking it myself" you turn off the stove, he turns you around, crowding you in between him and the stove.

"So you're making me breakfast out of the goodness of heart then?" He holds onto your hips.

"Yes, you're making the next one by the way"

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you?" He leans towards you, his lips ghosting over yours, but before sealing the deal, he grabs his mug behind you. He sips from it loudly, making eye contact over the mug.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your disappointment. "You're a menace" you give him a plate of eggs, sunny side up just like how he requested it. "Make yourself useful, and set the table"

Hobie sees his kitchen counter slash dining table, that's not gonna cut it out for you. He looks out of the window, the rare sun shining over the river, fluffy white clouds blanket the sky.

It's a beautiful morning, a shame to waste it.

He pushes the door open, leading to his 'porch'

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously.

"You'll see" Hobie peeks back inside, a smirk on his face.

You shake your head at his shenanigans, you wonder what he's planning.

The water looks calm, the cold morning air nips at his skin, his jumper barely protecting him from the cold. Hobie sees the metal table wet with morning dew, that won't do, so he grabs a nearby cloth to wipe it dry, he carefully puts down the plate of eggs and his tea, to wipe at the mismatched chairs.

Hobie wipes the wooden chair more thoroughly, since the metal one looks more worn down, he's concerned you might poke yourself on it.

He looks at his handiwork, there seems to be something missing, Hobie roams his eyes around the boat, his eyes stop at an empty beer bottle, he places it in the middle of the table acting as a centerpiece.

Then he perches himself near the edge of his boat to pick a single daisy from a neighbouring houseboat's flower pot; he's sure they wouldn't notice one missing. Hobie gingerly puts the small flower inside the bottle.

You open the door with your foot a little too loudly, you squint at the harsh sound. Hobie quickly moves to help you carry out the plates and mug.

"Thanks, Hobie," you grin, your smile gets wider when you see his little set up. The little daisy swaying in the air. "Oh, handsome" you gasp out.

You're finished, your eyes slightly glazing over.

Hobie chuckles at his new nickname, he moves the wooden chair for you to sit, hands on its back, like a gentleman.

" C'mon then, stop gawking, I'm starving" he stares at your dumbstruck face, the cold air leaving goosebumps on your arms.

You sit down, smiling, forgetting the cold air.

"Do you want me to grab a jacket?" He asks as he rubs your arms from behind.

You grab his wrist, you bracelet around it with your fingers, "no, stay, I'm okay" you sniff, revealing your lie.

"Nah, I'm not letting you freeze to death, let me grab it real quick, alright?" Hobie runs inside, eager to come back to you.

Oh, he's absolutely whipped for you, no doubt about it.

You revel in the sun shining on you, closing your eyes, you inhale sharply. Hobie sees you like this, his breath hitches in his throat. You must look heavenly, a slight breeze makes your eyelashes flutter. Opening your eyes, you notice eyes on you, you smile at him.

He's done for.

Waking up from his stupor, he wraps the dark hoodie on your head. A feeble attempt to hide the effect you have on him

"And here I thought you were being sweet on me" you tease him, knowing that he actually is soft for you.

"I've got a reputation, y'know" he sits down with a metal creak.

Hobie notices that you're sitting a little bit too far for his taste. "What are you doing there? C'mere" he grabs your chair, pulling it towards him, the wooden legs scraping against the metal of the boat.

You laugh, despite the harsh sound coming from the scraping.

"There, much better?" He leans on the arms of his chair.

You nod, a permanent smile on your face "much better" you kiss his cheek, your cold lips a contrast to his warm skin, it melts into his skin, etching in like a tattoo.

You intertwine your arm around his, speaking softly, as to not disturb your little peaceful bubble around the both of you, " y'know I thought you would be grumpier in the morning"

"Why's that?" He leans closer.

"I don't know, you seem like the type" you whisper against his lips, "you're a night owl, so I thought you would hate waking up this early"

"Only if I don't sleep well" heat rises in your cheeks at his implication, "Lucky for me I've got my very own koala latching on to me last night"

You raise your eyebrow "Really a koala, that's the best you can do, Hobart?"

"You always resort to calling me by my government name whenever you're flustered, koala works, lovey" he cups your jaw, his thumb brushes past your lips. You close your eyes, leaning in.

Before your lips could meet, you hear a gurgling sound.

You pull away, laughing loudly. Hobie lets out a small goddamnit.

"We should eat, before your stomach starts eating you from the inside" you say in between laughs.

"Yeah, yeah" he grumpily grabs his spoon.

You hide your smile behind your mug.

A/N: thanks for reading! Hope you liked it, as always likes and reblogs are appreciated ❤️❤️❤️

*image above is from pinterest*

[royalarchivist]

Richarlyson: You're skinny sir, are you eating well these days?

Pac: Not really. To tell you the truth, I've been eating... I stole, together with my son, we stole some cupcakes from the Federation. I ate some, but I know chocolate isn't the best thing to eat, right?

Richarlyson: 12 kilos D:

Pac: 12 kilos?!? No– what? My god. My god... Am I malnourished, Doctovo? Am I- Am I malnourished?

Richarlyson: You weigh less than a pitbull, sir.

Pac: Less than the singer? Damn... [Laughs]

Richarlyson: [Hits Pac]

[snail-migraine]

Hello! I read your platonic yandere Riddle fic and I absolutely loved it, and I wanna request something.

Since this is Silver birthday week, I was wondering if you could do platonic yandere Silver with a little brother reader who is a bit rebellious?

Jeez I'm writing this super late, but atleast it's getting done! Might be a little ooc because I don't know Silver well, but I tried! Thank you for requesting!

-

Anon-Yan

Platonic Yandere Silver X Male-Reader

Since there wasn't much context given, I'm gonna say reader in this scenario is another human son Lilia adopted. Kinda just finding reader out in the middle of the woods with only a blanket and a note that said your name, and that you were free for for the taking.

You being the only other human in Silvers life is probably what first got the ball rolling for his yandere tendencies.

Since the moment Lilia brought you home, Silver naturally just gravitated towards you.

From staring at your pudgy little baby-face, to asking if he can help take care of you.

Lilia obviously noticed this and only made his light obsession with you worse.

Like by telling Silver,

"It'll be your job to keep your baby brother safe and sound when he grows up. He'll need his big brother there with him."

