#best Thanksgiving recipes

[fullcravings]

Best Gooey Toll House Chocolate Chip Pie Recipe

[watermelinoe]

i feel bad bc i think my dad was disappointed in the schaum tortes... they were something his grandma used to make and we used her recipe but she probably knew a lot more things that were just common sense to her so she didn't write them down. but we looked up some stuff online and i think we can get it right next time

[thebloggerman]

Best Recipes for Classic Thanksgiving Dinner: A Timeless Feast

[cinewhore]

leave it to my brother to coordinator thanksgiving at his house and just...not give any details as to what is actually happening.

[jade-kristina]

Best Thanksgiving Recipes Weekend Bites

[foohgawz]

Casseroles - Squash and Apple Bake

[twiceastasty]

Creamy Roasted Pumpkin Pie

Get my favorite pumpkin pie recipe in my Flathead Beacon column. This blog post has all of the homemade components I put in it. Learn to make Creamy Roasted Pumpkin Pie.

This week, I share my favorite pumpkin pie recipe in my Twice as Tasty column for the Flathead Beacon. It seems fitting not just for the season but also because the introduction to my first column a year ago began with Mike Kordenbrock’s story and Hunter D’Antuono’s photos of another family favorite: Crumble-Top Deep-Dish Apple Pie. I almost always make one or both of these pies for Thanksgiving…

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

lover, you should've come over - m. schmidt

a/n: you guys should have seen this one coming! as always i appreciate any likes and reblogs and hope you enjoy :) warnings: suggestive themes, big angst, lots of talk about tattoos and pain and needles, mike having horrible anxiety and commitment issues, reader is mostly gender neutral except for one thing ! tattoo aftercare, hurt/comfort, kissing word count: 3.6k summary: you get a tattoo, and it terrifies mike. mostly because he realizes how much you love him. pairing: mike schmidt x gn!reader now playing: lover, you should've come over - jeff buckley "my body turns and yearns/for a sleep that won't ever come/it's never over/my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder."

Penny has done almost all of your tattoos, save for the stick and poke star you gave yourself while you were way too high to be handling that sort of equipment, and a few flash designs you’ve gotten for holidays. And usually, you keep it simple and easy, pitching a design idea and getting a finished stencil a few hours later.

But this time, you go into the shop a few months before you plan to get the tattoo and describe to her what you want. She’s shocked that you want a half sleeve—It’s a big step, she tells you, and it’ll mean sitting for a few hours while she does her work. It’ll be painful, and the design will take a few weeks to get made, because she wants to give you the best possible design.

She does good work. When you visit again in about three weeks, you put down a deposit and make an official date to get it done. October 9th.

You go home that night to your small, but warm home to find your boyfriend trying to make chicken parm. His goal all year has been to learn how to cook, not just to make things out of a box. You know a bit better how to cook, but you let him improve his skills, always providing helpful, gentle critiques.

Abby is worse at being gentle.

She’s brutal with her brother’s cooking, and even though Mike loves your gentle words, he appreciates Abby’s feedback, and just wants her to eat a full plate of food before bed each night.

Tonight, his food smells good. You mentioned about a month ago how you missed your mom’s chicken parm, and since then, he’s been reading and researching different recipes at work. Ever since he quit working at Freddy’s, he’s put down the book of dreams and has picked up cookbooks, working his way up slowly.

You tell him he’ll be making Thanksgiving Dinner in no time. You kiss his jaw when you say that, and later, he returns the favor by placing a kiss to your shoulder.

You go to him, standing in the kitchen, as he squints at the recipe book in front of him. He wears washed blue jeans, an old Foo Fighters tee shirt and a pair of blue fuzzy socks. A towel hangs over his shoulder as he mutters to himself, as he gets ready to put some garlic bread in the oven.

You’re still in your work clothes, though, it’s not as if you’re wearing anything fancy. Just a different pair of jeans, and a tee shirt with your shop’s logo on it. Your hair is messy, and you smell vaguely of dirt. The smell has become comforting to him in his time knowing you.

You step closer to him, a hand resting gently on his shoulder. He relaxes at your touch.

“Hey, Mike.” You say softly, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Hey, how was your day?”

“Not too bad. The food smells pretty good.”

“You think so?” His voice is hopeful, especially since he’s trying to live up to your memories of the dish as a kid. It’s his way of thanking you for being so good to him while he’s gotten his shit together.

“Mhm. I’m gonna go wash up and have Abby help me set the table.” You tell him. You kiss his jaw quickly before heading off to the bathroom to scrub the dirt from beneath your fingernails. You wash your face and arms too and begin to realize how domestic this all is.

You never saw yourself having kids, and never thought of yourself dating someone who did.

And you still never think about having kids, but you did find yourself treating Abby as if she is your own. This has nothing to do with how much you adore her brother. Abby is just easy to love. You wonder if anyone’s ever told her that.

When your work boots find themselves at the end of your bed, you change into a muscle tee. You’re awfully fond of them. You find a pair of Mike’s fuzzy socks and slip them on too. You take a moment to stare at your shoulder in the mirror, imagining how it’ll look when ink covers it. Most of your tattoos are on your legs, and for a long time, this arm has been bare of any ink. You’ve been saving it for this project for years.

You go to Abby’s room and knock gently before entering. You find her painting at this aisle you got for her birthday. She’s been working on this painting for a few days now, and it’s turning out quite nice.

“Hey, Abs.” You say softly, and she puts her paintbrush down to give you this big, toothy grin. “Go wash up and help me set the table?” You ask.

“Sure.” She hums and starts to skip along to the bathroom, but you stop her at the door.

“And remember, even if Mike’s food is bad, what do we say?”

“Mm, this food is so good and not horrible at all!”

“Abby.”

She sighs.

“This is unlike anything you’ve made before, and I appreciate the effort?”

“That’s it.” You let her go wash up, and then go to set the table.

When Mike eventually serves dinner, you’re starved. You don’t care if it’s bad, or if it’s burnt, you know you’ll like it because you weren’t able to take a lunch break that day. But it genuinely looks good.

He cuts up Abby’s food and puts the plate in front of her before sitting down and looking to you two for a reaction. You take a bite, and you have to pause.

Did Mike really cook something not just edible, but… good?

Not fine, not decent, really good.

“Mike, this is—”

“Amazing!” Abby gasps, going in for another bite. His cheeks flush.

“You guys don’t have to pretend, it’s alright—”

“No, Mike, we’re not pretending, it’s really good!” You defend, going in for a second bite yourself. “Try it!”

He does, and he even looks shocked at the quality of the food he’s produced. And it sets the mood for the whole dinner, until you eventually blurt out,

“I booked a tattoo appointment for next week.”

“What are you getting?” Mike can’t ever admit this to you, but he adores your tattoos. He thinks the placement of them are all wonderful, even if they’re smaller. He likes to kiss them, to trace his fingers over them, to just admire them in the summer.

“It’s a surprise.” You tell him. Owning your own shop and being your own boss has its perks. You have no worries about people judging you for your half sleeve, deciding that you can just ban them from your shop.

Your conversation drifts off and you focus on other things. When you’re done, you and Mike begin to clean up with him, letting some of the pan soak in the sink. You sit on the counter, drying some of the plates as Mike rinses.

“Thank you for dinner.” You tell him.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Comfortable silence fills the room. “You’re really not gonna tell me what you’re getting?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” You smile softly. He dries his hand and steps between your legs. His hands land on either side of you, caging you in.

“Tease.” He mumbled, leaning forward, and kissing your shoulder. A hand goes to his hair, your fingers tangling in his locks.

“I’m not teasing, I’m just being a little secretive.” You tell him, playing with his hair. You’re a fan of the scruff he’s been growing out lately.

“Isn’t it gonna hurt?”

“Yeah, but I’ll take breaks and remember to eat.” You tell him. “This isn’t my first tattoo, Mike.”

“I know, baby.” He says softly, “I just get worried—”

“You get worried about me? And yet, when I’m worried about you, you ignore me but—” He cuts you off with a kiss, and your hands land on his jaw, the scruff tickling your face.

• • •

The ink swirls around your shoulder, a moth wrapping around your shoulder and reaching to the top of your arm. Vines wrap around the moth, as flowers bloom in different places. Your birth flower is one of them, as well as your mother’s. You also place Abby and Mike’s around the moth, maybe protecting it. Thorns poke out of some of the vines, and the ink covers your shoulder, and down to just above your elbow.

You got it done on a Saturday afternoon, leaving late enough so Mike could sleep in without having to deal with Abby, but being able to give them some time to relax together.

It takes a few hours, and by the end of it, you’re exhausted. As with all your other tattoos, you’re sore, but this is a new type of sore. You ache for Mike’s hands on you, to hold you and kiss your shoulders, even though he can’t kiss your left shoulder for a few days.

The second skin will remain on your arm for a day or two, and then you’ll have to go through the process of moisturizing your tattoo.

You have Penny take lots of photos of it before you head home, Mike and Abby both waiting in anticipation for you to come home and show them your new ink. You’re excited to show them, since there’s a connection to them in the art. 

When you open the door, Abby runs to you and immediately starts to look for the ink in question. She gasps when she sees it, all wrapped up on your arm.

“It’s a moth,” You tell her, “With my favorite plants.” You crouch down to point out different plans in the works. “These are my mom’s birth flowers, they’re carnations.” You tell her, “Do you know what these are?” You point to another flower.

Abby shakes her head, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the fresh, raw flesh of the person she considers to be her caregiver.

“They’re lily of the valley flowers. They’re your birth flower.” You reach out and tuck hair behind her ear. Then, you point to the third flower. “And these? They’re honey suckles. They’re Mike’s birth flower.”

Mike watches your interaction, listening to your explanation of the tattoo. Suddenly, this anxiety pools in his chest. You’ve been living together for a few months, but somehow a symbol of him and Abby being engraved on your skin makes things all too real.

He could cry.

“Did you get the flowers because you’re a flower person?” You grin, knowing she doesn’t remember the title of your job.

“Botanist, you mean? Sort of, but you two mean a lot to me, and I wanted to tribute something to you guys.” You confess.

She grins and turns to look at Mike.

“I wanna be a tattoo artist when I’m older.” Mike is pale with anxiety.

He wants to tell you it looks good, that it’s brilliantly done, but he doesn’t find it in himself. He wants to run, to abandon this relationship at the door, to never speak to you again to avoid the fact that he wants you desperately and thinks he might marry you one day.

He walks off to the bathroom, and he’s unsure if it’s to throw up or to cry.

You’re disappointed, because you wanted him to like it desperately, since this tattoo is now on you forever, and you wanted it to be a tribute to him. It almost hurts you that he doesn’t love it. Or at least pretend to. Instead, his disdain is visible on his face, and you do your best to turn your attention back to Abby.

“Wanna help me make dinner?” You smile softly, and she nods.

“Did your tattoo hurt?” She acts gently.

“Yeah, but with a good artist it goes quickly, and they don’t aim to torture you.” You explain, as you begin to make mac and cheese.

As she sets the table, you turn back to her and ask, “Can you go get Mike for dinner?” She nods and skips along to your bedroom, where Mike sits on the bed, frustrated with himself.

“Mike?” She asks gently. “We’re making mac and cheese.”

“I’m not hungry.” He says softly, and Abby can just tell something isn’t right.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t feel well..”

“Oh…” she suspects this is a lie.

“I’m sorry. Tell them I said sorry.” Tears prick Mike’s eyes. He’s unsure why he’s like this, and why he can’t just admire your tattoo and love you and tell you how much you mean to him. But he can’t. He gets the words out. He wants to love you so badly but something in him demands to not let him be happy.

He lays on the bed and tries to stay quiet as he cries.

• • •

Hours later, you sit at the table anxiously, your hands tapping on the wood, a cold bowl of Mac and Cheese on the table. You decide to get up to clean up dinner, and just as you do, soft steps creep out of the bedroom and into the kitchen area.

Mike stands and stares at the cold dinner that he feels bad for rejecting. He should just tell you what’s bothering him. Instead, his gaze turns and looks at you, doing the dishes.

“You didn’t have to make dinner.”

“You didn’t seem well, and Abby needed to eat.”

This comment sparks a much larger fire in Mike, and he isn’t sure why he’s angered by how much you care about his sister, his world.

“You aren’t her mom, you don’t have any reason to make her dinner or put her to bed—”

“Yeah, Mike, well, You’re not really her dad.” You glare. “I’ve taken care of her for months, fed her, made sure she’s taken care of, I’ve picked her up from school, and now suddenly, you’ve decided I have no right to just care about her? Fuck you, if you don’t love me anymore, then don’t take it out on your sister, talk to me like a god damn grown up and stop acting like a child.” You spit, angrily turning back around to keep doing your dishes so that Mike doesn’t see your red face or your tears.

With your back turned, he can see the moth on your shoulder blade, and he aches to trace the lines of your tattoos, kissing the skin around it. But cotton fills his mouth every time he tries to sew the gap between you two.

And your words strike him. He knows why you might think he doesn’t love you anymore, but he does. He loves you deeply and finds himself enamored with you, and yet he can’t even compliment this tattoo that you have obviously put a ton of time, effort and money into.

“I’m sorry—” You start, but he cuts you off.

“I think we should give each other some space.” The words hit you like a ton of brick, and you’re ready to get on your hands and knees and beg him, beg him to not leave, beg him to forgive you (for what, you don’t know), beg him to touch you, beg him to want you.

“What..?”

“I just think I need some space.” He said softly, leaning against the kitchen doorway. You want to ask if he’s hungry, to kiss away all the sadness in the worry lines of his face.

You nod, bite your tongue. He wants to hold you and tell you he doesn’t mean it.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” You mumble, sighing softly. You also plan to leave early before Mike gets up.

Mike steps towards you, maybe to apologize. You step past him to go get pajamas from your dresser, not letting him grasp onto you. You don’t want him to apologize now. You want him to sit in his regret and you want to sit in your anger.

As you attempt to fall asleep that night, you pray Abby didn’t hear your conversation with him.

Both of you try to drift to sleep and salt streams from your eyes and into your ears.

• • •

A few days pass. Your tattoo starts to heal, and you take the second skin off your shoulder and arm and begin the process of aftercare.

You and Mike exchanged a total of about thirty words over the next few days. Abby noticed your angst towards each other and tried to get the two of you to make up. She figured that Mike was being an idiot, and just needed to apologize.

She was right, but he didn’t want to admit that to his kid sister.

It’s hell. You have to pretend that you don’t want to beg for his forgiveness, but you know that neither of you are blameless. Your pride tells you not to be the first one to cave. His anxiety tells him that you hate him.

When he gets home one afternoon from work, you’re napping in bed. He knows the couch isn’t that comfortable and he’s sure you’re home because you’d mentioned to Abby that you weren’t feeling well. You probably didn’t expect to still be asleep when he got home.

But you’re wearing one of his shirts. He kisses your head and leaves a glass of water and cold medicine on the nightstand, before going to make himself busy somewhere else, as if not to disrupt your rest.

He takes one last glance at you before he leaves.

One night, he comes home from work late. You take it as an opportunity to take a hot shower after putting Abby to bed and taking a few minutes to sit in the bedroom that you missed while sleeping on the couch.

Besides, your bones ached from that uncomfortable couch while you were spoiled, used to Mike’s warm bed.

You barely hear the front door open as you continue your nightly routine. You need to apply lotion to your tattoo, to keep it moisturized as it heals. But you find yourself struggling to reach your shoulder.

Mike watches you from the doorway of the bedroom, biting his lip. The bags around his eyes have grown darker since your fight.

He takes off his boots first, and then strips his top down to an undershirt, then takes off his jeans. If you weren’t so busy, you’d acknowledge how handsome he looked in just his boxers and a gray tee shirt.

The bed dips behind you, as he sits behind you. You stop what you’re doing.

“Give me the lotion.” He says softly, and with a sigh of defeat, maybe even a bit of relief, you hand him the lotion. He squirts some lotion on his hands, then begins to rub it into your skin. You shudder at the contact, and he feels tears in his eyes again. He missed you. “I’m sorry I didn’t say I liked your tattoo. I love it.”

“I’m sorry I said you didn’t love me, and I’m sorry I said you weren’t Abby’s dad.”

“But I’m not—”

“But you are her parent.”

“So are you.”

A silence fills the room.

“What happened on Saturday?”

“I got anxious when I saw Abby and I’s birth flowers on you. Like how much I loved you was just engraved in your skin, and I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t mean to push you away, I was just terrified. Terrified that you’re going to leave. Terrified that I won’t be able to protect you.” His voice cracks at the end, and he leans his head against your shoulder that isn’t inked.

Your head turns to kiss his head.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know..” he says softly, but a part of him doesn’t believe it. You and Abby, you’re the only ones who have stayed, the only ones he’s been able to save. He doesn’t know who he is without the two of you. “I’m sorry, I was such a dick.”

“Yeah, but so was I.” You tell him.

“I love your tattoo. I love all of your tattoos. All of them. I love kissing them. I’m desperate for this one to heal so I can kiss this shoulder again.”

“Thank you for helping me with it. It itches like a son of a bitch.” You tell him, a weak smile on your face. Tears stain your shirt.

“Can we go back to normal now? I’ve missed you.”

“I miss you so much.” You turn and wrap your arms around him, the warmth radiating from his body as he holds you close. You wonder if either of you will ever be able to let yourselves be loved.

You hope to let each other try.

You kiss him, salty tears mixing, as you hold him close. He’s careful of your tattoo, not wanting to scratch or hurt you. He’s gentle in a way that betrays him. He desires you in this way that transcends want or need, something that is vital, as if it were breathing.

Yet his hands remain respectful. Gentle. You’re the one that adjusts your position to be over him, as you gently push him back against the bed, kissing him deeper.

He decides he will marry you someday. That maybe the idea of being with you for the rest of his life isn’t scary.

Not when you kiss him like that.

[random-writer-23]

Logan with a reader who loves to cook for him?? I’m from the south and food is a love letter here!! 😤 deer steak, peach cobbler, biscuits and gravy!!!

Need to fatten him up before the Canadian winter gets to him 🥺 come home Logan your dinners gettin cold

~~~Wonderful request gorgeous!!!! Had my stomach grumbling while I was writing it. I hope you enjoy it and that this is at least somewhere along the lines of what you were looking for!! This was the only photo of Logan I could find where he’s eating~~~