Totally helpful.

As you grew up you were constantly guarded by Silver. Literally everywhere you went, he would follow behind like a little duckling.

You want to play alone? Too bad, Silver wants to be there with you.

You never got so much as second of privacy or alone time with Silver around.

Even if you complained to Lilia he was no help.

You just had to deal with being constantly followed for your entire childhood. Never getting a single second of peace.

When it came time for Lilia to go N.R.C. you honestly felt nothing. You never really had the same bond with Lilia as his other sons and was kinda glad to have the prankster out of the house.

However with Lilia gone meant that's Silver became the step-in dad.

You guys were teenagers and way past the age of having to be looked after constantly. But Silver insisted on looking after you more.

That pissed you off and you begun having a rebellious streak.

From Blatant disregard, to sneaking out of the cabin at night you did everything in your power to piss off Silver.

And boy oh boy did it work.

He could deal with you ignoring him, he's fine with it. But you sneaking out? Hell no.

Not only did you piss him off but you scared him half to death.

Especially since when you came back in the morning you bruises and cuts littering your body.

That's when decides to put a quick end to your little rebellion.

..by chaining you to your bed.

"I'm sorry, but I can't see you hurt again. You might not care for yourself but I do. Right now your a danger to yourself. Scream at me all you want, it won't change a thing. But I need you to be safe, okay?"

[lalunanymph]

𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 (𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈’𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔) — rin

syp — you know what they say about the correlation between a happy relationship and weight gain…

—tw. brief mentions of fat shaming, talks of weight, mentions of food, established relationship, bf!rin, dw it’s a lighthearted take on a normal occurrence in any healthy relationship <33

Rin comes back from practice grouchier than when he left home. 

You hear the door slamming, his cleats set down on the floor. You count his footsteps, hear them tracing a path from the living room into the kitchen where you’re standing, stirring a pot of soup. 

“Rinny,” you beam up into his placid expression. “Welcome home.”

He doesn’t give you a kiss or a hug like he usually does. 

Instead, his pout deepens, brows furrowing together. Sensing something wrong, you stop stirring the soup and pat your hands dry, concern suddenly eclipsing your neutral mood. 

“Baby?” 

Even though Rin was notoriously hard to read, years of dating him drew your attention to the twitch in his brow, the sullen dimple appearing in the left corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t draw out the suspense, words clip and curt.

“Coach said I gained some weight.” 

You blink. Rake your eyes up and down his defined biceps, hard abs and athletic figure. 

“Heh?” 

He unzips his jacket, tossing it onto the kitchen counter. “Yeah,” your 6 foot 4, pouting pro-player boyfriend mumbles. “Says my fat percentage jumped to 5%. Made me run a few laps.” 

“Oh,” you coo, trying hard not to smile. “Must have really sucked for you, huh?” 

His teal eyes glaze over your twin pout, and he narrows them. “Don’t make fun of me.” 

“I’m not,” you say, your smile growing wider. “Baby, I know what it’s like to be fat shamed. But, whatever your coach is seeing, I don’t. I think you’re still hot and super buff—like Spiderman.” 

Rin blows the air out from his cheeks, deflating them. You resist the urge to pinch the still lingering baby fat he carried from all those years ago in high school. “Spiderman was a twink.” 

You frown. “Bachira really needs to stop teaching you this lingo. It could be offensive to someone.” 

“Hm,” he grumbles. “S’true though. I wanna look like Superman.” 

Rin hears you walk across the hardwood floors. You take his face in your hands, pinching his cheeks to mould them into a smile. “I think you're Superman. You’re my superhero.” 

Cheekily, your grin was starting to infect his glaring expression. 

“‘Cept for when you forget to take out the trash. Then, you’re just a regular schmegular guy to me.” 

Rin’s scowl deepens. “Shut up.” 

You crinkle your nose. “That’s not what you said last night—ow!” 

He pinches your hip and you giggle as you stumble backwards. Despite himself, Rin’s moodiness breaks, your sunshine smile and bright eyes bringing him out from the darkest parts of his brain. He lunges for you, trapping you against the kitchen island. 

“Tell me I’m still sexy to you.” 

His demand was met by your soft scoff. 

“No. You just told me to fuck off.” 

“I told you to ‘shut up’.” 

“Sounded like a ‘fuck off’ to me.” 

“You’re insufferable.” His face came closer, and closer till you felt his lips brushing yours. You smile against his lips, kissing him back. 

Breaking it off for a bit, you mumble, “And you’re still sexy to me.” 

Rin sighs, stickily sweet and yearning for more of your love. 

Unfortunately, the pot bubbles over and you shriek, pushing him aside to salvage your jjigae. 

He looks at the mess you sop up, arms crossed across his chest. “I can’t eat that. Too much sodium.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Fine, then. Go and cook something for yourself.” 

Rin never expects you to refute him this fast. He dawdles, shooting you a few stares when your back turns from him. Eventually, the silence gets too loud and he sighs. 

“Isagi said something stupid.”

“When has he ever said something smart?” 

Rin fights back a smile at your sass. “Tch. He said guys who get into relationships… happy ones… tend to gain a bit of weight.” 

You stop stirring the pot. 

Rin bites on his cheek to keep a smile off his thin lips. You turn to him, pretending to be unaffected. 

“Oh? Yoichi-kun finally said something smart and true—” you emphasise. “—for the first time. I’m proud of him.” 

He looks too good in his compression shirt, biceps rippling and torso stacked with muscles that cling to the black fabric. You flush and look away, but he’s caught you. 

“So,” Rin walks towards you, arms coming to wrap around your waist. “Do you think that’s true?” 

A smile threatens to spread across your stupidly lovesick expression. “I guess so. Is this your way of saying you’re happy with me?” 

Rin’s not a man of many words, but you hear him loud and clear when he kisses your neck. 

You pretend you don’t feel your heart thrumming rapidly or the heat scorching your cheeks. “I’ll fill your bowl with konjac noodles instead. Can’t have Ego-san make you run around the field again.” 

Rin hums, and his arms remain loose around your waist. He may be a man of little words, but sometimes he would say something that made you wish you never had ears to begin with.

“So, have you gained weight throughout this relationship?” 

Quick as lightning, you turn towards him, waving the ladle in his face, soup droplets splattering onto the floor. 