~~~On a separate note, I'm sorry I've been away for a bit y'all I've been having a rough time, my nana passed away recently so I've been struggling with that. I may be posting less frequently for a while, hope y'all understand. But I did wanna get back into writing and I feel this is the perfect request to write to make my return. My nana was always making that good Southern food for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Her collard greens had to be the best I've ever had in my life, her broccoli casserole, mac and cheese, biscuits the whole shebang. She always had me in the kitchen with her insisting I learn how to make everything so I could carry on her recipes so when I saw this request I knew I had to pull out her recipe book. I know she'd also want me to go back to writing cause she loved Wolverine. She never got to see Deadpool and Wolverine but I showed her the clip where Hugh's shirt explodes and she went WOWIE! and watched it at least 10 times so I feel this is a good way to honor her memory, she'd want me to be thinking about Hugh Jackman. Nana this one is for you I love you.~~~

~~~Mostly fluff, implied oral at the end but nothing is explicitly written, also mostly unedited cause it's just a quick little thing~~~

I focus on my Nana's broccoli casserole recipe in front of me, carefully mixing the blend of cream of mushroom soup, eggs, onions and mayonnaise in a bowl until it’s thick and creamy. I pull the bag of broccoli florets out of the freezer and add them to the mixture taking care to make sure they’re thoroughly coated. I take some of the cheddar cheese shreds and sprinkle it into the bowl stirring it in thoroughly before pouring the ingredients into a dish. I take extra care in sprinkling whatever shredded cheese I have left on the top of the casserole. I read from my Nana's recipe, crumbling up a few packets of Ritz crackers, and sprinkling the crumbs along the top of the casserole alongside the shredded cheese, just as she taught me when I was little. I grab my oven mitts opening the oven door, gripping the casserole dish tightly in my hands, slipping it into the oven. I set the oven timer to 45 minutes, pulling my oven mitts off. I turn my attention back to the pots on the stove, lifting up the lids to check on my collard greens and mashed potatoes. As soon as I lift the lids up the sweet aroma of a home-cooked meal fills the kitchen. A smile making its way onto my face. I begin clearing the table setting up the placemats and getting the plates and silverware ready. I jump slightly as the front door opens and closes, Logan's voice wafting through the air. “Darlin I’m home!” He calls out and I grin as I hear his voice, I poke my head out of the kitchen and I sight watch him kicking off his shoes at the front door. He looks up catching sight of me and I watch him take a deep breath inhaling the smell of my cooking. “Something smells delicious” He chuckles taking a few steps towards me, I step out of the kitchen, meeting him halfway and his eyes roam my figure hungrily taking in the sight of me in my apron. “And something else looks delicious” He chuckles wrapping his arms around me.

“Hi baby” I grin, giggling as he nuzzles his nose against the top of my head, “have a good day?” I ask softly, and he grunts running his hands through my hair and kissing the top of my head. 

“Better now I’m with you” He chuckles gruffly holding me tighter and I smile, “So whatcha got cooking for me” he pulls away slightly, his hand cupping my face, tucking my hair behind my ear, his other hand finding its place on my lower back.

“Hmm, some broccoli casserole, mashed potatoes, collard greens…” I grin looking up at him, fingers lightly tracing shapes on his chest. He groans, his lips falling down to mine in a passionate kiss. 

“Oh darlin you treat me so well” He chuckles, his lips falling from mine, ghosting along my jaw where he presses light kisses against it. His lips kiss down my neck and I let my head fall back slowly as he nips gently at the skin of my collarbone “Always cooking delicious meals f’me” he groans lightly, burying his nose in the crook of my neck inhaling deeply.

“Well you take such good care of me, only fair I take care of you too” I giggle.

“And you do it wonderfully” he grins, tightening his hold on me, I wrap my arms around his neck. “I appreciate everything you do for me" He kisses me, murmuring against my lips "lemme show you how much” He kisses me again, his hands leaving my lower back to palm at the fat of my thighs, massaging the skin rhythmically. I giggle leaning into his touch, closing my eyes only to have them spring open at the sound of the oven alarm going off I chuckle lightly as he groans loudly at the interruption. Keeping his forehead pressed against mine.

“Baby as much as I’d love that,  I gotta go check on the food… can’t let it burn” I say softly pushing lightly against his chest and he grumbles reluctantly letting me go. 

“Fine fine, just so all your hard work doesn’t go to waste” He grumbles and I smile patting his cheek lightly, weaseling out of his arms and walking back into the kitchen. He trails after me sniffing the air, humming quietly to himself. I grab a pair of oven mitts, opening the oven taking the food out putting the dish on the kitchen counter. I turn the stovetop off stirring the collard greens and mashed potatoes one last time before grabbing two plates gently scooping a large portion of food onto Logan's plate. Repeating the process and scooping a slightly smaller portion onto mine. I hand the plates over to Logan who sets them down on the table pulling my chair out for me. 

“Thanks honey” I grin and he pushes my chair in when I sit down, he grins at me slyly pouring me a glass of wine. Pouring another for himself before settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. I take a small bite of each food giving it a small taste test, while Logan across the table digs in like a man starved, practically scarfing down his food. I chuckle lightly sipping my glass of wine. 

“Oh baby you outdid yourself” He mumbles through a mouthful of food, making me laugh. “Absolutely delicious” He compliments and I smile. 

“Used Nana’s recipe” I grin, “same one she used for Thanksgiving dinner” I chuckle, scooping up another forkful of food and guiding it into my mouth. “well thank you, Nana” He chuckles raising his glass of wine, waiting till I tap mine against his, before he takes a sip. It doesn’t take too long for us to finish up our food and I start to stand up as soon as Logan's plate is cleared, reaching across the table to grab it from him, but he tsks shaking his head at me. “Oh no you don’t” he says making me pause my movements my hand hovering over his empty plate. He smiles walking behind me putting his hands on my shoulders massaging gently kissing the back of my neck, gently pushing me back down into my chair.

“What?” I laugh, letting him guide me back into my chair.

“You cooked, which means I do dishes” He insists, and I chuckle.

“Alright, alright” I smile watching as he clears the plates from the table, he puts all the leftovers in containers and stores them in the fridge. Carrying the pots to the sink pouring soap in the pots letting the hot water run and fill them up. I watch him from my seat at the table taking another sip of wine, watching the muscles in Logan's arms flex as he scrubs the pots and pans rinsing them of soap before putting them in the dish rack to dry. He grabs a tea towel using it to dry his hands, as he turns around leaning back against the kitchen counter, his gaze landing on my figure. 

“Well I’m stuffed” he smiles setting the tea towel aside, “but…” He grins standing behind my chair massaging my shoulders again. He takes my hand tugging me out of my chair, holding me close to him, kissing me softly hands gripping my thighs, lifting me up slightly to sit on the dining table. He pulls my body to the edge of the table, making me lay back leaning on my elbows. He pulls up the chair I was previously sitting on, perching himself on the edge of my chair. He pulls my shorts off, my panties following not far behind. He tosses them aside letting them land in a forgotten corner of the room, his lips trailing along my thighs kissing them gently groaning softly at the taste of my skin. He grips my thighs guiding my legs over his shoulders, biting softly at my upper thighs, “I think I’ve saved just enough room for dessert” He purrs, his head dipping down between my legs. 

[supernovafics]

requesting for the ill be there for you universe! the kids are coming over so steve and r plan a lil dinner party… well they make the dinner together… and its just a little too domestic…. bonus if they end up dancing to some silly song on the radio because arent we all a sucker for dancing in the kitchen 😭😭😭😭😭 the kids walk in on them and are like 🤨🤨 those two need to get together now so baddddddddddd

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k words

warnings: explicit language

summary: in which a new year’s dinner at the apartment sparks a bet— that you and steve are completely unaware of— among the friend group 

author's note: thank u for the request !! happy new year<33

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・��.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Winter 1986

Steve heard the knock on the door first; you were way too engrossed in singing along to the song that was loudly playing to notice the sound. 

He maneuvered around you in the kitchen to go answer the door as you took a quick peek in the oven to check on the lasagnas. 

It was your idea to have this “New Year’s dinner” at the apartment— since you and Steve had been sick during the holidays and couldn’t see anyone, this was to make up for that— and Steve agreed. Of course, Robin and Eddie said that they would come, and then the kids were an immediate yes as well. 

Even though your and Steve’s collective cooking skills were not the best, you both still wanted to attempt and cook something for everyone, instead of simply ordering a couple of pizzas or takeout from some place. So, you got a lasagna recipe from Miss Johnson that she promised was very basic and couldn’t really be messed up; and so far, she’d been right. Although you did initially have to remake the sauce because of a mess up that you fully blamed on Steve and he fully blamed on you. But, after that, everything else luckily went fine. 

When Steve opened the door and you looked over to see everyone bounding into the apartment, it was then that you remembered just how big the friend group was— you could only imagine what that elevator ride up to the apartment had been like. 

“Is this The Breakfast Club soundtrack?” Robin asked, laughing as she slipped off her coat.

“Yes,” Steve answered. “This is what I’ve been subjected to for the past week.”

You immediately rolled your eyes at his words, which you somehow managed to hear over the loud music. “Oh, shut up, you were just singing along to the last song with me.”

“There’s only some truth to that,” He said as he walked over to the record player to turn the music down a bit. 

Everyone settled at the dining table that Steve’s mom bought for you two for the Thanksgiving dinner that you’d been forced to have here with your parents— that was still somehow a memory that lingered harshly in the back of your mind, like most interactions with your parents did. The table was only meant to fit six people, so the desk chairs that normally sat in your bedrooms were pulled out and placed at the table, and then two foldable chairs were borrowed from your other next door neighbor; this guy in his mid-sixties who would have weekly poker nights with his friends. You would continuously joke around with Steve and tell him that he should join in on the poker nights. In response, he’d always simply roll his eyes at you because you knew that he was bad at poker and he’d also rather not spend his Tuesday nights with random old men. 

Mike walked over to you and handed you a tupperware full of what you could tell were gingerbread cookies. “Since you missed the Christmas party, my mom wanted me to give these to you.”

You immediately smiled. “Holy shit, God bless that woman. Please tell her I said thank you.” 

He nodded at that and then went over to the table, sitting down next to El. 

Steve went back over to where you were in the kitchen and started reaching for the tupperware, but you immediately shooed his hand away. When he simply pouted at you, you rolled your eyes and then opened it so that he could grab a cookie, which he did and then broke it in half so that he could give a piece of it to you. 

“Is it just me or have they been acting extra old married couple lately?” Dustin asked, looking away from the interaction that just happened. 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Max answered almost immediately and pretty much everyone else simply nodded in agreement.

Neither you nor Steve were paying any attention to the conversation that was currently taking place barely ten feet away from you; instead you both were focused on finishing up the food. You were pulling one of the lasagnas out of the oven and Steve was grabbing the other before putting the store bought garlic bread in the oven— you both had figured that if the lasagna did end up turning out bad, there would at least be bread that neither of you had a hand in making to somewhat save the day. 

“I fully believe that this will be the year that they finally get together,” Lucas said, sounding very certain.

Robin shook her head at that. “No way. If they were gonna date, it would’ve happened already. Years ago, probably.”

She thought back to this past Halloween where you and Steve were dressed up in your Batman and Robin costume, and at some point during the night he ended up giving you a piggyback ride while you all were walking to some party, and she and Vickie were trailing a bit behind the two of you. She thought about how certain she had felt when answering Vickie’s question about if you two had ever dated. “They seem like they’d be perfect together, but I also think the world would implode if they ever tried something.” For the most part, that still felt entirely true. Even though it would’ve made complete sense if something happened, it still didn’t seem necessarily “possible” at this point— it felt like such a far-fetched idea.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Rob on this one. I don’t think they’ll ever actually get together,” Eddie said and then started laughing a bit as he said his next words. “Or it’ll happen twenty years down the road after they’ve both been married to other people and then divorced, and then they’ll finally realize that all they needed and wanted was each other.”

“Wow, that sounds like the most depressing movie ever,” Will told him. 

“I guess it wouldn’t be that sad since they would end up together in the end,” El said with a small shrug.

Eddie nodded. “Exactly.”  

“Okay, yeah, maybe that could happen, but I don’t think it would take that long anymore because things are so different now,” Dustin said. “They’re living together, they have a child together.” He gestured to Harold the Hamster’s cage that sat on the coffee table in the living room. “They’re practically already a couple. It’s inevitable now. Soon they’ll be married and there will be actual children involved, not just Harold.”

Robin rolled her eyes at his final statement. “They’re best friends. They’ve known each for like ten years.” 

“Yeah, which is just another reason why they’re definitely gonna end up together,” Lucas said. “Also, I can’t even remember the last time either of them went on a date, and Steve usually always talks about his dates.” 

“Actually, he was just going out with that girl last month,” Will chimed in. “Vanessa or something?”  

“And that ultimately led nowhere,” Max reminded him. 

Mike took a brief look over at you and Steve to make sure that you two still weren’t listening to the current conversation. “Okay, I have an idea. We should make this a bet. We each say when we think they’ll get together, and if it does end up happening we all give whoever got it right or was the closest five bucks.”

Eddie laughed before nodding. “I actually kind of like that idea.” 

“It’s a great idea,” Dustin said with a nod, and it didn’t necessarily surprise anyone when he pulled out a small notebook and pen out of his pocket because it somehow made sense that he would be the one to bring a notebook and pen to a dinner party; he was probably prepared for anything. 

He started off by saying February– because even though it was only a month away, it was in fact, the month of love— and then everyone started going around the table saying their guesses. Lucas said April, Max and El both said March, Mike said July, Will said August, Robin said a very certain “Never,” and Eddie finished by saying a playful and only slightly serious, “Twenty years.”

It was almost comical how oblivious you and Steve were to what was happening not that far away from you both. Instead, your attention was on grabbing enough silverware for everyone since the plates were already set on the table and Steve was pulling out some cups. 

“I think both of our moms would scold us for not setting everything out before they came,” You told Steve, laughing a bit.

“Very true. I guess our years of being forced to eat at fancy restaurants with them have truly taught us nothing,” He joked back and you smiled at that as you both walked over to the dining table. “We’re gonna bring over the lasagna in a second. What are you guys talking about?” 

“Nothing,” Eddie said casually as Dustin slipped his notebook back into his pocket, which was a subtle action that neither of you noticed. “Just some movie.”

Once everything was set on the table, you two went back to the kitchen to grab the lasagnas.

“The bread will be done in a couple minutes, so if the lasagna sucks we’ll eat that,” You said as you sat down in one of the two empty chairs left, which just so happened to be your desk chair. “Also, if it sucks, blame Steve, not me.”

He shook his head as he rolled his eyes at you and playfully poked your side before taking a seat in the other empty chair on the opposite side of the table. “If it sucks, blame both of us because this was a very mutual effort.”

Robin nodded. “Okay, got it. If this turns out to be the worst meal all of us have ever eaten we’ll make sure to hate both of you equally and not talk to either of you for at least a week.”

Luckily, the lasagna actually turned out pretty great.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

[i-mean-y-not]

ACCEPTANCE

Connie’s mother doesn’t care for you. In fact, you heard that you were the worst thing that happened to her son.

You can’t cook she says.

You’re a little too thick she says.

You don’t dress appropriately she says.

You don’t give a damn is what you used to say. But as the years go on, the worse it gets. She’s a short thing. Maybe four foot five on a good day. But her words dig at you every chance they get. Her heritage makes her that way she claims to Constance—what she and no one else calls him.

You’re in love with a man that never stood up to his mother.

Never defended you. Wouldn’t raise his voice at her in the slightest. And definitely wouldn’t bring you around for the longest time.

Connie says his mom has always been like this. Disapproving of every woman he’s ever brought home, and you begin to realize that the pattern has nothing to do with the women and everything to do with her. The rest of his family is kind, welcoming, you feel as though you’re part of the family around them. But his mother is one of the most disingenuous people you’ve ever met in your life.

You try your best when you first meet her. Bring her flowers, a fruit basket, and even going out of your way to buy her a personalized recipe book.

Connie often bragged about his mom’s cooking and said that her dream before she had all eight of her kids was to open her own restaurant. You figured this would be the closest thing that she would get.

But when you showed up looking modest and bearing gifts, she scoffed at you. And in her heavily accented voice told Connie, something that sounded very much like an insult. He merely rubbed at the back of his neck and grimaced.

You love him. That’s why you stay. But love is beginning to unravel your insides.

You never want to go to his family’s house for events. And to be honest, you don’t want to be seen with him. So when he leaves you stay home, claiming that you have errands to run.

When he asks, “Hey fat butt, wanna run to the store with me?” The only answer you give is a quiet shake of your head.

He notices immediately.

And he doesn’t chalk it up to hormones, or emotions, or even insecurity. He simply thinks you’re mad at him. He pesters you about it, often. With three months that it’s been happening, he hasn’t figured out the reason for your distance.

So when Thanksgiving rolls around he asks again, you offer another half truth and decline.

This time, however, he doesn’t let you get away with it. He pauses with his shoe halfway on his foot and lifts and eyebrow and question.

“What do you mean?” he responded to the answer you just gave him. It was a simple, no, but somehow his mind can’t warp around that.

“ I mean no, Connie. I’m going home.”

He looks at his you again albeit briefly. “Right, so what time will you be ready?”

Your eyes shifted to the side in slight confusion and instead of thinking the question you ask it out loud. “ Ready for what?”

In a clearly exasperated tone he declares, “To go to my parent’s house.”

Now you sigh and take a brief moment to collect your emotions. You ride to your feet slowly and mumble, “I said I’m going home, Connie.”

He looks off to the side and shakes his head slowly as if you’re the dumb one. “Yeah, I know. And your home is wherever I am so, get up and get dressed.”

You blink several times in irritation and your face is full of irritation when you say, “Did you not hear me, Constance?”

He hates his full name.

You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s because of the dead dad that he’s named after. Or the way it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. You know this, but you figure the only way to get him to listen is to piss him off.

That’s all you’ve been doing lately, both of you. He pisses you off by not listening, and you piss him off by not obeying. He takes a calming breath, and after putting on his simple, simple, gold chain, the crosses arms in indignation.

Connie is multifaceted. He could be extremely frustrating when he doesn’t get his way, but he can also be extremely accommodating if he does. But today. Today, it seems like the accommodation is going out of the window.

He pinches the bridge of his nose before uttering, “Fuck is there your problem?”

The one thing you won’t tolerate is disrespect.

So you fold your lips, before you say something you shouldn’t. Then, you take a few steps towards the closet and nod.

“Okay, Connie.” He takes it as a win.

You can see it in the way his lip quirks up slightly. You grab a nude sweater, khaki pants and thigh high brown boots. Once you’re done with your simple make make up you turn your head back to him.

“Ready.” To him it looks like he’s won. But you it looks like you’ve lost.

The small smile still fades on his lips when you snatch your keys off of the hook by the front door. “What are you doing?”

He grabs at your hand in frustration. “I’m driving.”

“You’re pissing me off. You know that?”

You give a small wince when you utter, “Likewise.”

This conversation has been a long time coming. And you’re itching to scream out your injustice. He watches as you put your keys back on the hook where they belong and proceed to take the bathroom. Your makeup takes you all of ten minutes and once you’re dressed, you’re reaching for your keys once again.

He’s there in a flash. Grabbing your wrist, gently, but with enough pressure to let you know he’s there. It doesn’t scare you. He shuts his eyes for a brief moment in what you assume is frustration.

How funny is it now that the shoe is on the other foot. Before an argument ensues, you swipe some lip gloss on and smile gently. “I’m going home, Connie and that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I just love me too.”

That does something. Although you’ve never really voiced it, he knows. Your tolerance, acceptance even is a challenge. Showing up to dinners and gatherings you weren’t invited to made things much worse than they were. Through it all you grin and bear it. Not because you want to, but because you love him.

That love outweighs the pain of rejection. But that love doesn’t come close to healing already irreparable damage caused. He sits his keys down and then he turns to you with the most sincere look on his face. His caramel turtleneck compliments his eyes and the khaki chinos tie in with his mahogany loafers.

“Okay,” he says, and holds his arms out when he sits on the bed. “Come here.”

You hesitate, not because you’re scared but because you’re worried that this conversation is way beyond its expiration date.

He pats at the space that he’s intentionally left open for you between and his legs and you’re sinking into his embrace immediately. As soon as you’re in his arms he begins his declaration. “First of all, let me say this. Even if I could live a million lives, I’d want to live them with you every time. Being with you isn’t a choice, princesa. You understand? You affect my whole being, my very existence.”

Damn if he isn’t dramatic. With a small smile into his shoulder you begin to murmur. He can’t hear you.

You can barely hear you, but he grasps your chin and his hazel green eyes glows as he hums in question. “What’s that, mami?”

You look up and your lash line is already wet when you say, “I’m tired, Connie.”

His lips turn into a sad smile and he nods in agreement. “I know.”

Somehow he gets you to acquiesce and not before compromise. He takes you to your parents and you laugh and talk for about two hours before you’re saying your goodbyes. The car ride is silent to his mom’s house. You’re literally twiddling your thumbs in anxiety. Despite your feelings, you’ve decided that it doesn’t matter. You love him and although he’s selfish sometimes, and cries at beauty and the beast, he’s still yours.

And you are his. It’s in the way he holds your hand and drags his fingers over your knuckles. The way he cries when you do. But the reason you stay is simply the way he gets you. It takes a look to understand what you’re feeling and an errant sigh to put him on alert.

When you greet his mother—this time empty handed— she gives you that same depreciating look over. Once again your stomach unfurls in anxiety, but this time, Connie squeezes your hand lightly. He walks past her and gently gives a small nod in greeting.