“Don’t even go there, Itoshi.” 

“But—”

“Abubbubbub,” you tut. “Nope. Hard no. Keep quiet or else I’ll sabotage your diet with fried chicken.”

He gapes, wounded that you would bring up his kryptonite—one that he had discovered through late nights studying with you by his side. To think that you would be the one to bend Itoshi Rin’s unbreakable diet with greasy goodness was a power rush that could rival the world’s smuggest god complex. 

“Y/N—”

“I’m serious, Itoshi,” you say, completely serious. “Make yourself useful and get me some spring onion stalks from the chiller.”

He sighs, shuffling towards the fridge and opening it grouchily. “I’m kidding.”

“You better be.”

Suddenly, your arms are around him, and he turns to find you cornering him into the wall, your eyes twinkling with mischief. 

Rin’s heart skips a beat, and he prepares to put on a scowl that melts away into a tongue-tied, blushing mess when you murmur: 

“S’your turn—tell me I’m still sexy to you.” 

— rbs and feedback are appreciated !!

©️ lalunanymph

[steviewashere]

Deserving

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Unspecified Eating Disorder, Food Insecurity Tags: Post-Season 2, Pre-Season 3, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Different First Meeting AU, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Has Self Esteem Issues, Insecure Steve Harrington, Lonely Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Strangers to Friends, Sharing Food, Food as a Metaphor For Love, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve Harrington Has Rich Parents, He is Not Rich, Dialogue Heavy Originally, this was going to be 5+1 where Eddie shares his food five times and once where Steve shares his food, but I just couldn't finish the original plot.

🥪——————🥪 There’s a boy in Eddie’s lunch period that doesn’t have anything to eat. It’s weird because he knows who this kid is; Steve Harrington—cocky and rich and bitch with no bite—the kid who’s fallen from grace thanks to a few punches to the face. And the same kid who doesn’t really talk to anybody.

As it is, Steve is sitting by himself at one of the lunchroom tables. Arms crossed on the surface, head down on his forearms, hair limp at the crown of his head. Unusual and unseen. His shoulders are hitched, shaking like he’s crying unsubtly, yet quietly—unseen and unheard. It’s weird, he thinks, because Steve had just been looking out one of the windows, eyes a little hazy, glazed like he’d been gearing up to cry. Eddie had caught Steve pushing his hands into his hair, tugging like he was trying to rip it all out. But then he’d gone ahead and collapsed into this sad, huffing little heap onto the table.

Eddie maybe keeps his eye on Steve for too long, too often. To know the multitudes. The little fractures in his mask—spider webs, that’s what they were, spreading and sprawling. He supposed that, at some point, the web would be completed and be easy enough to knock down. Leaving in its wake a sad, mole-dotted, half-bruised, white-scarred face.

A face with a hungry maw, if the way Steve clutched his stomach said anything.

He makes a last minute decision today. Eddie curves his path away from the Hellfire Club’s table. Lunchbox dangling in his hand—a measly bologna and mustard sandwich, a baggie of salted pretzel sticks, and a Yoo-hoo he didn’t need to refrigerate all clinking against the metal interior. And then he plops himself down in front of Steve without a peep, just the hard clink of his wallet chain on the bench and his too big rings on the table.

All at once, slow, yet purposeful—Steve’s head springs up. He looks worse up close. Mottled purple. Swollen and shiny. There’s one of those terrible scars on the edge of his hairline, though this one’s different: pink, long, jagged, and fresh.

Steve squints at him. Covers the side of his face by the window, hand cupped around his one good eye, and swallows hard enough Eddie almost recoils. “Munson?” Steve croaks—literally, Eddie notes, like a strangled, old frog—“what’re you doing?”

“Mm, having lunch with my pal,” Eddie answers, prying open his lunchpail, food pulled out one thing at a time. He catches his thumbs in the Ziplock fasten, and from it produces that sad, drooping sandwich his uncle made last night. It’s a little soggy in his hands, too much mustard. And the bologna is sort of…lukewarm, but not inedible. Eddie digs around in one of his vest pockets, pulls out a small Swiss Army knife, and cuts the sandwich in half. Licks the blade, mustard just a little left of what’s meant to be tastefully sour. Then, he pushes a portion of the sandwich across the table to sit right in front of Steve. “Usually, I’d bring a lunch of your preference, but this is all I’ve got right now. So, hope you don’t mind some bologna.”

“I don’t wanna take your food away from you, man. I’ll be fine until I get home.”

Selfless is a trait he didn’t think Steve could really have. Well, from the assumed version he has in his head anyway. But it’s a trait he’s learning he probably won’t like. Not all the way, at least.

“Right,” Eddie murmurs, “and you clutching your stomach out of hunger seems like something to be fine about.” He picks up his half and takes a large bite, licks the bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth. With his mouth full, “It’s weird, y’know, I never see you in here with food. Not even lunch lady Donna’s mashed potatoes and gravy. If you wanna know my opinion, that’s one of the better lunches she makes, and it’s something anybody should try at least once.” He wrestles around in his lunchbox again, a glass bottle of Yoo-hoo now in his grip. The cap pops off satisfyingly and he takes a small swig, swallows the incredible glob in his mouth, and then offers the drink across the table. “Or, y’know, I thought maybe a rich kid would have their own lunch. With all of the good brand stuff. Like uh…Pringles? Yeah, Pringles and Coke? That seems like your game.”

Steve sniffs, looks down at his sandwich, and picks it up gingerly. He keeps staring at it, though. Not out of thought, like maybe he’s wondering if he should give it back. Something more…somber. “Correction,” he mutters, “I have rich parents. I’m just the kid they let live in their house.” Finally, he takes a bite with a gentle, low hum. As if it’s the greatest thing he’s ever put in his mouth. Which can’t possibly be true because, even though Eddie knows this meal is one of Wayne’s specialties, it’s honestly one of the shittier ones. If anything, this sandwich is just placeholder food—something that’ll get them by until Wayne gets paid next, if he gets paid on time.

Eddie hums, taking in the information. “They can’t even bother to send you on with at least a little something? Dude, tell me you at least get some breakfast. You’re breakin’ my heart over here.”

Again, Steve looks at his sandwich. Somber and small. He won’t look at Eddie, though. But Eddie can see him. His flushed cheeks—blotchy and tear track stained. Red rimmed eyes. Shaky fingers. He’s pale underneath the ruddiness. Lips chapped, eyes sunken, dark circles.