You’re sure the entire family can sense the discord between you three. Connie, however acts as if this behavior is normal. Blatantly disregarding his mother when she asks a question it speaks to him in general.

When you sit at the Thanksgiving table to eat, you’re lost for a little bit. Albeit, being with Connie for two years has given you a glimpse into Dominican society, and let’s not forget the language.

It all comes to a climax when you ask Connie for a bottle of water at the dinner table.

Almost as soon as he disappears through the kitchen doorway, she mumbles, in plain English, “She has two legs.” Your eyes snap to her at the head of the table and with a little laugh you nod.

You don’t think it’s disrespectful to stand up for yourself. Quite the opposite, you believe. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve gotten much more comfortable with saying what you want.

“Mrs. Springer? Is there a problem?” Your tone isn’t abrasive or rude and you patiently wait for an answer, genuinely confused. What had you ever done to deserve the treatment you’ve received? Not a thing you can recall.

So you draw your shoulders back and look at her straight in her eyes. “Is it because Connie is your baby boy? Or the fact that you just don’t think I’m worthy? I’m trying my best to make your son happy, but I can’t- I won’t deal with this anymore.”

There’s an almost frightening hush over the dinner table and when the hairs rise on the back of your neck, you know that Connie probably heard every word that just came out of your mouth.You can’t bring yourself to apologize. And you won’t. Although you know he’s behind you, the words you push out of your mouth taste like bitter bile.

“I will leave your son,” you declare. Your voice breaks as you continue and a tear falls down your cheek. “I will. He is the love of my life; but I will.”

“Like hell you are,” Connie grumbles from directly behind you.

He grasps your hand in comfort as you continue. “I know that he loves you and he wants approval from you that he’ll never get. I’m not your punching bag, I won’t even get in the ring with you. So if you want a fight, I forfeit. You can have him all to yourself.”

The hand that Connie has grabbed feels a tight squeeze and that’s all it takes for you to close your mouth. He takes over from there.

With a nod at you he whispers, “Get your coat, mami.” Your mouth pops open in confusion, but he simply offers you a smile.

“Trust me.” And you do, irrationally so. Not because you love him, but because he’s never given you a reason not to. So you leave, because he asked you to. The walk to get your coat is the longest. In the modest five generation home that has one bathroom and three bedrooms, it takes you way longer to get your coat than it should. The underlying message was to stay with the coat.

But you can’t help but wait just beyond the entryway of the kitchen as Connie—for the first time you’ve seen it—corrects his mother. A mix or English and Spanish is spoken and being around him long enough, you pick up a word or two. His family from the left side of the table—which is what you can see— all sit with their mouth agape.

You understand when he begins to speak in English, code switching, I’m sure to drive home his point. “I love her and I’m going to marry her. If you want to be in my life anymore, this has to stop. I appreciate you and I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done, but I’m my own person and you don’t have to approve of the woman I love. You’re going to stop disrespecting her or these little gatherings? Don’t bother inviting me to them anymore. ¿Tú entiendes?”

The silence that rocks the entire house is stifling. This is what you wanted. Right? But somehow, the joy doesn’t compare to the hate you just realized you have for Connie. All this time, he hasn’t opened his mouth to defend you and now that he has…you think it might be too late. The realization hits you like a current at sea that sweeps you away before anyone can notice. It’s a scary thing to fall out of love so quietly you never see it coming.

Neither does he.

“Let’s end this, Constance.”

The words come out louder and softer than you intend. His newly trimmed head snaps towards your voice and his eyebrows wrinkle in puzzlement.

“End what?”

He says and by the look in his eyes, he already knows. So when you motion a hand between you and him limply, he lets out a small chuckle. “We’re not ending anything, __.”

Connie would never force you to do anything let alone beg you to stay, but the tears that form on his waterline makes you second guess that entirely. And for a moment, you completely forget his family is here.

That is until his mother emits a sound that sounds very close to a snort.

“Take me home, please.” you request, calmly.

With his eyebrows drawn so far down you’re afraid they’ll reach his nose, he breathes out, “You are home, princesa.”

His hand taps at the middle of his chest and the tears you’ve been holding onto for two years come spilling out. You don’t want to do this in front of his family. You don’t want to do this at all. But you want to be free again. Not to explore other options but to cherish the man you used to love.

You don’t say another word.

You don’t have to.

With your coat in hand and your phone in the other, you’re walking right back out of the door you entered.

He follows. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he whispers with a hand at your wrist. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a waterfall coming down your face when you reply, “I’m done, Connie.”

“With me?” Is his immediate reply.

You take a step back out of his reach and rub at your arm to comfort yourself. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Why?” His voice sounds garbled, like he can’t quite get the word out without fighting through emotions that physically pain him.

“She’s never gonna approve of me.” He shakes his head quietly. “Doesn’t matter.”

You want to believe him, but you can’t. The faith you once had in him has essentially vanished. Despair replaces it. “It does! That’s your mother and I’m tired of fighting a battle I’ll always lose. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

His sadness gives way to anger now. It’s spoken in the way he shoves his hands in his pockets and tongues at his cheek. “After two years?” 

You don’t know how to respond, honestly.

If you’re being completely transparent, you’re not sure you care. All this anguish that pours out of him is the same feeling that’s been pooling in your gut ever since you met his mother.

You don’t intend to be cold but you simply ask. “Can you take me home?”

You see the fight leave him.

His hands find their way out of his pockets and they shake when he grabs the keys to his car and unlocks it. He opens the passenger side door for you to get in silently and closes it gently once you’re in the seat safely. He gets into the drivers seat and looks over at you, face red and brimming with unchecked emotion.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You simply respond, “ I know.”

[thebloggerman]

Best Recipes for Classic Thanksgiving Dinner: A Timeless Feast

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Self indulgent but … thanksgiving w a gf who loves the holidays but doesn’t have family or friends to spend them with ?

This is really small and super quick, I hope you enjoy it! I do hope you have a wonderful day! (Also went ahead and incorporated two things I made today just because my mind is too lazy to think of anything else. If you don’t like them, womp womp/jk Pretend Gotham War dosent exist)

—

Time written - 8:09 p.m

—

“You sure I’m not invading in on their celebration?” You vocalize your concern for about the fiftieth time after smoothing out your final layer of fluffy, whipped concoction for your dessert dish.

“If anything, Alfred will appreciate one less dessert to make.” Jason responds, casually leaning across the countertop across from you, watching you work your magic on making one of your miracle dishes. While you didn’t necessarily have to bring a dessert, you insisted as a show of good faith.

“It’ll give the old man a reason to sit down for once,” Jason adds, referring to Alfred’s insistence upon waiting by everyone until they got full plates and thoroughly enjoyed a majority of their meals.

You kept asking the same question, just with different rephrasing of words. You were nervous, Jason could see that by the way you smoothed the silicone spatula over the top of your dessert for the tenth time, insisting perfection on something that already tasted heavenly.

Jason would know. He’s always your designated taste tester.

You went above and beyond with everything you did; Making your own whipped cream, using Madagascar vanilla beans, making your own pudding base from scratch.

“Babe.”

“Hm?” You respond with a concentrated stare on your dish.

“Look at me real quick.”

You spare a short glance up at him, putting up a sweet front of a smile. “What? I’m almost done, Jay.”

“I know,” Jason curts. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

You nod, swallowing before focusing again on the top of your dish. You picked up the recipe from an online blog article about three years ago; an upgrade on a traditional banana pudding using heavy cream and expensive flavoring, the dessert reeking of pure holiday that had to be shared with the rest of the world.

“Are you sure this looks okay?” You ask, feeling like the top of the dessert needed a lot more than wafer cookies and bananas. Nuts? Caramel drizzle?

“It looks great,” Jason insists, approaching your side of the counter, settling his hand along your hip. “Scratch that. It looks delicious, incredible, mouthwatering. All the good words, sweetheart.”

You can’t help but smile, your cheeks warming with his compliments. Raising your whipped cream spoon to his mouth, you tap his bottom lip before giving him a kiss, hearing his muffled chuckle shortly after.

“Decadent,” He adds, licking his bottom lip of any remaining, perfectly sweet cream. “Perfect. Believe me, Dick and Alfred will never see any banana pudding the same way again.”

You could only hope so, giving him another smile. You liked making this dish, bringing it to your work during little dinner parties. The loudest compliment was a dish scraped empty, yet no one ever asked for the recipe. No one wondered who made it, no one really asked.

“You sure it looks perfect?” Again, your doubts can’t help but have you repeat your broken vinyl record. “I want it to be perfect.”

“It is perfect,” Jason gently reassures with firm sentiment, giving your cheek a soft squeeze. You set your mind to something, you keep at it until you’re perfectly satisfied. As stubborn as it makes you, you always try above your best.

This was your first official gathering with the entirety of Jason’s family. It wasn’t your first, as you’ve been over a few times before for pizza and burgers for movie nights, but never with every single Bat related member at a large, ornately decorated table in an extravagant dining room.

Especially, never with Bruce. Not until tonight, where they’d have a little private event to themselves at the manor. A rare occasion where masks and secret identities weren’t needed. Sometimes, criminal behaviors didn’t allow them a break, so this was truly a treat.

Dick could be himself, fussing over preferences of pumpkin and sweet potato to an annoyed Tim. Babs would scoff her amusement while recording them to show off during Christmas, and the rest would gawk or scoff, chatting amongst themselves or listening in on such a boisterous conversation.

This time, the special guest would be you; the girl Red Hood was sweet on long before you knew his name, becoming the sole guardian of every important identity of the Wayne family.

“Trust me. They invited you, it’ll just be us. It was a big vote with no one opposing.”

Those words brought a more comforting, genuine smile to your face, one Jason could tell was more truthful. Holidays were joyfully dreadful to spend alone in an empty home, the promise of a manor full of friendly faces happy to see you, happy to spend time with you and incorporate you into a tradition you desperately craved was a godsend. It felt too good to be true.

The best part of it all was how much Jason understood. He didn’t celebrate these kinds of holidays when he was a child. No foster family, or even his own mother, could spare enough money to provide grand meals and hours of spending time with people you care for.

It took him a long time to get used to it, he wanted that for you as well. You deserved it after all, they all liked you in their own unique way.

“I’m sure a solid nine out of ten attendants will enjoy those sugar cookie martinis,” Jason murmurs while adjusting a few strands of your hair, reminding you of the one underage family member that ‘tolerated’ your presence.

“Do they got a full stock of vanilla vodka?”

“Course they do. Personally know Bruce has a ton of amaretto.”

“‘Personally?’”

“All those bottles for our dates, babe. Grabbed them all from somewhere.”

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 6

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: Thanksgiving, idiots in love, and unwelcome encounters in the parking lot.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Content Warning! This chapter contains sexual harassment (grabbing at clothes, derogatory name calling).

Thank you so much @hellfire--cult for the adorable Converse divider🥹

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Part 6