He looks like shit.

“Sometimes,” Steve murmurs, “I used to have a bagel in the morning, but my mom said the carbs were bad. I stopped buying them. So…I dunno. It’s not like she even”—He stops. Shakes his head. Takes another bite.

“She even…?”

Steve catches his eyes for all of a second. Places his sandwich on the baggie it came in. Wipes his cheeks, just barely missing some of the bruising. “She’s not even home most of the time anyway. It doesn’t really matter,” he states quiet and bitter. He clears his throat, the sound strained. Shrugs. Rests his face in one hand, looking out the window again. Face going pinched and pained. “You ever had a fend for yourself kind of day?”

“Eh…I’ve had fend for yourself nights. But that’s because my uncle works late, sometimes it’s just up to me to figure something out. Those are cereal nights, man.” He watches Steve again. At the way he doesn’t go back for the sandwich. Not even disgusted. Just…blank. “Was today one of those, Steve?” he asks quietly.

No verbal answer. Just one, small, shaky nod. Eddie won’t stand for that.

“What food do you like? Maybe I can help you come up with like a…a meal plan calendar or something. So that you know what you have at all times and you can, like, make sure you’re eating good.” Steve still doesn’t say anything. Lips rolled tight to his teeth. Eddie tries again, “Or at least just eating, Stevie. I know we don’t really know each other at all, but I see you in here everyday. No lunch. Not even one of those stupid boxes of raisins. You gotta eat, man. Or else, y’know, that shit catches up to you.”

Across from him, Steve sniffles again and wipes the back of his hand on his nose. “I don’t know what I like,” he says, “sandwiches are fine, I guess. It’s fine”—

“Good, great actually. Steve Harrington is getting a tour of the Munson sandwich recipes. Passed down from my uncle, the master of sandwich art. Y’like black forest ham? Maybe a bit of grilled chicken? Tomatoes?” Steve’s finally staring at him now. Wide eyes and raised eyebrows. Mouth dropped ajar with slight disbelief. “What?” Eddie says, “don’t look at me like that. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but you gotta eat. It’s equity, dude. I already got what I need in terms of food and eating, but you don’t. So, I getcha what you need. I help you out.”

Steve droops, breathes out a little sigh. Digs his thumbnail into the stale crust of the sandwich, picking at it, crumbling it onto the table. “You don’t have to do that, Eddie,” he speaks quietly, “I…uh…I don’t want to assume anything, but I don’t think it’s fair that somebody who makes less money than my whole family has to make up for my parents’ stupidity. It’s not your job to look out for somebody like me anyway, right? Just another screw up who can’t get his shit together, can’t even figure out how he’s going to pay for worthwhile groceries for the month.” He finally stops picking at the sandwich. Wipes his nose again. “Thanks for trying, though. I’m sorry that you have to care at all.”

Eddie eyes Steve for a silent beat. And then, with careful, languid movements, he lays his hand palm up on the table. Steve looks to it, but pretends to pay it no mind. Even if his face crumbles a bit more. “Steve,” Eddie speaks, keeping his voice measured and low, “I want to help. I—I know that my uncle and I don’t make a lot. And, sure, maybe figuring out a way to get you some good homecooked meals is a little out of my budget. But I don’t care. You deserve to eat, man. No matter how much money your parents make.

“If I can make your day a little easier—because, I gotta be honest, it seems like you’re just having…the toughest time a person can ever possibly have—then great. If it means me giving you a dollar for the school lunch or just coming here with an extra sandwich in my lunchbox, whatever.

“Nobody deserves to go without eating because their bullshit parents prioritize work and social lives over their own children—and no child deserves to believe they’re the problem. Let me help, okay? Even if we have to start out small, so be it.” Eddie takes a moment to pause, to breathe, to let the cafeteria background noise mingle around them. He crinkles the edge of the Ziplock baggie, pushes it further into Steve’s space, and does the same with the bag of pretzel sticks. “I want to take care of you. Even if we’re just strangers in the hallway, I want to make sure that you’re doing okay.”

He does his best to lean across the way, to block off the rest of the cafeteria from their table. As Steve lays his shaky hands flat on the surface and his face turns bright red, tears steadily streaming down his face. Eddie digs the bandana out of his back pocket and slides it across the table, too, offering it up in silence.

Steve takes it with a shaky hand and pats the tired fabric on his tacky skin. He blows a sharp, wheezing, snotty breath from his nose. “If you’re sure, then I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches a lot. But I…I wanna make sure I can pay you back, okay? Don’t wanna—I don’t wanna like abuse your generosity or something.”

“You wouldn’t be,” he quickly amends. “I’m offering, man, don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, but I…I don’t think you understand,” Steve adamantly presses, “I know it’s gonna make me sound all whiny and like uptight or whatever, but I don’t earn an allowance from my parents anymore. Not since…well, I’m sure you know how stupid I am.”

“Hey,” Eddie gently scolds. “You’re not stupid, Steve. You know what you’re talking about, I’ve heard you.”

Steve snorts like Eddie said something funny. “Try telling that to all my college rejection letters and my dad’s crumbling expectations of his only son. I’m sure they could find a million ways to explain just how…how worthless I am. That I’m a burden or…or a stain.”—those last sentences sound like echoes, if Eddie cares to explore it enough. Like they come from a different, more expectant mouth. Steve continues, “How am I even supposed to get a mediocre job? Just feels like I’m too nothing for anything out there. I don’t even know how I’m gonna pay you back, Eddie. Shit, I just shouldn’t accept. I have no idea how I’m supposed to get back up from all this garbage—I—I’m such a fucking loser now. I don’t even have anything going on anymore.”

Eddie furrows his eyebrows, not sure which part of any of that to unpack. Instead, he goes with, “You’ve got sports, Stevie. Surely you can figure something out with that. I’ve seen you perform, man, you’re fucking phenomenal.”

“My brain’s too fucked up now to play,” Steve quietly admits, “too many concussions. Coaches say I’m too befuddled to make heads or tails of where my targets are. Sports are over for me. I literally have nothing.” He blows out another wet, shaky breath. “So, I’m just saying, I’m sorry if I can’t make this up to you.”

“Steve,” Eddie says firmly, “look at me.”

At the demand, he’s met with Steve’s sad, hazel eyes. Clogged with discontent and miserableness he never thought he’d see out of a guy like Steve. Every part of him wants to reach out, cradle Steve’s face in his hands, wipe away his tears, caress his injuries with a tenderness he’s sure Steve has long forgotten. A part of him wants to hold Steve forever, no sign of letting go. 

Heart in his stomach, shattered yet beating, he speaks as softly as he possibly can manage. “You owe me nothing, Steve. You don’t owe me your best. You don’t owe me your money. You don’t owe me payback or…or a job on your back. There’s nothing that I want from you, I promise. But if you want to give me something…how about just being my friend, huh? Just sit down with me at lunch, share the food I brought, give me as much of a conversation as you want, and just…just let yourself be cared about.

“That’s what I’ll ask of you. If you feel the need to give me something, give me friendship. That’s it. Nothing more than that. Anything else that arises in the future, we worry about then. Bridges waiting to be crossed later, y’know? That’s doable, right? Just being a friend.”

Steve nods in slow understanding. “You wanna be friends with me?” He asks in a whisper. “You know that I’m not the best company, right? I’m…I’m stubborn and I’m bitchy and I—I know sometimes that I don’t use my brain half the time and I just say shit before I really think about it. And I…I’ve been a jerk and I’m—I’m sort of bullshit, Eddie. Is that really something you want in your life?”

Eddie merely shrugs. “You think I don’t have my own flaws? Everybody’s got shit. All of us have baggage. You’re just a teenager, as am I, and we’re still figuring shit out. At least you’re aware, right? Means you can try and…and be more thoughtful about what you do, how you act. And, besides, stop giving me reasons to leave you alone. I want to be your friend. I’ll say it from here to fucking Mars, man.” He raps his fingers against the table, darts his eyes to that sandwich. There’s not really a good way to keep drilling the want of it all into Steve’s head. So, finally, he relents. Gives Steve the step away that he wants. “Go ahead and eat, Steve. I’ll bring you a PB&J tomorrow, yeah? You like grape or strawberry jelly?”

A lapse of silence. Wherein they stare at each other. Two things work their way onto Steve’s face. Adamant protests that, in turn, are squashed and cornered into becoming stubborn acceptance. Jeez, Eddie can’t help but think, what’s it gonna take to get this guy to realize that people can care about him?

“Mm…strawberry, please,” Steve finally decides.

He simply nods. Looks out the window to the courtyard. Cafeteria white noise and Steve’s soft chewing surrounding him. The light hits him just as a cloud begins to move, yellow sunlight, warm and new. It marks the beginning of something unexpected, good, Eddie believes. “I think you’re a good guy, by the way,” he murmurs, “you probably don’t believe me now, but you will one day. Swear on it.”

🥪——————🥪

[womanovertheedge]

...I hate food.

[cod-thoughts]

Day 5 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 2.3k

Relationships: 141 as family

Tags: Character study (kind of), ghosts relationship with food, talk of past starvation

Price had seen men who ate with discipline. He’d seen soldiers who treated food as fuel and nothing more, men who ate quickly so they could get back to the fight. But Ghost—Ghost was different. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 Please don't read if it will harm you!

Price had seen men who ate with discipline. He’d seen soldiers who treated food as fuel and nothing more, men who ate quickly so they could get back to the fight. But Ghost—Ghost was different.

Price noticed it during their first mission together after Mexico, the way Ghost barely touched the rations, how he always seemed indifferent to food altogether. While the rest of the team would wolf down their meals after a hard day, Ghost would sit apart, mask half-raised just enough to eat mechanically, the food barely disappearing from his plate.

Price couldn’t blame him—Ghost had seen more than his fair share of suffering, been through things Price could only guess at. But the way Ghost treated food was unsettling. He ate as if it were a chore, something he had to endure but took no pleasure in. Sometimes, Price wondered if Ghost would’ve skipped eating altogether if it wouldn’t draw attention.

It wasn’t long before Price started to realise something: Ghost didn’t seem to eat until everyone else was done. Always the last one to touch his food, always picking at it, eyes distant and unreadable behind the mask.

“He’s like a machine,” Price muttered to himself one night as he watched Ghost push food around his plate again.

But he wasn’t a machine. He was a man—a man who never seemed to enjoy the simple act of feeding himself.

---

Soap was the first to notice how quiet Ghost was during meals. He wasn’t just quiet—he was silent. Even on the good days, when the team bantered and laughed, Ghost rarely said a word. He’d sit at the edge of the table, always near an exit, eating with deliberate, methodical movements. It was like he was somewhere else, far from the mess hall or the campfire.

At first, Soap assumed it was just Ghost being, well, Ghost. The man was silent in almost everything he did. But it started to feel different around mealtimes, like Ghost wasn’t just quiet because he didn’t want to talk—he was quiet because he didn’t want to be noticed.

One day, after a particularly brutal mission, the team gathered to eat around a fire, exhausted but grateful to be alive. Soap joked around, tossing comments at Gaz and Price, but when he glanced at Ghost, he saw the man wasn’t even looking at his plate. He was staring off into the distance, hands still, as if he’d forgotten the food was even there.

Soap, always the one to poke and prod, decided to press. “Ghost, mate, you gonna eat or stare at it until it gets cold?”

Ghost’s eyes flickered over, but his response was as indifferent as ever. “I’m fine.”

But Soap wasn’t buying it. He’d seen Ghost in the field, seen him push his body to the limit without a word of complaint. The man was relentless. But this—this was different. It wasn’t about discipline. It was about something deeper.

Soap let it go for the night, but the image stuck with him—Ghost sitting there, food untouched, eyes hollow behind the mask.

---

Gaz wasn’t one to interfere with anyone’s habits, but over time, he started to see patterns in Ghost’s behaviour that unsettled him. It wasn’t just that Ghost ate little and said even less—it was the way he seemed to treat food as a necessity he didn’t want to admit to. Like he was trying to deny something his body clearly needed.

Gaz thought back to a mission in the desert. They’d been on the move for days with minimal supplies, and by the time they’d reached an extraction point, everyone was running on fumes. The second they got back to base, the team devoured their rations with the ravenous hunger of men who’d been pushed to their limits.

But Ghost had waited. He sat there, watching the others eat, hands still, his face hidden beneath the mask. When he finally did start eating, it was slow—almost too slow, as if each bite had to be earned.

That was when Gaz started to wonder: Had Ghost been starved before?

He knew Ghost’s past was filled with trauma—stories whispered about what Simon Riley had survived. Torture, abuse, betrayal.

Gaz wasn’t naïve enough to ask, but something about the way Ghost treated food as a burden made it clear: hunger wasn’t a stranger to him. It was something he’d lived through, something that had left its mark.

One night, after another long mission, Gaz made a quiet observation. “You know, Ghost…you don’t have to earn your meals here.”

Ghost didn’t look up from his plate. He didn’t answer. But the silence felt different this time. He didn’t shrug off the comment, didn’t deflect it with his usual indifference. He just kept eating, slowly, methodically, as if Gaz’s words had struck something deeper than he’d ever admit.

---

Soap was the first to offer something off his own plate, casually sliding over a piece of steak one night when they were at base. It wasn’t much—a tiny, almost insignificant gesture—but the way Ghost looked at it made Soap pause. There was a flicker of hesitation, something between disbelief and discomfort.

“Not a fan of this part,” Soap explained, gesturing at his plate. “You can have it if you want. Need more protein anyway, right?”

Ghost’s eyes flicked from Soap to the offered food, and for a brief moment, he seemed to weigh his options. Finally, without a word, he accepted it, his gloved hand moving silently as he took the piece of steak.

Soap didn’t make a big deal out of it. He didn’t want to. But when Ghost finished his meal that night, Soap felt like something had shifted—something small, but important.

The next day, Gaz left his tomatoes untouched. “Never liked these,” he said casually, pushing them toward Ghost. Ghost’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before he reached out and claimed the offering, silently nodding his thanks. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step toward something deeper—toward a shared understanding.

---

Price understood that Ghost had a complicated relationship with food. He saw the way the man held back, eating in calculated bites, as if every morsel had to be earned. Price didn’t want to push, but he also knew that sometimes, Ghost needed to be reminded that here, in this squad, things were different.

So, one evening after a particularly rough mission, Price suggested something different. “Let’s cook something proper tonight. We earned it.”

They had fresh supplies from a nearby base, and the team set up a makeshift grill near the campfire. It was a rare chance for something better than rations, and while the others jumped in, joking about who was the worst cook, Ghost stayed on the edge of the group, watching.

Price caught his eye. “C’mon, Simon. You’ve done more than enough to earn a real meal.”

Ghost hesitated, but something in Price’s tone—firm but not demanding—got through. He stepped closer, taking a spot near the grill. Price handed him a spatula without a word. It wasn’t about forcing him to cook; it was about making him a part of the process, showing him that this was something they could do together. Something they all earned.

When they finally sat down to eat, Ghost ate with them. He didn’t rush, but there was a difference—a quiet acceptance that for tonight, at least, he didn’t have to justify each bite.

---

After a few weeks of watching Ghost pick at his food or trade bites with the team, Soap came up with an idea. During one meal, he nudged Ghost with his elbow, keeping his tone light. “We should make a deal, yeah? You eat the stuff I don’t like, and I’ll eat the stuff you leave behind. Fair trade.”

Ghost’s brow furrowed behind the mask, clearly uncertain. Soap chuckled. “C’mon, it’ll be like the old days. You used to swap food in school, right?”

Ghost didn’t answer, but after a long pause, he nodded slightly. From then on, it became a kind of unspoken agreement. When Soap pushed something across the table—be it a slice of overripe fruit or some overly spiced vegetables—Ghost would accept it. And in return, Soap would take the smallest things Ghost left behind, almost imperceptibly lightening Ghost’s burden.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to show Ghost that here, among his team, he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

---

Over time, the team began to notice a shift in Ghost’s behaviour. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first. But once they started paying attention, it was clear: Ghost wasn’t avoiding food like he used to.

Price noticed that Ghost no longer waited until everyone was done before eating. He’d start his meal with the others, still quiet, still measured, but not as distant. Soap began to see him engaging a little more during mealtimes, even if it was just a word or two. Gaz observed that Ghost didn’t push his food around as much—he ate with purpose, not as if it were a necessary evil.

There were still days when Ghost seemed to withdraw, when the past resurfaced and eating became a task to endure. But there were more days now when Ghost joined them fully—silent but present, eating like the rest of the team.

One evening, when they were all sitting around the fire after a successful mission, Soap spoke up.

“You know, Ghost,” he said carefully, “you’ve been doing better with the grub lately.”

Ghost looked up, his mask casting shadows over his face. “What do you mean?”

Soap shrugged, keeping it casual. “You don’t seem to hate it as much anymore. Thought you might be warming up to the idea of eating with us.”

For a moment, there was only the crackle of the fire between them. Then Ghost, in his quiet way, responded. “Maybe I’m just learning there’s more to it than just staying alive.”

Price exchanged a look with Gaz. They understood. It wasn’t just about food—it was about control, survival, and trust. Ghost had spent years deprived of all three, and only now, after years with the team, was he learning to reclaim those things in small ways.

---

As the years passed, the team saw Ghost’s relationship with food continue to change. He still ate with discipline, still viewed food as fuel first and foremost. But there were moments now—rare, but growing more frequent—when Ghost seemed to take something else from it. Maybe it was the comfort of routine, the warmth of sharing a meal with his team, or the small joy of a hot meal after a cold mission.

Price noticed it first—Ghost reaching for seconds after a particularly gruelling op, something he never would’ve done in the early days. Soap spotted him lingering at the table after breakfast, nursing a cup of coffee instead of rushing off. And Gaz saw the subtle relaxation in Ghost’s posture when they ate together, as if he finally trusted that the food would always be there, and that he didn’t have to fight for every bite.

One evening, after a mission that left them all exhausted and bruised, the team gathered around a campfire to eat. The food was simple—rations, barely more than sustenance—but for the first time, Ghost didn’t sit apart. He sat with them, mask raised just enough to eat, his presence a quiet acceptance of something he had denied himself for so long.

“You alright there, Ghost?” Soap asked, breaking the silence as they all dug in.

Ghost didn’t look up, but there was something softer in his voice when he replied. “Yeah. I’m good.”

And in that moment, the team knew—they’d helped Ghost find something he never knew he needed. Not just food, but the warmth of a shared meal, the comfort of trust, and the peace of knowing that, here with them, he was safe.

---

As Ghost grew more comfortable, something subtle began to change in the way he approached meals. It wasn’t immediate, but there were moments now—small but significant—where Ghost seemed to relax, to take a breath and be present with the team.

One night, after a long mission, Soap handed him a plate and added a wink. “Figured you earned an extra helping tonight, mate.”

Ghost didn’t push it away. He didn’t say anything, but he sat down with the others, mask lifted just enough to eat. He still ate slowly, methodically, but there was a shift. When Soap handed him a piece of bread, Ghost accepted it without hesitation. When Price offered to share some of his coffee, Ghost took it, a silent nod of thanks exchanged.

The team noticed, but they didn’t say a word. They didn’t need to.

---

As Ghost began to accept more from his team, he also found small ways to show the others he understood. He’d never admit it out loud, but when someone left a piece of bread uneaten or picked at their food, Ghost would quietly take it without comment, ensuring nothing went to waste. Ghost knew better than anyone how crucial that was.

One night, when Price left a few scraps on his plate, Ghost picked them up without a word and finished them. Price raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Still hungry?” Gaz asked with a teasing grin.

Ghost didn’t respond, but Price gave a small smile. He knew what Ghost was doing—it was his way of contributing, of making sure they all understood. And even if Ghost would never admit it, Price appreciated it. It was Ghost’s way of reciprocating, meeting them in the middle. Even though he would never admit to it, they knew, and that was enough.

[krakenshaped]

Fresh Start || Part 1 || Part 2

[tangledinink]

new gemini update was so good as always but I can't stop thinking:

big mama: there's nothing wrong with my sons

splinter: you fucked up two perfectly good kids is what you did. look at blue. he's got an eating disorder

wwhhhattttt? nooo, don't be silly. leo doesn't have an eating disorder.

leo and donnie have eating disorders--

[littlespidermonkey]

I think in the universe where the Cullens aren't in Forks, Bella Swan takes a while to come out of her shell, but when she does, she's witty and passionate and smart as a whip, even if she's still quiet and reserved. She sits with Jessica Stanley, who demands the best of everyone, and tells her friends about her boyfriend down on the rez, who is sweet and caring and funny and good with his hands, who works for everything he's ever had.

After class, during a sleepover, Bella whispers to tell Angie and Jess about the night after prom, even though her father, loving and careless, worries about her only a normal amount and loves Jacob Black like his own. When she gets into Dartmouth--all by herself, through study sessions in garages and with Jessica and in Angela's house--she chooses to go to Stanford instead. She misses the heat and light on her skin, even after falling in love with the rain. Jessica comes with her; Angela and Eric go to U of Washington in Seattle instead, for education and journalism respectively.

Bella makes sure to call every week and then one day she drives down to Seattle and her boyfriend, warm like the sun she loves and at least twice as reliable, becomes her fiancé. The ring isn't especially big or ornate or pricey, but the way she smiles could trick anyone into thinking that it was. All of her friends, new and old, are waiting at the small party afterwards, and Bella laughs the entire time. The engagement cake--chocolate, her favourite--is sweet and moist against her tongue.

She moves back to Forks once she gets her masters in information sciences and becomes the town's librarian. She gets married a month before the move, barefoot in the surf and her old prom dress, both her parents weeping with joy and Billy Black beaming damn near as bright as his son, Sue Clearwater holding his hand.

She raises her kids --both beautiful children, blessed with Jake's thick, long hair--with Angela and Eric's and takes them down to Los Angeles to visit their auntie Jess and her husband Quil, who lavishes them with gifts from her career as a top surgeon. She jokes about having to support Quil's career as an environmental lawyer and displays each and every one of his wins alongside her diplomas. When William Black II decides he wants to be a doctor too, she writes him a shining letter of recommendation to her alma mater. Sarah, who has always been the spitting image of her father, joins and eventually takes over Jacob's mechanic shop.

On occasion, Bella fights with Jacob, even though he's the love of her life. Despite this, she is never afraid of him, and he never stops her from doing what she wants. Instead, he goes out and works on his cars and comes back in an hour later with slightly greasy hands and a bouquet of flowers from Emily Young's little garden, planted to celebrate her cousin Leah Uley's wedding. Bella makes him muffins, recipe courtesy of Sue and missing bites courtesy of Seth, Colin, Sarah, Will, and Claire, with raspberries, not blueberries, just how Jake likes them. They make up, and they make changes, and they go on.

Eventually, both slower and quicker than she realizes, Bella gets old. She lives in fear of losing herself, of losing her husband and her children, like her grandmother had. But she remembers her grandkids to the very end, even gets to meet her first great-grandchild a week before it happens. Her heart gives out before her brain does, too weak and too slow.

It was too full of love, the letter from Jacob says. Sarah reads it. Her father passed a day after his wife--simply too heartbroken to live without her. Much of the town of Forks and hordes of family attend their funeral, remembering a life well lived.

It is an unremarkable life, in the grand scheme of things. She does not live to be a thousand; she is no great beast, with speed like the wind and strength; she does not discover her powers or lead a great defiance. Bella Black, happy and human and surrounded by love, could never imagine wanting anything else.

[the-kr8tor]

Oh I have a Drabble idea if that’s ok! What about hobie with reader who really laughs for the first time? Like she’s a pretty easy person to make laugh and has a good sense of humor but something just gETS her and he sees her laugh to the point of tears for the first time. I feel like that’d be cute. Also it can be GN if you prefer!

Hi hun! Thank you for requesting ❤️ your prompt was so cute, hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, established relationship, food mention, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Your hands are sticky and smelling of citrus, breaking off another piece of orange and placing it onto Gwen's waiting hand, she hums a thankful tune, her head slumped on your shoulder, still feeling the after effects of her latest mission.

Hobie's sitting in front of you, legs casually draped over your lap, his shoes grazing your suit, but you don't mind, as long as he's recuperating. A cold compress placed on his eyes, blocking out the harsh lights of the cafeteria.

You tap the table, getting his attention. He pulls the edge of the cold compress, peeking at you. Hobie raises a pierced brow.

You raise a piece of orange, ready to throw at his mouth, he understands completely, mouth open, trying to angle it better.

You toss it, the orange slice flips in the air, landing directly in Hobie's mouth.

He pumps his fist in the air, while Gwen tiredly claps. You giggle at Hobie's reaction, rubbing a soothing hand over the tensed muscles in his leg.

"You want another one?" You crane your neck towards Gwen, her brows knitting together when Hobie jokingly opens his mouth full of chewed orange, showing it to her.

"Disgusting!" She tosses an orange skin at him, bonking him directly on his forehead.

Hobie chuckles, satisfied with her reaction. But he isn't satisfied with yours, Hobie watches as you laugh softly, the orange in your hands bounces slightly in your grip. He's determined to make you laugh louder, imagining how adorable the sound could be.

"Hey guys!" Miles greets you three, he's accompanied by Pavitr, they saunter towards your table, Pavitr's clutching at the shell of his ear.

"What?!" Pavitr asks loudly. Miles jumps away slightly.

"What's up with him?" Gwen gestures towards Pavitr, he looks at everyone with an apologetic face.

"You alright there, big man?" Hobie asks.

"There was a massive blast on our last mission, it blew out his eardrums" Miles explains, while the boy next to him looks at him questioningly, clearly not hearing anything he's saying.

"Did you guys go to the medbay? Get it checked out?" You stand up, handing Pavitr an orange slice.

"We went to the med bay, spider-doctor said he'll be fine in a few hours" Miles takes your seat next to Gwen. You nod while you're trying to hand Pavitr an orange, but he's too occupied at tugging his ear.

"Can I interest you in an orange, in these trying times?" You joke, but it flies over Pavitr's head (ears?)

"What?!" He asks loudly.

"Do you want an orange?!" You yell out, making other spider people look at you weirdly. "Sorry!" You wave at them.

"I'm sorry! I can't hear you! My ears are ringing!"

"You should answer it then," Hobie jokes nonchalantly.

You laugh loudly a second later, turning everyone's attention to you, clutching your stomach as happy tears prick your eyes.

Everyone gets startled by your loud guffaw, Gwen and Miles laugh, your chortle making theirs louder. They're not laughing at you though, they're clearly laughing with you. Gwen slaps Miles shoulders, Hobie didn't foresee how his little joke got everyone cackling hard.

You keel over, knees giving out. Hobie was too occupied at basking in your laughter, he didn't notice you sitting on the floor, gasping for breath.

He quickly jumps up, grabbing your forehead, shielding it from the dirty floors of the cafeteria. Hobie notices that everyone in the room is in stitches, guess your laughter was contagious.

As much as he loves the sound of your happiness, you need to stop for air, or else you might actually faint from too much laughter.

Hobie crouches down, cupping your jaw. He chuckles at your tear stained cheeks, your nose flaring up, skin, hot from laughing too hard. Happiness suits you, he thinks.

Hobie rubs your cheeks with his thumb, his other hand massaging your back, trying to calm you down. "Breathe, you gotta inhale, lovey"

Inhaling deeply, your laughter subsides slowly, but little chuckles still leave your lips. You place your head on his chest with a thud, embarrassed.

"Oh god, I needed that" you hold onto his neck for support, hearing the roaring laughter slowly die down "that was so embarrassing though" you look up at him, Hobie's staring directly into your eyes, lopsided grin on his lips.

"Nah, you're good" Hobie pats the top of your head, leaving a quick peck on it, heat rises back in your cheeks, but for a different reason this time.

You bat your eyelashes "Thanks Hobie" giving him your best smile.

He helps you back on your feet, caressing your arm fondly. Your friends make gagging noises, showing their displeasure at your public display of affection.

"What's so funny?" Pavitr asks, feeling left out.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging if you enjoyed ❤️

[teencopandthesourwolf]

OH, DEER

for @sterekdrabbles 31.01.24 challenge. the prompt words were: SCENT, OBSCENE and CONTAIN.

#established relationship, #werewolf derek hale, #stiles stilinski's scent, #food, #pov stiles.

.

Reaching for the venison jerky—dude, seriously?!—Derek drops a pack into the shopping cart before leaning in and sniffing Stiles's throat, growling at the scent right there in the snack aisle.

It is weird and hot, in embarrassingly equal measure.

“Venison’s from the Latin venari. Means ‘to hunt’... Did you, uhhh,” Stiles gulps. “Did you kn—oh, God.” His entire body shivers as Derek tongues his jugular.

S-l-o-w-l-y.

Stiles can't contain himself; he full-on moans, loud and unbridled and obscene.

“MADISON! CLEAN-UP ON AISLE FOUR!”

When Stiles' eyes drop absurdly to his own crotch, Derek innocently asks, “We need tissues, babe?”

.

[acetier]

"feel free to ask literally anything about torin!" Oh Boy I don't want to spam ur inbox with TOO MUCH bc he and varre live in my head rent free so for now I will ask the most pressing thing on my mind....... torin overthrows mohg as per your first post about them, right? How do you think varre reacted to that???? I can never imagine killing mohg would go over too smoothly with him, so I'm curious if/how torin was able to win him over!!

"I'll ensure you regret this, my lambkin..."

((aftermath under the cut))

it didn't go over smoothly at all, aka torin is once again reminded that his actions have consequences and those consequences are rarely (if ever) good :'^D varre's still fanatically loyal to mohg and views any attack against his master as an attack against himself, so torin killing mohg would be an unforgivable betrayal.

i ended up killing varre at the end of his questline in my first playthrough haha. i think for them to have a (sort of?) happy ending as they are now, torin would need to be content with serving the dynasty alongside varre and abandoning the rest of his quest (which he isn't willing to do as part of what drove him to varre in the first place is his desire for revenge and he can't give that up so easily).

on the other hand if you want to imagine a scenario where varre ends up surviving, he and torin would need to go their separate ways for a while. when they meet back up it'd be after torin resolves his quest for vengeance and comes to terms with his losses and also probably after he's burned the erdtree (and melina). by then they've both been through the wringer and are so Tired of it all that it's easier to fall back into comforting old habits with each other. it'd still take them a while to fully reconcile tho :'^)

[teathattast]

friendly reminder to make sure you're getting enough calories and proper nutrition. your brain can't function properly without it, which in turn affects your ability to have healthy emotional regulation and impacts overall mental health

[taegularities]

some men are textbook villains fr