Thanksgiving Day, 1983

Eddie had a lot of things to worry about today, but right now he was most worried about whether or not the mac & cheese he’d slaved over all morning would taste like shit. 

His sweaty hands clutched the dish towel-wrapped baking dish for dear life and mentally rolled through all of the ingredients he had read on that clipping from the Southern Living magazine he’d grabbed from the grocery store. It wasn’t as if he’d never cooked before- he could make a mean grilled cheese, and if something came in a box he hadn’t found a way to fuck it up yet. This time, however, he’d been a little out of his element. 

Wayne had been excited to finally have a use for the casserole dish that had been sitting in a cabinet unused for so long that Eddie hadn’t even known it existed. Currently, he sat relaxed in the drivers’ seat of his pickup smiling smug as hell even though Eddie had assured him multiple times that he was not about to meet Eddie’s girlfriend… just a friend. 

No matter how much Eddie tried to hammer that point into Wayne’s skull, however, he still smiled that stupid knowing grin every time your name came up in conversation, as if he knew something Eddie didn’t. 

“You seem nervous.” Wayne commented, keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead as he lazily turned the truck into your neighborhood. 

Eddie glared at the tin foil topped dish in his lap. “Well, I’ve never made this recipe before, I keep picturing everyone taking a bite and immediately spitting it into their napkins.”

Wayne snorted, shaking his head softly and guiding the steering wheel with one hand. “Son, it’s pasta and cheese. Pretty hard to mess that up too bad.” 

“Yeah, well…” Eddie harrumphed. “I’m sure I found a way somehow.”

Wayne smiled softly at his nephew’s smitten nerves, parking the pickup with a jerky stop at the curb of your house. “505, right? This is the one?”

“Yeah.” 

Watching smugly as Eddie stared out the window at your house, Wayne waited about four seconds before he asked, “Are you gonna get out of the car today, or…?”

Cue the sound of the car door opening and Eddie grumbling a sassy muttered retort of I’m going old man, calm down, or something along those lines. Wayne pretended not to catch it. 

You opened the door before Wayne and Eddie could even get to the door, and when Eddie’s eyes landed on you? His uncle could just tell. The smile that exploded on his nephew’s face was all it took.

“Oh here, let me take that-”

“No, no, it’s fine Ace, I got it.” Eddie reassured you, swooping the casserole dish away from your eager hands. He nodded in Wayne’s direction, directing you to do the same as he introduced the only family member of his that you’d heard of at all in your time as friends. “This is my Uncle Wayne.” 

Your eyes shone, welcoming and warm, and Wayne understood in an instant how you’d had such an effect on Eddie in less than a year. Since he’d started spending time with you, Eddie Munson had become the kind of young man who did his homework without being asked. He’d even gotten a job at the mall of all places and gave a portion of his earnings to his uncle to help with living expenses. 

None of the things Wayne had always loved about Eddie had gone away- the changes he’d seen in his nephew were all additions to a personality that he’d always known would take him far in life if he could just surround himself with those who brought out the best in him. People who saw that spark of Munson Magic and knew how to fan it.

Wayne could now confirm that you were one of those people.

He took your hand in his weathered and wrinkled one, pouring his approval of you into a firm and fatherly handshake. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, young lady.” He gestured to Eddie with a conspiratorial nod. “Nice to put a face to the name, all he does is talk about you.”

“Brrrrr, it’s cold out here!” Eddie interrupted his uncle with a hand on your back to steer you away from Wayne and into the house. “Are you cold? You look cold, we don’t need to stand out here yapping when you’re cold.” 

You smiled, following Eddie’s lead but tossing a look over your shoulder at Wayne like it was a shared secret. 

Eddie had already met your parents, so greetings were warm and familiar once the three of you had reached the foyer. Wayne was introduced to both your mom and dad before your mom noticed Eddie had brought an offering for the table.

“Edward Munson, if I’m about to find out you’re not only a shoe designer but also a cook, I might just have to extend a standing invitation for all future holidays!”

“Shoe designer?” Wayne raised an eyebrow. 

You chuckled, pointing your foot out for him to see your white (now turned a bit duller from wearing them every day) Chuck Taylors, completely covered in idle drawings from Eddie’s inability to sit still. 

Wayne gawked at the artwork on your shoes; he’d always known that Eddie was talented, but this was the first time in a long time that Wayne had really stopped and looked at his nephew’s art. The detail, the use of space and composition- it was clear that Eddie knew not only how to draw, but he had an eye for how to make his art look like it belonged on its canvas. Even otherworldly monsters- sea creatures, dragons, demonic ghouls and ghostly images- looked at home on your well-loved high tops. 

“You drew all this, Ed?”

Eddie smiled shyly, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Ah, they’re just doodles. This one over here figured out I pay better attention in class when I’m doing something with my hands. Helps me listen better.” Finally, his trademark grin reappeared, shyness replaced with snark. “Now I’m the one helping her in class.”

“All the times I’ve had to kick you so you don’t fall asleep in O’Donnell’s beg to differ.” You replied, rolling your eyes at him. This brought a good-natured ripple of laughter from everyone in the room. You all felt it- the ease with which familiarity settled in the air amongst you. Eddie felt it most of all, since he wasn’t quite accustomed to the particular familial feel of it. 

He might have been, once. But it’s been a while. 

A second later and your mom had whisked Eddie into the kitchen to set his dish down on a trivet and sent him into the living room with a steaming cup of wassail in one hand and a plate of appetizers in the other.

“There was enough food in there to feed an army,” Eddie said, bemused as he sat down next to you on the couch. “Does she know there are only five of us?” 

You toed off your shoes and let them fall to the ground before crossing your legs up on the green ottoman, fuzzied soft with wear from years of love. You leaned closer to Eddie, eyes fixed on his plate of goodies as you began to pick pieces of fruit and cheese for yourself. 

“Mom grew up with a big family,” you said, popping a juicy red grape into your mouth. “All the family recipes make enough for six at least. She could probably cut the recipes in half… but I think cooking all this food reminds her of home.” you smiled tenderly and shrugged. “We usually freeze the leftovers, but since you and your uncle are here I doubt we’ll even have to open a freezer bag. We’ll just send leftovers home with you!”

Eddie liked the sound of that. 

An hour or so passed before you all sat down to share your meal, and Eddie was amazed how quickly his nerves had dissipated in that time. The two of you sat cozied up on the couch, munching on fruit, cheese and deviled eggs. Your dad had offered Wayne a beer, and the two of them sat watching football in front of the TV until your mom gave the all-call for dinner. 

Everyone loaded up their plates, remarked on how good the food looked, thanked your mom for all of the hard work that went into today’s meal. This was quickly followed by a pointed thank you from your mother to Eddie for the “best mac ‘n cheese I’ve ever had” according to her. He was pretty sure she was just being nice, but he didn’t care. Her smile was still contagious- one of those ‘I love you no matter what’ mom smiles.

He’d forgotten about those.

He’d also forgotten what it was like to sit at a dining room table with more than three people. For a second, he’d been worried that you were all about to hold hands and pray, which wouldn’t have been ideal since all Eddie could remember about the dinner prayer was “bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts,” and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. 

But there wasn’t a prayer. This wasn’t a test he’d forgotten to study for, just a meal where Mom and Dad and Uncle were all happy he was here, happy each other were here. That was new. And when your dad asked Eddie how school was going, for once he had nothing but good things to report. He’d gotten a 95 on his last English test. For the first time since sophomore year, he wasn’t failing a single class. And when your dad said “Glad to hear you’re doing well, son.” Eddie felt you squeeze his thigh lightly, just above his knee. He saw Wayne smiling proudly out of the corner of his eye.

Eddie could get used to this. 

Conversation flowed easily in your family; no one felt the need to talk about the weather or ask arbitrary questions, and thankfully nobody decided that “we should go around the table and all say something we’re thankful for!”. There wasn’t a need for it. None of you needed to say it out loud to know you were all thankful for each other. For this. 

By the time dessert came around, Eddie started to think he might be dreaming. Apparently, you were the one always in charge of dessert in your household. And while he’d grown very acquainted with your chocolate chip cookies, he hadn’t been adequately prepared for your pecan pie. Or your chocolate & peanut butter sheet cake. Or the chocolate pudding/cool whip/cookie crumb whatever-it-was that you’d spooned onto his dessert plate. 

Could a person become delirious after consuming too much sugar? Eddie wasn’t sure if it was sugar that was causing him to start wondering what you’d look like making all these desserts in a kitchen that you both paid rent for, or if that was just him. It was probably the sugar.

As soon as Eddie was shoveling his last bite into his mouth, he was looking over to see if you had any left for him to mooch off of you. Your plate was empty- scraped clean, even- and then you were grabbing his empty plate and standing to take them into the kitchen. Eddie was about to pout when you looked at him knowingly and asked, “You want seconds? I’m getting seconds.”

It wasn’t the sugar. Eddie wanted to know what your signatures looked like together on a lease. And Eddie couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to finally admit to himself that he’d been nursing a crush on you since… when had it started? Eddie wasn’t sure. Somewhere between seventh grade history class and this very moment, he figured. 

He looked up at you from his seat, mouth still stuffed with pie crust and cool whip, and smiled when he noticed how pretty you looked in that sweater you were wearing. It was red- you wore red a lot, he realized. Had you always worn red this often?

You giggled, poking his cheek. “You look like a chipmunk when you smile like that.” 

His eyes followed you as you disappeared into the kitchen, and when Eddie caught a glimpse of the way Wayne was grinning at him? Well, his blush was a deeper shade of scarlet than your sweater.

The smile stayed, though. Even a punch to the jaw couldn’t knock that off Eddie’s face.

“I wanna take you out.” 

It had taken Eddie what felt like ages to finally ask you. You were both at school, and he had been thinking about it and thinking about it and ramping himself for weeks to just grow a pair and ask you. The question had sounded smoother in his head, but now he thought he sounded vaguely frightening- sharper and more desperate than he’d hoped.

You blanched, eyes wide and mouth open to a little “O” shape that made Eddie’s heart flutter. 

You were so cute. How had he ever ignored it?

You grinned a little, “Take me out like… assassination, take me out, or…?” 

“No,” Eddie shook his head, laughing nervously, “I mean like, out. To a place. Or multiple places, if you want.” He was jumpy, his hands switching from his pockets to the strap of his backpack, to his hair, to the fraying edges of the friendship bracelet you’d tied around his wrist in July. 

“So when you say take me out, you mean like… on a date?”

There it was. You’d said it, that word. Date. It was out in the open now. 

You’d put the ball in Eddie’s court, and he should be happy about it. This was how it was supposed to be, right? He needed to be a man, take control, take the lead. But unfortunately, it had taken the majority of his bravery just to initiate this conversation.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Just like that, he passed the ball to you. Eddie cursed himself, waiting anxiously for your response, completely at your mercy.

You looked down at your shoes covered in his doodles, at the red plaid of your flannel that you wore because you’d bought it in hopes that if he started to associate you with his favorite color, he might like you more. Like you the way you liked him.

You couldn’t say the words either… couldn’t speak them into existence without fear of sounding too desperate, too eager. So instead, you nodded yes to your doodle covered shoes and smiled at the dragon he’d drawn on the left toe.

Eddie beamed- inwardly, of course. Couldn’t let you see exactly how happy he was that you felt the same as him- he needed to be calm, to be cool. Girls liked calm and cool.

 “Then it’s a date, Sweet Tart.” He ached to sling a triumphant arm over your shoulder, but shoved his sweating hands into his pockets instead. 

You snuck a glance at Eddie, your smile refusing to leave no matter how cool you were trying to appear. Be cool, don’t act too desperate, you chided yourself. 

“It’s a date.” you repeated, beaming up at him. “When were you thinking?”

“Well,” Eddie shrugged as you both came to a stop by your locker. “Finals are next week and then we’re off for Christmas break, so I should be able to pencil you in for next Saturday night.” He leaned against the adjacent lockers, a smug smile shining down on you. 

“Pencil me in, huh?” you giggled, replacing the notebooks and folders from your last class with your supplies for the next. “I’m flattered you could fit me into your busy schedule.”

“If there’s one thing my schedule always has room for, it’s you, Ace.” 

Swooning. That was the only word for what those words made you do. You weren’t sure if Eddie was aware of the effect he had on you, but you were pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to help it if he was. 

You were actually grateful for your final exams the following week- they gave you something to focus on other than your date with Eddie. Which meant that the moment you’d finished your last exam on Friday, that date was the only thing on your mind.

Your date with Eddie. The words alone were enough to make you smile to yourself. You’d been harboring this crush on him for the better part of this year, and now he asks you on a date? Was it possible that he had felt the same way all this time? 

“You sure you’re cool if I don’t stay for the whole session tonight?” you’d asked Eddie as he’d prepared for Hellfire that afternoon, triple-checking that he wasn’t upset. It had become a routine for the two of you- your weekly presence as the one and only audience member for Hellfire’s in-game escapades. 

“Cool as a cucumber, Ace.” Eddie had replied, “You took three exams today, for crying out loud. Go take a nap.” 

When you finally conceded, he’d walked you from the gameplay table to the door, even going so far as to hold it open for you. Then, to your surprise, he’d taken your hand in his and brought it to his lips. 

“Go rest up.” He’d muttered, low enough so only you could hear. Then he’d brushed his lips against the back of your fingers, and you’d just about melted on the spot. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 8, Sweet Tart.”

Your hand still tingled as you thought about the feel of his lips on your skin. Now, you wanted that feeling everywhere. 

Your body was on autopilot as you made your way through the school parking lot; slushed, muddy snow sat piled up in corners and untouched patches at the edges of the lot from the on-again off-again winter precipitation over the December weeks. Your booted feet marched on toward your car, your mind entirely occupied by thoughts of tomorrow. 

You were so distracted by that thought that you didn’t notice who was waiting for you, leaned up against the trunk of your car.

“Hey there, firecracker.” 

You stopped short when your eyes snapped up to see Alan, along with a couple guys from the basketball team. Their faces were pure predatory malice as Alan eyed you up and down. 

You paused a moment, your heart rate picking up a notch when you realized just how empty the parking lot was, given the hour that had passed since the final bell. 

“I have to get home.” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the driver side door and making your best attempt to brush past the jock leaned up directly beside it, but to no avail. 

“Not so fast, you little freak.” Alan stepped into your path, a cruel smile creasing his freckled face. “We just wanted to chat!”

“You,” your voice betrayed every ounce of disbelief that you felt looking up at the meathead blocking your path to your own vehicle. “-want to chat. With me?”

“I know, I know, you’re flattered-”

“I’m not.” 

“Well you should be.” Alan peered down at you with frigid eyes. “Lord knows no guy will ever want to be seen with you now that the Freak’s got his claws in you.” 

You felt a surge of indignant fire seep into your gaze. “Piss off, asshole.” You attempted to shove past him, but Alan took a step toward you, throwing off your balance. You had to grab the bumper of the car beside you to keep from falling over, clutching at the books in your arms to avoid dropping them onto the icy pavement below. 

“I even heard he branded you.” Alan’s hot breath sent an unwelcome shiver over your skin. “Sherrie said she saw you in the locker room with… some kind of symbol… on your upper thigh, I believe?”

A biting breeze whooshed past you, but you didn’t feel it- your body had already gone ice cold. 

“Sherrie’s lying.”

“You know, I don’t think she is.” Alan’s hands crept closer toward you, ghosting fingertips across the fabric of your skirt. “But if you want to prove it to us…”

You felt your stomach drop when one of Alan’s friends stepped behind you, boxing you in. They were like vultures- to them, you were already down for the count. Ready to be picked at and preyed upon.

Slapping Alan’s hand away, you attempted once again to squeeze past him and his goons, anxious for the safety of your driver’s seat and a locked door between you and them. Unfortunately, Alan had other plans. 

“Come on,” he crooned, “girls don’t get tattoos unless they want people to see them. Go ahead and show us.”

“Go. Away.” you gritted through your teeth. 

“The Freak’s seen it, hasn't he?” Alan pressed, his hand grasping the fabric of your skirt in his fist. “What, you’ll slut yourself out for him, but not us?”

“What the fuck are you dickheads doing?” 

You’d never been so thankful to hear Robin’s voice in your life. 

Alan sneered at the unfamiliar sophomore, subtly letting go of your skirt. “Who the hell are you?” 

Robin marched up to the boy standing behind you, powering her glare with just enough ferocity that he actually moved aside. Grabbing your shoulders, Robin pulled you a good five feet from Alan and looked you square in the eye. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, pulling your car keys from the pocket of your backpack. You were anxious for something tangible to fidget with, something to ground you in where you stood, away from Alan and his wandering hands.

Once she was sure you were alright, Robin turned the full force of her fury on the boys that stood around your car. 

“Mr. Dunne was right behind me on his way out here, so unless you want me to tell him that I just found you groping a female student, I suggest you scram.” 

You saw Alan weighing his options for a moment, but eventually he stuck his hands in the pockets of his letter jacket and- thankfully- took his leave. 

“Whatever, freaks.” he muttered, strolling away like a brat who had grown up believing himself to be invincible in a system that agreed with him.  

It wasn’t until the two of you were both sitting in your car and safe behind locked doors that you finally let out the breath you’d evidently been holding. “Fuck him.” you huffed. “Fuck. Him.”

“Fuck him.” Robin agreed with an emphatic nod of her head. “Has he ever even talked to you before? That seemed… super random, honestly, I’ve never even seen him look in your direction.” 

“I may have picked a fight with him after I heard him call Eddie and I freaks in class not too long ago.” you winced, remembering how brazen you’d been that day… you’d been so bold, so fearless, but that girl was nowhere to be seen today. Instead, you’d frozen like a cornered fox surrounded by hounds. It made you feel so small, you thought you might be sick. You hated feeling this way.

“Apparently,” you continued, “his girlfriend saw my tattoo in the locker room. He said he wanted to see it for himself.” 

Robin had been the first person- and only person- you’d shown your little bat to after Halloween. She’d been pretty impressed… after she’d stopped worrying about it getting infected, of course. 

“First- ew. Gross.” Robin grimaced. “Second- are you telling me you just change in the locker room with that thing out in the open?” 

“I’m usually super careful about keeping it hidden!” you argued, “But it is a possibility that I might have been a little rushed to get to my next class at some point… I guess I wasn’t careful enough.”

A short silence settled while you mentally kicked yourself. I should have known this would happen. How could I be so careless? 

“Well,” Robin started, suddenly chipper. You knew this tone; she was about to try and cheer you up. Good luck, Rob. 

“You’re going to drive me to your house and then we’re baking cookies and watching whatever movie you want.” 

While you were still far from what you would consider over what just happened, your interest was definitely piqued. “Whatever movie I want?” you countered. 

Robin sighed. “I know what you’re about to ask, and yes, we can watch The Dark Crystal.”

The beginnings of a smile stretched across your face. “And you won’t call any of the puppets creepy at any point?”

“Let’s not go that far.” she deadpanned. “I will watch it, I will eat cookies, and I will not suggest that we turn it off before the movie is over. This is my final offer.”

For Robin, that was a pretty good deal. Your beginnings of a grin had graduated to a full-on smile as you took her hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. “You’re a good friend.”

She returned your smile, and squeezed your hand back before letting go to buckle her seatbelt. “I’m a great friend. Now start driving, I’m hungry and we’re stopping for french fries.”

Part 7

Taglist: @rustboxstarr, @josephquinnsfreckles, @rozxartaki, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @melodymishahiddlestan , @sadlittlesquish, @clarafornerlyknownasclaire-blog , @stylesxmunson , @fishwithtitz , @elvendria , @carrotbunnies21 , @the-unforgivenn , @munson-blurbs, @writinginthetwilight, @ghost-proofbaby , @hellfire--cult

I added a few people to the taglist who’ve shown an interest in the series or have been my sounding boards during the writing process for this story. Hope y’all don’t mind!😊❤️

[toxicanonymity]

Fandango

2.1k / stepdad!Joel x fem!Reader /Stepdad

Warnings: I8+ mdni. Stepcest (reader is aggressor but he's a perv), big girthy age gap, groping, grinding, jacking off, oral m receiving, angst. Picks up after All Recipes. 🦃 Nothing has happened with the Mom, so ignore that hypothetical drabble.

When you get to the theater, Joel reaches over you to get his glasses out of the glovebox and the stretch of his shrunken sleeve makes you reach out and touch his ungodly tricep.  He ignores the touch, puts his glasses on, and puts the case back in the glovebox.  Inside, the manager changes the tickets for you.  You pick the back row, prompting a cautionary look from Joel. 

💙

Your Mom notices the casserole is off-recipe as soon as she looks at it, and she's not happy.  You glance sympathetically at Joel.  He resists the urge to bring up how she wouldn’t tell him where the recipes were, sparing you a tense car ride to Thanksgiving at your Aunt’s house.

In the car, your Mom asks, “Did you buy the movie tickets, Joel?” and you tell her you got them on Fandango.  It’s a tradition for the three of you to go to a movie on Thanksgiving, largely so you can have a set time to leave the family gathering, which will otherwise drag on forever. On the way to your aunt’s house, Your Mom wants a recap of the whole Hunger Games franchise since it’s been eight years since the last one came out in 2015. You do your best and Joel stays quiet.  She picked the movie. 

-

You and Joel haven’t talked at all since this morning when you kissed for the first time in the kitchen. He avoids you for most of the meal, but when he does look at you, he’s looking at you differently.  His eyes are pensive, concerned, but his brow is softer. It's like a puppy dog look.

An uncle asks if you’re seeing anyone, and you say “kind of.”  The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches.  When they press for more details, you tell them you might have a date this weekend and his face hardens.

“Is he handsome?” Your aunt asks. 

“I think the term is ‘hot’ now,” Your uncle corrects her.  “Is he hot? Can we see him?” He elbows Joel like he should get in on the teasing. Joel musters half a smile but it doesn't reach his eyes. 

You pull up your tinder match’s profile and let them take a peek.  

“Oooh,” your aunt says. “He is handsome.  Jacques. . . is he French?” 

Joel takes a sip of his drink, then glares out the window and chews his cheeks.  The glass in his hand shatters under the pressure of his fist, covering his shirt in iced tea and making two of your aunts spring into action to help. 

“Joel,” your Mom says.  “No, no,” the hosting aunt responds.  "These are too delicate. I just broke one the other day.” None of it got on the table.  Your aunts take him to the kitchen to clean him up.  Meanwhile, you try to explain to your uncle what tinder is.  Joel returns to the table wearing only his shrunken undershirt and pants, looking somewhat humiliated and smoking hot.

-

On the way to the movie theater, your Mom gets an emergency call, and Joel suggests rescheduling for a later time so she can come, but she isn’t sure when she’ll be available.  You already have the tickets, and she insists the two of you drop her off at home and go ahead without her. She’ll join if she can.  Joel looks distressed at the prospect of going alone with you. 

"Kiss and make up already," your Mom says on her way out of the car, referring to the argument she walked in on earlier about his shrunken clothes. 

When you move up to the driver’s seat, he says “Don’t get any ideas.”  

“We should see the new Exorcist instead,” you say. 

“What if she tries to join?”

“She’s not going to.” He knows you’re right. “Come on,” you plead.  “It’s David Gordon Green.”

“Alright, if it’s still playin'.” 

He clenches his jaw in silence for a minute, glaring at the road ahead, then asks “What’s this about Jaques? You really have a date or just tryin’ to fuck with me?”

"What, if you can't have me no one can? That's fucked up."

He sighs, exasperated. "No shit.".

“We’ve had this conversation,” you continue. "When you got all pissy about that pic being on insta?”

“Yeah, and you deleted the pic."

“Doesn't mean you were right, I was just using it to get you to jack off. “

"God, you're filthy."

"So yeah, maybe I'll go out with him. If you won’t touch me, can't expect no one else to."

"Touched ya this mornin’, didn’t I?” He raises his eyebrows and looks at you cockily. 

-

When you get to the theater, he reaches over you to get his glasses out of the glovebox and the stretch of his short sleeve makes you reach out and touch his ungodly tricep.  He ignores the touch, puts his glasses on, and puts the case back in the glovebox.  Inside, the manager changes the tickets for you.  You pick the back row, prompting a cautionary look from Joel. 

You raise the armrest and he lowers it between you again. The theater is cold and he’s freezing in his undershirt and slacks, but it’s the hottest combination, especially with his glasses.  When his nipples harden from the cold, you reach over and grab his pec. He gives you a side-eye but lets you massage him for a minute before he takes your hand and puts it on your side of the armrest.  You grab his hand while it’s there and place it on your lower thigh near your knee.  He swallows and shifts in his seat but doesn’t resist.  He stares straight ahead.  He lightly caresses your thigh over your leggings.  

When you move his hand higher up on your thigh, to the hem of your sweater dress,he gives your thigh a brief squeeze before taking his hand back.  He adjusts himself in his pants  then puts his elbows on each armrest, clasping his large hands in front of his stomach and staring straight ahead at the movie.

You leave him alone for a while, then slip your hand under his arm and into his lap, squeezing his thigh. You lean in as close to him as you can. He inhales sharply and doesn't do anything about it. You work your way higher and higher on his thigh until your wrist brushes his hardening cock, flooding you with arousal. You keep your hand on his thigh, rubbing it in a way that rubs your wrist on his package. You feel it getting firmer and it's driving you crazy.  

"Not doin' this," he whispers.

"What?" You stop moving your hand but don't take it away.

"Back of the theater like a couple'a teenagers."  That's what he says. . . but what you hear is we can do it somewhere else. 

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and he slowly, regretfully returns your hand to your side, taking his arm back right away this time. You behave for the rest of the movie.

-

On the ride home, you ask him to stop by your apartment so you can get something. You keep your hands to yourself as he drives. You're getting a new TV on black friday and want to bring your current one to your room at their house. When he parks, you ask him to come in and help you carry it.

He walks into the living room and you say "make yourself at home, I've gotta unhook everything." 

He manspreads on your couch while you bend over and make no effort to be modest as you unhook the cables.  You turn around and he's brazenly staring at your ass, holding his massive hand on his inner thigh. He watches you with puppy dog eyes as you stand up and cautiously approach him.  He slowly rubs his inner thigh and wets his lips.  He makes no effort to stop you from climbing into his lap and even moves his hand to make room for you to straddle him.  Your crotch goes straight to his, and you cradle his head with your thumbs in front of his ears.  You read his face and it’s open.  You press your lips into his. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, feeding you his tongue as his large hands come to your back.  

You roll your hips into his hardening cock. His hands slide down your back to your ass and he grunts into your mouth as he pulls you into him, using your crotch to rub his hard package. You dip your tongue into his mouth and he accepts it hungrily with light suction. Your mouths make love to each other and you softly moan into each other’s lips as you breathe through your nose and grind into him. 

Your clit throbs and your cunt begs to be filled. He wedges his hand under you, between your legs, engulfing your entire crotch.  He slides the hand back and grabs at your ass from underneath you, his middle finger pushing your leggings slightly into your crack.  Then he rubs all the way forward again from your lips to your clit with a deep breath.  His middle finger ghosts your entrance and he groans at the dampness of your leggings. 

You break away from his mouth and reach your wrists around his arm in his lap, leaving his hand between your legs, stroking you, as you  unbutton his slacks. You rise up and pull down his zipper.  He nudges your breast with his nose, then drags it across your dress to your other breast.  You  reach your hand into his pants, groping him through his boxers with your fingers pointed down and your palm hits the damp spot from his tip.  Then you slip your hand into his boxers and break the kiss to whimper into his mouth as you move the warm, smooth skin of his shaft and he ghosts your clit over your leggings. You wrap your hand around his shaft in an upright fist and sit back down on his thighs. 

Joel murmurs into your cheek, “this is dangerous, sweetheart.  Bein’ alone like this.” He reaches down between you and frees his cock from his boxers, then pulls your crotch into him and moans as the soft shape of your lips cradle his shaft through your damp leggings.  As you grind into him, you watch his face and his brow furls. 

“I know you want it,” you pant and his mouth latches onto your neck. 

His hand wraps around yours.  He pries your fingers off his cock and takes it in his own hand. Then he slides his hand into your leggings and gathers  your slick to lube himself.  He starts stroking his stiff member feverishly.  You’re miffed that he wants to come already.

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Told you, this is dangerous, sweetheart.”

“Well at least let me do it.”  You dismount him and get on the floor between his knees. He sighs and looks straight up at the ceiling as you take his cock back into your hand.  You form a broken ring round his lower shaft with your thumb and two fingers, then you bring your head to his lap and suck the tip of his cock into your mouth, followed by most of his shaft.  

“Fuck,” he exclaims, startled by your mouth. “Use your hand,” he pants. “Just your hand,” he trails off weakly, his eyes drifting downward toward you.  You try to make eye contact with him and he looks back up at the ceiling.  “HAND,” he demands.

You take it out of your mouth to ask why.

“‘Cause I’ll never stop seein’ this, damnit.” You begrudgingly use your hand. 

He sucks in a chest full of air and his thighs tremble like he’s about to come.  

“Can I swallow it or do you want it all over your clothes?” 

“Fine."

After a few more strokes, you take him into your mouth again and he shoots his salty load into the back of your throat. 

-

His arms look ready to burst through his t-shirt as he carries your tv to the car. You drive in silence, looking out the window. 

Then you wonder out loud, "What if we just fucked? Would that be so bad?" 

He looks at you as though to say come on, but you raise your eyebrows inquisitively. 

He says, "Okay, let's play it out." He clears his throat. "We fuck, then what?"

"We fuck again."

He rolls his eyes.  "Okay, but what happens?"

"We fuck again, and again, and we keep fucking" 

"Christ," he exhales, then adjusts himself. "I'm tryin' to have an adult conversation here." 

“Okay,” you say.  “How’s your marriage?”

“How do you think? You’ve known her your whole life.”  He looks at you like you did something wrong. “Don’t ask me that.” 

“How’s it an adult conversation if I can’t ask any questions?”

He groans in frustration.  

It's silent for a few minutes.  When you look over at him, he has his hand on his mouth.  He’s tearing up.  “This is fucked up,” he says weakly, then takes a deep breath. "We can't keep on like this."

-

As always, thank you so much for your support and engagement <3

Special ty to @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog for getting me over the hump on my roadblock <3<3<3

-

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname @weddingfairy 

-

@vickie5446

[writing-relatedactivities]

A Very Ask A Manager Thanksgiving

So I love advice blogs (I maintain that comment sections on advice blogs are the best free tool for writers to explore different viewpoints, which really enriches your characterization), and for a few years now, I have had this idea that I want to do a do an Ask A Manager themed dinner, purely to delight myself. Meant to do it as a cookout this summer, but timing never worked out, so I broached the idea of doing it for Thanksgiving. My partner, who is also a nerd and therefore very supportive of my advice blog love even though it is not one of their interests, was down, with their only condition being that I should still make my cider bread with maple butter.

The menu:

Appetizers

Chips with:

Guacamole in honor of Guacamole Bob, of "ordering extra guacamole is wasteful of member dues” fame. (This being on the menu may also have been a factor in Partner being willing to have our holiday take on an Ask A Manager theme, as I once took a community education course on grilling that taught me nothing about its ostensible subject matter but did teach me to make a bomb-ass guacamole. The secret is that your first step should be to pulverize an entire head of garlic into a paste in your mocajete.)

Three store bought salsas, where the trick is to "fold" the salsa to get the best flavor

A bottle of hot sauce so we can get fired after a coworker steals our spicy food

Main Course

"Duck club" sandwiches in honor of the secret office sex club where you get points for sex in different locations, and quacking is involved. (These were very decadent and if anyone's interested in a great duck recipe, I used the Duck with Lemon recipe from A Feast of Ice and Fire.)

Sides

Cheap-ass rolls that I definitely deliberately brought to upstage you, yes you, the person who signed up to bring Hawaiian rolls! It's definitely not an overreaction on your part to declare that "they can all take Santa and stick it up their ass!" You're definitely not getting fired for being wildly hostile! (These are actually homemade rolls, but I weighed "buy actually cheap rolls and be done" or "spend a couple hours adapting a corgi butt roll recipe to a human butt roll," and chose in favor of the pun.)

Dessert

Bribery cupcakes, from that time a letter writer brought some cupcakes over to chat with her neighbor, the son of the Chief of Police, about a disruptive noise issue in her workplace and some commenters decided this constituted bribing a public servant. (The recipe is in the comments on that link; I made the carrot cake version. However, I realized halfway through that I was somehow low on vanilla despite obsessively buying fancy vanilla extract every time I am in a spice shop, along with a bunch of other things I don't need because buying cool spices makes me feel like a wizard. Anyway, half of these had vanilla in the filling/icing, and the other half had cardamom extract.)

A birthday cake that somehow crosses boundaries by...being too fancy? Being paid for a staff person? Not involving the wife in the planning? Anyway, the real answer to the letter writer's question is, "Eh, I don't think it's a big deal" because different offices have different norms around birthdays and it's whatever, but sometimes a low-stakes office norms question hits just right and you get 630 comments of people debating The One True Way to Do Office Birthdays, and whether or not buying a cake means you're angling for an affair. (Okay, not all the comments are about that particular letter. Anyway, I picked up this fancy-ass cake at Marc Heu Patisserie, and appropriately enough, the guy ahead of me in line was picking up a cake for his boss.)

And of course, what Ask A Manager column would be complete without chocolate teapots?

Beverages

Mudslides, because "girls love chocolate." And magic tricks. And being played "You're So Vain" on the piano with a mournful stare. Partner and I are both notorious lightweights but I had been snacking all day as I cooked so I was mostly immune. Partner took one sip of this drink and immediately began loudly telling me how their one colleague doesn't sing enough to his Pre-K students, and "this classroom will do anything if you sing to them!" After dinner, they lay down on the floor and sang the Slippery Fish song.

The full spread: