#maybe a cookie or two or five if you'd like | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bunny-jpeg · 1 year ago

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Hello!!! How are you?🫶🏻✨

First of all, I love your writing, you have a marvellous mind. Pls keep doing what you're doing, it's chef kiss 🤌🏻🩷

Secondly, I would like to make an order I can share and enjoy with Lando 😉 Can we have a carrot cake, a chocolate chip cookie and a custard tart with a mocha coffee and a double espresso shot?

We know the mix is a bit too much but we trust you. Thank you very much in advance. Xx ♥️

the bakery menu

feel free to order your own treats! as for this order i am happy to serve up something sweet! i really hope you like this, i am proud of it! i'm also surprised of the amount of lando norris everyone wants!

carrot cake ("swallow it. all of it.") + chocolate chip cookie ("you're beautiful when you smile, but you're the prettiest when my cock is in your throat") + custard tarts ("i've never done this before.") + mocha coffee (breeding kink) + espresso shot (dirty talking) served by lando norris (formula one)!

cw: smut/pwp, breeding kink, oral sex (femme receiving), dirty talk, engineer!reader, driver!lando, virgin!reader, oral sex (lando receives),

lando loved you. he really did, not only were you his favourite engineer, you were also his girlfriend. lando didn't want to mess it all up and going too fast. but after almost five months of dating, you two had never had sex.

not that lando really minded, he wasn't some horny dog who needed his dick wet all the time. he wanted to cherish and love you. but sometimes, he'd let his mind wander at thoughts of you.

a particular one that bounced around in his mind, a personal favourite was the one where he bred you. that was for when you weren't with the team at races, and it was just lando and his fist.

thoughts of you in his arms, his cock bullied into your sweet pussy. his filthy words in your ear. sweet promises that he was going to breed you nice and well. and anytime you tried to mention your career, he'd just kiss you quiet. promising that you could still be an engineer with a couple of norris kids.

the thought of that made his cock ache every time he thought about it. belly full of life that the could snuggle after a race, taking your kids to the park. being a proper family. it always sent him over the edge and left a huge mess in his boxers.

but before he could make sure you were all full of his cum, he'd needed to have his first time with you. it wouldn't be fair to get you pregnant on your first time!

it was the off-season and you were back home. you two didn't live together, but you were over often. often scolding your boyfriend for misuse of the oven or something else that would be considered silly. he'd just smile and smooth the lines in your face with kisses.

the break between seasons felt like the perfect chance to finally get intimate with you. there was no jet-lag or running around. there was no sleepless nights and high anxiety days. you two could rest and get familiar with one another.

he was watching you check the pasta in the pot to see if it was fully cooked yet. he licked his lips and crossed his arms before he asked, "love, do you even think about us getting.. closer?"

you looked over and chuckled, "lando, i think it's a little too soon for us to live together."

lando scratched the back of his neck and replied, "no, no.. not yet. i mean, if you're comfortable. maybe we could try... having sex?" he felt his blood pressure jump.

you put the wooden spoon down on the counter and looked to your boyfriend. your mouth was in an 'o' shape for a moment before you said, "oh! sex!"

lando laughed, "you forgot about sex? i mean... did you ever think about sex.. sex with us?" he knew you weren't asexual or something akin to it, he knew that you masturbated and what not. you just never were in a situation where you would've had sex. and lando didn't want to shove it onto you.

your face went hot, "i mean... of course! i was just worried about having sex during the season!" you scratched your neck nervously, "i was worried that you'd pull something and your performance on the track would be worse. or that a change in the routine before and after races would ruin your chances of a good season."

lando laughed, "oh my god, love. come here." he got closer to you and wrapped his arms around you. then kissed you on the top of your head.

you looked at him, "i'm sorry. i didn't realize! but yes! i would love to have sex with you! but it might take a while. i've never even given a blow job."

lando kissed you once more, "how about after dinner, we start with that? we have a few months to get a little.. closer."

you nodded eagerly, "of course! i'd love to!" you heard the water boil over out of the pot and onto the stove. you got out of your lover's arms to check on the food.

lando felt excited. how could he not. he was getting a chance to feel intimate with his lovely girlfriend. the excitement that coursed through him even made your lovely dinner taste better!

"is there anything you want to try before we start. anything i can do to make this more comfortable." he asked as he looked down at you. you were seated on the bed. you feet didn't touch the floor of the bedroom. it was cute.

you swallowed, "um... i, uh. well." you looked away, your cheeks burned.

lando cupped your face and looked down at you, "nothing is gonna scare me, honey." he smiled at you, "tell me."

you said, your gaze met with him, "i.. i like dirty talk. anytime i've read it somewhere in like a story.. i found it very hot. and i know you're... mouthy." you chuckled a little to make a joke.

"well then." he said, "i'll keep that in mind."

you said a little nervously, "i'm a little nervous, i've never done this before." you felt a thrill of excitement through your body as you watched lando let go of you and pull his cock out of his shorts.

"don't worry, love." he said, "i'll make sure you feel good as well."

you pressed your cheek against his abdomen, letting him take control. the sight of his cock stirred something in you. a need for you to do your best and make your boyfriend feel good. even if you didn't have the skills, you were eager to learn.

and who would be a better teacher than your loving boyfriend. you closed your eyes and let lando guide your head onto his cock. you kissed his length before you softly took it in your mouth.

lando hissed through his teeth, but when you looked at him nervously he gave you a thumbs up, "don't worry. all good."

you took more in your mouth and started on a steady pace. you felt your heart hammer in your chest. you really had never done this before but you didn't want the excitement to cause you to mess up.

"that's it. that's a good girl." he groaned, the praise made you rub your thighs together. you were just so adorable. he couldn't wait to explore every inch of your sweet body.

he had all of the off-season to make love to you. and if he was lucky maybe his breeding kink could show a bit of himself. that made his cock twitch in your mouth.

your eyes were closed and your hands were on his hips to steady yourself as you orally pleasured him. you weren't terrible, at least in lando's opinion.

"are you sure this is your first time doing this?" he asked softly. you looked up at him once more, eyes gleaming. you nodded and little and lando laughed, "hmm, i don't know. you're really good at this." the praise made your core throb and lando noticed. he held onto your hair a little tighter and moved you a little further down his cock, "don't worry, love. it doesn't bite." and laughed. his cheeks were pink from the rush in his body.

you whimpered as you continued. you kept an ear open for all the noises that lando was making. from his heavy breathing to the shudder through his body. you trusted him that if you were doing something wrong, he'd tell you.

"you're beautiful when you smile, but you're the prettiest when my cock is in your throat" he cooed at you, "i wonder what the rest of the team would feel if they saw you like this. i know some of them have thought about you, get a few drinks in 'em and they're talking about how they want to be the one to ruin your virginity." he laughed, "but i know i'll be the one to ruin them for you. you'll only want my cock."

you whimpered, your pussy was slick. this was hottest thing you've ever thought could happen. yeah, you've read erotic fiction and gotten a bit flustered. but this was something else. this sent a shock through you as you continued to pleasure him.

orgasm felt sharp in his mind. he softly guided you as the dirty talk tumbled out of his mouth. "i wonder if i could make you choke next time." he panted, "i wonder how good you could take me. i want all of you, love. i want to see all the ways i could make you cum. i want it all, and we got all of the off-season to see what makes you tick."

you whimpered.

"my pretty girl." he purred, it made your heart leap.

"lando." you said with a glaze in your eyes. your voice was muffled by the cock in your mouth and it was so painfully cute but also erotic that it sent lando over the edge.

his pretty girl, his little engineer with his cock stuffed in your throat. it couldn't get better than that. the words tumbled out of his mouth, "swallow it. all of it." and the look you gave made him easily cum down your throat. he almost got hard for a second time when he saw how dutifully you swallowed it all down.

"holy shit." he panted.

as you laid back on the bed to catch your breath. you knew the night wasn't over because lando was soon between your legs with your calves over his shoulders. it was only fair that he returned the favour.

after all, he learned something very important about his girlfriend. she was easy to get wet. <3

#bunny writes #the bakery #lando norris smut #lando norris x reader #lando smut #lando x reader #lando norris #ln4 smut #ln4 #ln4 x reader #formula 1 smut #formula one smut #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #formula one imagine #formula 1 #formula one #f1 smut #f1 fanfic

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pomefioredove · 2 months ago

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hey hey, claudette! nice twst-cafe! can i please order a chocolate cookie #3 with frosting and powdered sugar :3? happy holidaysssss

hii I had fun with this (it turned out to be kinda silly but BEAR WITH ME!!)

order #3, chocolate with frosting, powdered sugar

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ cat cafe

summary: heartslabyul's poor attempt at cheering you up tropes: only one bed couch, coffee shop au characters: che'nya additional info: romantic or platonic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

"Well. This was a bad idea,"

"YOU'RE ONLY REALIZING THIS NOW?!"

Ace cringes at Riddle's reddening face, and he looks to his friends for help.

Deuce is busy decorating the foyer, stringing up fairy lights and streamers. He shrugs as Riddle chases Ace around the room, shouting and chastising him.

Trey comes out of the kitchen with a tray of tiny tea cakes, Cater following with a few cups of coffee (trendy latte art included!)

"What's the problem?" Trey asks. "Ace, what did you break?"

"WHAT? NOTHING!"

"Grim got out," Deuce says plainly, stepping down the ladder. "And the Prefect's due at any second. Sam can't stall them forever."

Trey sets down the cakes and cradles his chin in his palm, calmly contemplating the situation while Riddle continues chasing Ace around the room. "Well, this is certainly a problem. How can we have a cat cafe with no cat?"

"HELLO? WHO CARES ABOUT GRIM! SOMEONE REIGN IN THE HOUSEWARDEN!"

"Riddle," Trey says. "We need Ace to help us find Grim. Collaring him won't help anyone."

Riddle finally relents, plopping down on the couch with a frustrated hmph!

Ace collapses on the floor.

"He's... just concerned about the Prefect," Trey tries, much to Ace's annoyance.

Cater puts aside the coffee cups he was carrying. "Well, we're not gonna find Grim just sitting around here. If we all split up, we can cover campus. I'll DM for some backup,"

Trey nods, helping Ace to his feet, and the four of them follow him to the door.

"Sam'll keep them busy for a few more minutes, at the least. Let's not waste any time,"

The five Heartslabyul helpers split off in five different directions from Ramshackle's door, determined to make their final minutes of preparation count.

Unfortunately, it was more like their final seconds. After an impossibly long sales pitch from Sam (who else could manage to spin a potato-flavored soda into a two hour discussion?) you dragged yourself back to Ramshackle's door, pulling out your key- only to find it unlocked already.

Can't be good, you think, but when you come inside, it's...

...Well, clean. And pleasantly warm. And everything smells like coffee and vanilla. And there's cat-shaped confetti everywhere. And...

...No Grim. No one at all, actually.

"...Grim?" you call out. "Ace? Deuce? You guys upstairs?"

No reply. Maybe they're going to surprise you? You take a seat on one of the sofas and wait.

And wait.

And... wait.

Finally, you figure the coffee is getting cold, so you help yourself to a cup. And the desserts are going to go bad if they're left out too long, so you have a few treats. Definitely Trey's baking, but no Trey.

It's felt like half an hour when you hear humming over your head.

"Guys?" you ask, but there's no one beside you, or behind you.

"One "guy", actually," the hum says. "All alone, are you?"

More NRC nonsense. You nod, anyhow.

"Pity. A party with no playthings, a cat cafe with no cats... except, ah, that's right. Me!"

There's suddenly a weight on your shoulders, and you look up to see Che'nya sitting on the back of the sofa behind you, both legs slung over your body.

"Hello, again. You look just as lost as when I met you, even in your own home. How mad!"

You blink, wide-eyed, and he boops your nose.

"I was invited, at your behest- not as a cat, but as a guest- though, as it goes, I suppose I may as well fill both roles?"

"You- I-"

He slips down to sit at your side, poking at your perplexed expression. "I can purr, if you'd like. You'll have to ask nicely, though, and in iambic pentameter!"

It's hard to tell whether or not he's being serious- especially with that smile of his. He drapes himself over your lap.

"...Thank you," you manage, patting his head. He purrs, despite all of the terms and conditions he'd just given you.

"Oh, no need, it's for the others. They're worrying themselves sick, thinking they're going to miss that surprised look on your face when you see all this! Though... I suppose it's a bit late for that. I'll have to describe it to them, hm?"

"...Poor guys,"

"They'll live," he says, curtly, encouraging you to pet him more by leaning into the touch of your hand.

You scratch behind his ears and he bites at your fingers, though they're only playful nips (Grim likes it when you pet there, after all, and aren't most cat-creatures the same? ...Er, maybe you should keep that thought to yourself).

It's nice, for a time. You wonder what it would have been like, if things had gone according to plan; all of your friends, eating and laughing and shouting and fighting and... perhaps this is a bit better. But only a bit.

Che'nya does nothing but nip at your hand when you're not petting him, and purr when you are. He picks at the fuzzies and dust bunnies on the ancient, decomposing couch, and lets them float away in the indoor draft.

Curious, how the unexpected, unexplainable chaos of things going wrong can actually be the most calming path to take.

It's been a chaotic week. But... this is welcomed chaos.

Somewhere between your third tea cake and your first finger sandwich, you fall asleep, comforted by the warmth in your lap and the fullness of your stomach.

"PREFECT!"

OW!

You hit your head on something hard, fully awake in a half-second just to feel the hurt on your forehead. You had bumped against Ace when you shot up in bed, and he was, too, cradling his bruised head in his hand.

"Ah- are you okay?" you ask, and he ignores you.

"How long have you been here?!"

You glance around the room- you're in bed, in your room, in your school clothes, though you were sure you'd dozed off downstairs...

And here are Deuce, Riddle, Trey, and Cater- but no Che'nya.

"I-I don't know. I suppose I got home around six..."

The boys breathe a sigh of collective relief. "Then we're only a few minutes late,"

"A few minutes?" you ask, sitting up in bed. "I'm sure it's been much longer than that."

"We left just before six to find this thing," Trey taps his watch.

Riddle holds up a struggling Grim. "LEMME GO! I DON'T WANNA BE NO PET!"

You blink, and Ace clears his throat, clearly trying not to burst into laughter. "He was trying to hide in the cafeteria- he got stuck in a teapot!"

"Was a really big one, too," Trey mutters. "Ahem- anyway- we came back just now and noticed someone had eaten half the food, the drinks were all gone, and you were asleep up here."

You rub your head again, brain still fuzzy and foggy from sleep. "...Did Che'nya not explain?"

The boys go silent and still, looking between each other.

"...Che'nya? He's not here," Riddle starts, tentatively. "He was invited, but he said RSA has their midterm exams this week. He never came."

You laugh. "But he was here. He must have taken me upstairs when I fell asleep, and eaten all that food- I barely had a bite!"

Your friends all exchange frightened looks, and then their eyes fall on you, sparkling with suspicion, as if you had gone mad.

"...Alright, then" Ace says. "Uh, I'll get you an icepack for your head."

"I'll go with him," Deuce continues.

"I'll bring up some painkillers," Trey murmurs.

"I'll put on tea! I knew coffee was a bad idea!" Riddle announces, following after the three.

You look between them as the leave, one by one. Before Cater can follow, you call out. "But he was here. You believe me, right?"

"Aw, hon, you've had a long week," Cater says, smiling sympathetically. "I'm sure it was just a weird dream."

He leaves, and somewhere, above your head, you hear humming.

This is going to be an interesting night.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #chenya x reader #che'nya x reader #queued

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mangonom · 2 months ago

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‎ . ݁⋆ 𐙚 sammy bryant + shy new girl next door 𐙚 ݁˖ . ݁

(chap. 3: or, baking solo and then, unexpectedly, baking not-solo. wc: 6.2k)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n: hi my loves ;> this chapter involves quite a bit of baking and some cute domestic kitchen action! pls enjoy. chapters one and two can be found under #cervine on my page!

baking wasn’t supposed to suck— quite the contrary, really. it was supposed to be one of life’s greatest pleasures. precise ratios and reactions, rigid instructions. predictability, dotted in chocolate chips and flaky sea salt. boxed up neatly and wrapped in a ribbon.

but, somehow, the scruffy bastard in 310 had made it the most miserable pastime ever, and you hadn't even reached the real meat and potatoes. no, all you'd done was scroll online for recipes, belly-down on your sofa. psychoanalyzing a man you'd met three times proved to be quite the challenge, especially when during those three meetings, the only things you'd focussed on were the girth of his forearms and the wolfish gleam in his eyes. that information wasn’t particularly useful in determining his baked good preferences, and, as you tried to decide on a thank-you offering for the man, the image of his chest muscles hadn't done you much good.

you swore up and down that your friends would do the same (read: roll around bed, hugging a pillow and kicking their feet) if the universe oh-so-coincidentally stuck them five steps from the doorway of a divorced thirty-eight-year-old with pectorals large enough to use as pillows.

another thumbnail for quick, easy, no-chill cookies flashed across your laptop. sugar cookies felt dismissive. maybe for the rest of your neighbors they'd be fine, but after mr. bryant had acted like your night in shining armor (or, rather, moving man in dirt-stained officer garb) twice, and ER technician once, they'd come across too impersonal. he wouldn't be impressed.

... because, apparently, you were baking to impress the guy.

you glanced at the fruit stand on your kitchen counter. banana bread was much-loved, and in the six days since your arrival you'd managed to let a little bunch of the fruit go spotty. but banana bread felt a little too domestic. something soft, unassuming, to be savored at a kitchen island with steaming cups of coffee on a saturday morning. for matching pajama pants and temple-pressed kisses, and hair disheveled from a night of sleeping in a shared bed. not for the cop you’d seen fewer times than fingers you had on one hand and managed to make a fool of in front of each time.

you scrolled further. god, when did pinteresting become a chore?

red velvet cupcakes were a little too desperate, the far end of the pendulum-swing away from banana bread, you decided, as yet another horrendously long blog recipe popped up. delicious, but the equivalent of a pushup-bra-clad selfie sent to a hot date. sure, there was a deep, carnal desire stirring somewhere between your ovaries and stomach whenever you saw mr. bryant, but you needed a treat less blatantly "i'm fertile", and a little more "thanks for five minutes of box-carrying assistance and the bandaid".

you needed a treat that was polite, but not low-effort. inoffensive, but a clear step up from the chocolate chip cookies the rest of your hallway would receive.

macarons felt right. raspberry, maybe.

but mr. bryant was about as far from polite and inoffensive as it got. he was dark, and he was hotheaded. mr. bryant was not a macaron. he oozed sinful decadence, a man who wanted something bitter to balance out his sweet.

so, raspberry macarons and tiramisu brownies it was.

the two days since mr. bryant had saved you from bleeding out on your living room floor (or, at the very least, fumbling around like an idiot and blood-staining your new persian rug) had been a blur. a productive one, thank goodness, because somehow, you'd built and unpacked nearly everything else.

mr. bryant had offered to help with any other ikea needs of yours, but taking him up on that so soon after nearly concussing yourself in front of him fell just beyond your social scope. you hadn't dared to even wander the hallways of your apartment building in those two days. the chance of running into any neighbors, especially a certain someone from 310, with a bruised splotch and partially healed gash on your hairline was embarrassing as could be. a reminder, a public announcement, even, that a fucking idiot had taken residence in the probably-once-peaceful hallway.

so, in your little weekend of reclusiveness, your apartment had gone from looking like a storage facility of boxes and duffles to almost, nearly put together.

there were still a few boxes of things you hadn't gotten around to organizing neatly tucked in one corner, but your caffeine-fueled unpacking had yielded a flat you could almost call cute. the kitchen, especially, had become the cozy nook of your dreams. white countertops (that the apartment came with), pale pink backsplash (that it definitely did not), little potted plants and fairy lights and matching copper cookware.

and, so, the baking spree finally began. mise en place came as naturally as breathing. two baking sheets: bowls of almond meal and confectioners sugar and egg whites, among other things, on one, and the leftover egg yolks and mascarpone and freshly-brewed espresso and fancy imported cocoa and such on the other.

the quiet, domestic patter of your slippered feet on tile and the scent of coffee mixed with seventy-percent valrhona filled the late night. you sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar, then folded in the meringue. batter flowed from your spatula in lavalike ribbons, and you hummed in satisfaction. as you piped little pink piles of batter, your mind wandered to a land somewhere between the episode of new girl playing on the television and the way mr. bryant's biceps had strained against his shirt sleeves when you last saw him.

when the brownies came out of the oven, the macarons had had their hour to develop a skin, so they went right in. you set to work making the mascarpone cream and the ladyfinger soak, tidying as you went and with the fantasy of sammy licking tiramisu cream from your mouth’s corner on your mind— because he was, entirely, the type to do that, you thought dreamily.

macarons came from the oven, and brownies cooled a bit before being layered with espresso-soaked cookies, mascarpone cream, and a dusting of cocoa powder. you made a quick buttercream and raspberry curd for the macarons, so caught up in mr. bryant dreamland that you almost let the curd's eggs scramble on the stove.

and this man was not hot enough to set you back an extra carton of eggs and block of kerrygold.

god. pasture raised, golden-yolked eggs and fucking kerrygold, for a divorced cop you'd met three times.

you were absolutely pathetic. deranged, even, to imagine mr. bryant could be any mystical level of perfection that warranted more than generic-brand ingredients. you'd pulled out the imported chocolate, the nice espresso powder, the best eggs and butter you could buy without missing next month's rent.

oh, well.

the neighborhood was a little scary at night. and mr. bryant was a police officer. and he'd undoubtedly end up a useful (buff, fast-running, gun-wielding) contact to have. there couldn't be any pitfalls to getting on his good side, even if he was proving an absolute nightmare for your checking account.

an (albeit, expensive) safety net, you told yourself as you pulled out a little notecard and wrote with your tidiest penmanship.

"hi mr. bryant,

thanks for the help with my bags. and for fixing my head. tiramisu brownies + raspberry macarons (those have almonds so i packed them separate). i hope they’re okay.

— 307"

just in case things got hairy. it was a relieving thought, to know that mr. bryant was across the hall.

so, to repay him for his kindness, you bundled the treats in two little boxes. pink tissue paper down, macarons nestled in the first box and brownies in the second, both tied up with pieces of white ribbon. the desserts peeked up through the windows of their packages as you placed them in the fridge to rest. taunting you, in all of their frilly, saccharine glory.

a promise that, the next morning, they'd be just like your heart: caught in the hands of a big older brute who had no business grasping onto something so soft. and, just like your heart, he'd sink his teeth in anyways.

sleep came and went that night, plagued with distant visions of calloused hands clinging to your own manicured ones, and hazy, backlit evocations of a man you hadn't then dozed in the arms of.

then, saturday morning arrived.

your waking left a want in your chest that teetered, arms held out for balance, on the fence between cloying, naive want and unfettered, "prayed to on your knees" worship.

it bordered on religious, really. gentle hymns, whispers of the devotion that brewed between your ribs. and, though not yet shared with mr. bryant, reverence gleamed on the horizon all the same. small offerings, ribbon-wrapped and tooth-rotting where they sat in your kitchen. silver-lined with sin if you knew where to look.

anybody who had dreamt such pure, glowing-at-the-edges visions of a man would feel the same. godlike might have been a generous descriptor, sure. but anyone could attest to the longing that came with one of those once-a-decennium reveries— a dream that filled your heart so much that to wake felt like having it severed from the rest of your body.

in typical earth-shattering dream fashion, the few minutes after you woke might as well have been a needle, pricking a hole in your mind. vivid images faded to nothing but clouded memories of warmth and tenderness. somehow, it felt that years of fantasized recollections slipped from your grasp like sand.

and then, you were left, duvet wrapped and little pajama set clad, teeming with want from a night you could barely even remember.

which, as you hauled yourself from bed, you realized absolutely blew. if you were going to wake up vaguely horny, the wet dreams of domesticity you'd had could at least have had the decency to stay for breakfast.

a sleep-clumsy hand came up to rub across your face. you wiped at an eye booger. blinked one, two times, slow and heavy. stared down at your duvet, empty room somehow brimming with phantom embarrassment for how horrendously deep in puppylove you were.

honestly. the dresser you'd assembled two nights prior would've been laughing at you if it had a larynx. you swore the stuffed animals propped on the other side of your too-big and too-empty bed grew a tinge of judgement in their embroidered eyes.

what was this man doing to you?

still wrapped in your blanket, you padded to the kitchen. there was no use in being theatrical with your delivery of the baked goods, you decided as you tugged the refrigerator open. it's not like he'd see it— no, you'd be in and out, spending all of three seconds in that hallway.

plus, you had more important things to get to. the other cookies you'd be delivering to the rest of the hallway, mainly, and a bit more daydreaming about mr. bryant's apparent need for eye contact whenever the two of you crossed paths.

so, that's how it went.

you darted into the hallway, gently placing the two boxes on his doormat, leaving without so much as a knock. the walls of your building weren't the thickest, and, embarrassingly, you knew that he was out and about quite often. picking up thai food, going for a jog, stepping out to handle a quick off-the-clock issue at work. whatever it was, his heavy footsteps fell often enough in the halls that you figured he'd see the treats soon enough. no need to put yourself in his line of fire, initiate an interaction that would have the butterflies in your stomach tweaking like they were on methamphetamines.

and then, the beautiful, simplistic, near-holy act of saturday morning baking began. within minutes, butter was browning on the stove and you were chopping more valrhona. because, they may not have been mr. bryant, but you were going to assert yourself as a good neighbor to the rest of the hall's residents regardless.

(and, most importantly, browning the butter and using the artisanal french chocolate made an effort to close the humiliatingly large gap between mr. bryant and the rest of your neighbors. gave you some piece of mind, helped you convince yourself that you hadn't gone entirely off the deep end.)

butter browning and chocolate chopped, you were in the midst of measuring out the dry ingredients with your scale when a heavy set of steps walked down the hallway outside, and paused very identifiably at the spot you'd dropped the brownies and macarons. then, a door slam.

oh, fuck.

baking resumed promptly after the mini heart attack, and you tried to ignore how much of a fool you'd probably just made of yourself (because.... dainty pink macarons for a cop?).

the second door slam across the hall and gentle knocking on your own door that came a minute or two later made that very, very hard.

double fuck.

okay. um, you thought (or, rather, didn't think. obsessing over a man that made you go so stupid couldn't be healthy).

your hands dropped to your apron, dusting off the flour, and that's when you got a good look at yourself. off-white apron, frilled at the edges, small enough to just cover the little pajama set you had on underneath. scrunched white socks. slipper booties.

yeah. whatever. good enough. like you hadn't already been in the midst of a humiliation ritual.

leaving mr. bryant in the hallway would've been rude, you decided after momentary panic. so you pattered over to the door, flipping at the deadbolt and tugging it open.

sammy's week had been an intense oscillation between the highest highs and lowest lows.

go to work, fist-fight someone on a patrol trip to the south side. come home, see his adorable deer of a neighbor failing miserably at moving in and take the wide-open opportunity to give her a neighborly helping hand.

the next day: spend his lunch break scrubbing blood from his favorite jacket. then after his shift, do the heavy lifting and drop some not-so-subtle hints at the poor girl.

the day after that? the awful memories from his shift of fucking up a major investigation lead meant absolutely nothing to him once he got to play doctor for a teary-eyed, bleeding fawn.

he must've saved a elementary school bus from being hijacked and GTA'd off of a bridge in a past life. or something else, equally as cool and of the same magnitude. the universe had never thrown him home run after home run like this. a sign, surely. it had to be.

two days later, saturday morning, he woke like he'd been put under anesthesia the night before. belgian ales and cold leftovers and ESPN were a lethal combination, and he rose after nine hours of awkward-sofa-sleep with zero clue what millennia it was. his usual weekend morning weights session and jog at the gym helped his mood marginally, and after that, the transgressions of his past week weighed down on his shoulders a bit less and he climbed up the three flights of stairs.

....and there were boxes on sammy's doorstep.

he clocked them as he landed on the top stair, hooded eyes narrowing with the same caution he carried constantly as a police officer, then un-narrowing as he saw the ribbons they were tied with.

not a bomb. awesome.

the wolfish, nasty feeling deep in his heart thrummed faster as he got to his front door. he crouched, picked up the packages.

cookies of some type and brownies of another, in two separate boxes. little treats peeking up through the cellophane windows of the boxes you'd tucked them into, nestled in pinked and wrapped in white.

and the note on top oh-so-sweetly told him that you'd been mindful while packaging in case sammy had a nut allergy.

it'd been less than a week and you'd already ruined this man, through and through. he was gone.

it didn't matter if you didn't want to be his, or you didn't quite know what you wanted just yet, he vowed silently. he'd get you there eventually.

untying the boxes after he'd taken them into his kitchen, door slamming a bit more than he meant it to in his rush, made him feel as gross as you’d done the entire week. the white ribbons, delicate and soft, came undone so easily under his roughed-up fingertips. yet, despite the daintiness of it all, the only thing he could think about (besides the heavy, chocolatey scent of whatever kind of magic was in that box) was tying you up in delicate, soft ribbons, and having you come undone under his fingertips, too.

the brownie had hardly passed his lips, espresso-rich and layered with cream, when he dropped the treat right back into its box and let his head sink into his hands, elbows resting on the kitchen counter. absolutely absurd rate at which blood was rushing to his crotch aside, there was no way you were this perfect. he dragged a hand through his short auburn curls, straightening up. bittersweetness lingered in his mouth, and, before he did a whole lot of thinking, he shoved the boxes into his fridge and strode back into the hallway. two more paces and he was at your doorstep, knuckles coming up to tap on the wood with all of the care he could possibly offer.

after a pause so long he could feel your panic oozing out by his shoes, you tugged the door open.

and sammy, then and there, knew he was going to take a cold shower the moment he got back to his flat. probably tug one out, one forearm braced on the tile wall, face set in a grunt. the water would drown out whatever noises he'd make, anyways.

you were in a soft babydoll pajama set and had a smudge of flour on your cheekbone, with a tiny apron tied tightly at your waist and fluffy booties on your feet.

he hoped whatever hard-on he was forming wouldn't show through his workout clothes— that day, basketball shorts, tennis shoes, and a gray hoodie.

the mental image of you standing there, looking awfully flustered at sammy's sudden appearance, went straight back to his jerk-vault. not the idea of you solving the growing issue you'd just caused in his (now, he realized, horrendously too thin) shorts, or bending over his bathroom counter. just you, standing there, looking like the housewife he'd never had the chance to pamper.

and you just stared.

then, eyebrows furrowed:

“…my butter is going to burn, i... should, maybe, um... do you... need something?"

yes. he did, thank you very much. he needed to give you head like you'd never had before. which, judging by the way you’d shivered each time he’d touched your arm since meeting him for the first time, wouldn’t be much of a hurdle to cross.

sammy let his head fall a little to the side, hand slowly reaching out to your head— still wildly bruised, scabbed-over cut peeking out from your hairline.

you flinched back a few millimeters at first but didn't move beyond that.

his fawn, he thought to himself, pride surging in his chest. the kind of creature that flinched when reached towards, but didn't run. the kind that made him want to sit still for hours, hand outstretched, coaxing it closer just for the satisfaction of getting it to nuzzle into him.

his hand grazed the healing wound, rough pad of his thumb barely touching your own skin. with his eyes trained towards the top of your head, you got a chance to look down at his legs.

(the man could obviously run. god, you didn't even mind that his hoodie covered up his arms that day. you felt like a victorian-era damsel. when did calf muscles make you this hot and bothered?)

"holdin' up okay? head doesn't hurt too bad, does it?" he hummed, eyes trained intently on the bruise. his bottom lip pouted out just a little bit in maybe-faux sympathy. poor thing.

your brow furrowed harder, little huff blowing past your lips as you glanced downwards.

sammy let it slide this time. he'd made you squirm later, anyways.

"no, it's... it isn't bad, i.... that's why i baked. thanks. for, um... helping. with that," you say, squirming back ever so slightly this time. one of your hands was clinging into the fabric of your apron.

his eyebrows shot up, and he could see your hand tighten in the fabric at your waist as he let his coyote-smile come out to play. little fawn, tensing to run. frozen in the road and trying to gauge if the headlights staring her down were about to be her reckoning.

they weren't, you decided, as sammy continued to fuss over your browbone. a man with a touch so benevolent could surely mean no harm. he let his hand drop to his side once more, gaze lowering back to your own.

the hoodie-shorts combo was really doing things to your heart rate. he smelled like he'd just worked out, and he was a little gross, and it was a lot gross how much that made you want him.

"those... brownies, whatever was in them, they're good. you bake a lot, chickadee?" he said, leaning his shoulder up against the doorway. one eyebrow was set higher than the other, head tilted back a bit so he stared cockily down the bridge of his nose. his crooked teeth just barley showed, words restrained like he was trying to not scare you too bad.

you nodded, curt and sharp.

"yeah, um... there's... my butter's gonna burn, can i.... help, with something?" you fumbled, looking over your shoulder towards the kitchen, then back to sammy. then, back to the kitchen and back to sammy again.

his head tilted to the right another few degrees.

"baking? more, right now?"

a quick nod, and another worried glance back at the kitchen.

"you need any help?"

and suddenly, the butter didn't matter much at all. your eyes flicked up to his own, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"...you don't ba--... well, you don't seem.... particularly, um, like...."

you paused, wrinkles becoming a bit more prominent, only then, with frustration at your own verbal clumsiness. sammy saw the exasperated little sighs and the halfway-to-uncomfortable fidgeting and wanted to devour you whole.

a long pause, a self-irritated deep breath.

"can you bake?"

sammy let himself pretend to ponder for a minute. no, he couldn't bake. not in the slightest.

"i'm not not good at it," he decided on after a moment. "and i'm a cop, i'm... good with instructions. just tell me what to do."

you didn't look particularly convinced.

"i'm good at washin' dishes," he tacked on weakly at the end, tossing excuses to let himself into your flat at the wall like they were spaghetti, waiting for one to stick.

"...yeah, okay, um..." you started, throwing one last glance before looking back at him with a sigh. "dishes would.... that'd be nice. sure"

and suddenly, you'd stepped back, tugging the door the rest of the way for him to follow you in with a soft mutter about shoes going by the door. no injuries, no major furniture accidents, no falling up the stairs. no extenuating circumstances, just you, apron and pajama clad, inviting him in under normal conditions.

sammy toed his shoes off with a little smile, gently commenting on how much better your place looked already.

"any more furniture try to kill 'ya?" he asked, sticking his shoes next to your own on the door-side rack. he had to swat away the mental images of matching mugs, two-piece kitchenware sets, and a second toothbrush tucked behind your sink like they were a misbehaving dogs being whacked with a rolled newspaper.

you'd already stepped from the entryway further into the kitchen again, muttering a little "no, sir," as you used a spatula to stir the toasting milk solids. a delicious, nutty scent emanated up from the stove, and he followed you over after a moment.

your flat had come together warmer, nicer than he'd expected it to during your ikea fiasco two days prior. the kind of cozy that always smelled of cinnamon and sugar, more organized than he could ever dream of his own place being. countertop pantry-ingredient jars, matching copper pots hung from the wall, accent towels to match the pink backsplash, and warm under-shelf lighting that made the kitchen glow.

it was dreamy, and it felt like home, and suddenly sammy couldn't help but imagine himself feeling you up as you baked cinnamon rolls there on a sunday morning.

you tended to the butter on the stove, quietly, not even seeming to care how he'd pushed into your den. after, relievedly, making sure it hadn't burnt, you glanced at sammy over your shoulder.

"you can... um, sorry that i don't... have any kitchen seats. i haven't put my barstools together," you say awkwardly, eyes dating to a couple of boxes tidily stacked in your entryway.

sammy brightened like a bulb, snapping out of the quiet spell you’d drawn him under so easily. he pushed off of the countertop,

"i'll do it. you got a toolkit?"

you did a double take back at him, eyes widening a little.

"um, it's... broomcloset, right there. top shelf."

if someone had told sammy he’d someday be cooped up in a college girl’s apartment on a rainy saturday morning, screwing together furniture on her entryway floor while she played bakery like he wasn’t even there, he’d tell them they were full of shit. then he'd go beat his meat to the idea of domesticity like that, so saccharine it’d rot his teeth out.

but there he was.

hoodie sleeves shoved up, sitting among a pile of screws, fixing the bar stool's seat to its legs for the second time. he'd kept messing up which screws went where, too focussed on the concentrated pout on your face as you measured ingredients into your stand mixer.

you didn't make any effort to kill the quiet that'd settled over the two of you as you worked on your separate tasks in tandem.

so, sammy decided, he'd bribe you out of your little skittish silence the way you lured a nervous stray into your palm: slow and casual, treading so lightly it didn't even notice the movement.

"who're the cookies for?" he asked, not even looking up at you. eye contact or conversation could happen, but not simultaneously, he'd concluded. "smells good."

"... oh, just... rest of, um, of the hallway. didn't wanna seem rude 'n not say hi, after moving in," you say. "you can.... obviously have some, if you.... 'f my baking's not too bad," you tacked on after a moment, scraping more valrhona — some fèves chopped, some left whole — into the dough.

"so i'm not special?" sammy asked, feigning horror, looking up at you from the floor with an overdramatized look. you did a double-take down at him, eyes widening a little. partially at the way his arms strained holding mostly-assembled furniture together, and partially at the though of offending him.

"no! no, of... yes, you're..." you backtracked hurriedly, voice trailing off as he chuckled, glancing back down at his work with a "just messin' with 'ya."

god. you'd almost said "of course you're special" out loud. to his face. while he kneeled on your entryway laminate.

a less-comfortable silence swept back over both of you as he finished up, before he stood. he brushed his hands off dramatically, in typical man-over-thirty-five fashion, before gathering the two barstools — one for him, one for you, he thought proudly — and placing them neatly by the peninsula.

your eyes flashed back down to the cookie dough, worried about being caught staring at the veins that bulged on his forearms, what with his hoodie pushed up above his elbows, or the happy trail that flashed for half a moment above his basketball shorts.

tummy-hair and the scent of chocolate and browned butter clouding your mind, you didn't notice sammy's movement towards you at first.

a cop like him was supposed to be loud, clunky, out of place, amidst softness like your home. it was disarming how well he fit in with the gentleness, the domesticity. a grounding presence, adding to the warmth of the room and radiating safety. there was something about him not getting to experience that kind of calm, not usually the one offering tenderness since becoming both a cop and whatever always-on-edge brute his ex-wife had molded him into, that made just existing in your space nearly religious to him.

and suddenly, he was at your side, rough hand rising softly to your shoulder, sending an immediate shiver down your spine. his warm palm (a sharp contrast to the usual frigidity of your own, you thought amorously) radiated sparks, or so it felt, into your arm, over the pajama top and apron strap.

he tugged you a little so your body oriented towards his chest, hardly an arms length between the two of you. his eyes weren't, oddly enough, on your own, but instead glared tenderly at a spot on your cheek.

"you've got...." he started, free hand coming up to his face. in a quick dart of pink he'd wet the pad of his thumb. he ducked down a bit, situating himself more at eye-level with your cheek, before extending his hand out to the aforementioned offending spot below your malar.

the warmth of his dampened thumb pressing firmly-but-not-roughly against your face came and went. the somersaults in your stomach came and stayed.

the spot chilled as his hand pulled back, leaving a small patch of wetness on your face that tingled as the air made contact, and another shudder coursed through the rest of your body.

"...just... a bit of flour. s'gone," he hummed, eyes moving to your own from where they'd been trained on your cheek. his gaze was patient, a kind of quiet fondness that felt undeserved, like he’d already decided you were soft and good and worth taking care of. like you were his.

it should've been gross. everything grossed you out. love, intimacy, socializing, eye contact. but, this time, all you could do was try to not pass out. your cheeks heated an embarrassing amount, and you mumbled a quick thanks before ducking past him towards the cabinet you kept clingfilm in.

when you'd gotten the plastic wrap and turned back around, you were horrified to see him hovering next to the cookie dough, man-hands reaching down towards the bowl.

mr. bryant may have been gorgeous, and broad, and warm, and everything that gave your solo-life apartment the second presence it needed, but he was still a guy. and a cop, at that. there was no telling when he'd cleaned his hands off last, and, as juvenile as your crush on him may have been, cleanliness still mattered when the treats were for the rest of your neighbors.

you were next to him in a few quick steps, making a quiet noise of displeasure as you reached to bat his arm away.

mr. bryant was faster. wolves tended to have than advantage over fawns.

his calloused hand reached out, locking around your wrist and pushing back. it tightened, just enough to keep you from interrupting his taste-test. he didn't bother to look up at you, eyes trained on the cookie dough like he was judging which bit had the most chocolate chunks.

his grip was a show that he had the upper hand when it came to you. not to harm, just to assert his control over something so soft and so fleeting. a steady kind of dominance.

and you stood there, mouth gaping ever so slightly, heart nearly pounding through your apron. walking the tightrope, balancing uncertainly, between shy discomfort and overflowing infatuation.

"relax, kid, 'm just takin' my payment," he hummed, tugging free a chunk of dough and bringing it into his mouth. he chewed, once, twice, then swallowed, adam's apple shifting. his tongue darted out, licking off a bit of the buttery, sugary goodness that'd clung to his thumb.

and he groaned.

not loud, not obscene. quiet, like a confession only meant for the two of you to hear. your breath hitched, caught in your chest, nearly suffocating in how quickly this man had gone from a stranger to the first temptation of sin life had brought to you.

"god, fuck, girlie," he purred, licking his thumb once more and finally casting his gaze to the side, at you. it was slow, and he was deliberate in the way he dragged his eyes across your face. drinking you in. he almost looked angry, and you were incredibly attracted to the notion that mr. bryant was the type who looked pissed whenever he ate good food.

and sammy, for one, was glad your slightly-startled eyes lingered on his own, because if you'd looked lower (say, to his crotch), your alarm would've grown tenfold.

it wasn't his fault. you were in an apron and pajamas, for fucks sake. it was his god given duty to picture how'd you'd look bent you over the countertop mid-baking session. hands desperately clawing at smooth marble as he worked that endearing, ever-present anxiety from your body.

he swore to whatever religious figure watching down on the both of you in that moment that he'd be nice, and gentle. and, so, to please, please let you wander fully into grasp, just enough for you to realize how good surrendering to something stronger than yourself felt.

and then he shook his head, barely noticeably, trying to clear the thoughts that were creeping into his mind like a slow-moving fire.

you'd probably had a scary day, thanks to him. deciding to give you some relief from his persistent gaze, he glanced back down into the bowl of dough— seemingly insignificant, somehow a force strong enough to make his brain absolutely reel with visions of domesticity.

"you gotta bring me a few've these when they're out tomorrow, yeah?" he insisted, letting his eyes wander to the mostly-contained mess of mise en place that remained on the counters. "for buildin' your furniture."

you nodded, mumbling out an awestruck "yessir" at the quiet demand, staring intently at the bowl of cookie dough as you tugged it towards yourself. with a gentle press, you covered in cling film and then hurried it towards the fridge.

sammy watched you move—still skittish, but slowly easing into his presence. his little stray. tempted by his promises of the safety, the comfort, that lingered just past the initial trepidation of letting him into your space. you hadn’t fully settled, not yet, but you were letting him in, inch by inch.

and, as you pattered around him (anywhere but face-to-face, you thought desperately), you didn't catch the way his gaze followed you. he read you like scripture, taking in the quick steps and the lowered eyeline and the fidgeting hands. oh-so-patiently, he let you orbit him like he was the sun, your movements circling him as if he had a gravitational pull on you. like you were tethered to him.

he pushed up off of the counter he'd been leaned against, head cocking as you, more or less, refused to look at him.

he'd work on that next time, but it was cute, for now.

"don't forget my cookies tomorrow," he said, shoving a hand in his back pocket as he sauntered to the door. you glanced over your shoulder cautiously. "i'll've finished the brownies, and the... those little pink ones by then, probably."

his hand hovered over the doorknob as he pulled you into his gaze one last time.

"...but i should go, before i take that dough out'a the fridge. see you 'round, yeah?"

his eyebrows quirked as he waited on an answer, and, knowing he'd put you through quite the day, let your little nod of affirmation satiate his roaring appetite for seeing you squirm.

and then, with a barely-there smile, he was gone

you didn't move at first. silence filled your ears like they were stuffed with cotton, and it was almost uncomfortable. no more teasing conversation, no more quiet thuds and clangs of furniture being built, no second heartbeat. an unpleasant feeling crept up in your chest as a minute passed, and you realized, like being hit with a freight train, that your apartment had been missing something.

him.

the space felt weird, nearly half-empty, after he left. your arms wrapped around your middle, loosely, like your body was trying to process the abhorrent lack of mr. bryant in the room, or trap in the remnants of his warmth.

and there, in three-oh-seven, bereft of the man you were coming to venerate as your protector in this new and uncertain life of yours, you ached. with want, with desire, with desperation for the weight of his hand on your shoulder once more.

the first five minutes without him passed with all of the slowness molasses as you washed dishes, and there was no denying how deeply, truly in trouble you were. the kind of trouble that had risen slow and steady like dough until it suddenly burst from its all-too-small vessel.

you weren't entirely sure what mess you'd wandered into, in all of its broad-shouldered, calloused, jackal-voiced glory. but you knew, god save your soul, that you were going to let it consume you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n contd.: guys this is bootycheeks i think. when i said slow burn i meant slow as a snail. im sorry to anyone who is frustrated by the fact that the chapter literally built up to a picosecond-long face touch (@ user erwinsvow) and it is with deep regret that i'm informing y'all they aren't boning for quite a while. be prepared to hate me even more!!! if you don't hate me and, by some miracle, want to be on a taglist for this, just lmk (dm, comment, drop it in a reblog, wtv!)

if you're confused about the dynamic going on and if fawngirl is aware of sammy's attraction, or even fully of her own.... yeah. me fucking too. i said i'd write, not that it'd make any sense. im also trying to let this settle somewhere between reader-insert and oc but im not sure where on that scale it's wandering off to, so i'm sorry if you read this and are super annoyed by the "reader"-ish-ness but then super specific characterizations for said reader. again. i said i'd write, not that it'd be any good!!

last apology!! in case its not obvious i apologize for everything!! sorry for all of the annoying baking prose and terminology i really didn't mean to let it eat up that much space. there are literally more brownie and macaron rambles than there are sammy rambles. if you can't tell the one thing i love more in this world than sammy is baking.

if you've made it this far: we're officially married. i love you.

mango signing off! next chapter should hopefully not have the same nine-extra-day delay this one did

#sammy bryant #southland #shawn hatosy #cervine

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mosaickiwi · 10 months ago

Text

For Two

Hello, content specifically catered to me. This might be the whole damn month.

Just an Angel that works at a BnB all alone with their stalker future spouse... :3c

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

You started your morning a little later than usual that Saturday, grateful for the extra half hour of sleep as you gathered ingredients. Only one pot of coffee to brew, one breakfast to make, one room to turnover while the guest went about their day touring the city.

You couldn't believe it.

Normally, the weekend was completely booked. This one was too, except there'd been not just one, but six no-shows yesterday. Almost every single room at the inn was empty despite being fully paid for.

Right at the usual check-in time, a single guest had shown up. Dressed in all black, a whole head taller than you, eyes that looked as tired as you felt from rushing around all day, and only a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder, they didn't look like the type of tourist you usually had this time of year. But who were you to judge?

The refreshments you set out didn't go to waste, though. He went back for seconds and thirds as you showed them to their room… then around the house… then around the garden while constantly on the lookout for other guests pulling up in their rental cars.

Oddly, he seemed more interested in you than the city. Rather than attractions on the pier or night life, the conversation flowed towards a few hobbies you found in common. Before you knew it, the sun had long since set, and no other soul had arrived for check-ins. You carried on with him a while longer, ending the night in a good mood despite the strange, once in a lifetime occurrence.

It felt like talking with an old friend. You wondered if the chat over breakfast would be just as nice.

The coffee machine loudly beeped, disturbing your current task. You stopped and poured it all into a thermos, then set it in the small woven carrier you'd prepared with a mug, creamers, sugars, and a pair of neatly wrapped shortbread cookies. You quietly took it up the stairs to your sole guest's room to set it at the door.

Just as you approached, the door opened with messy black hair and lightly flushed cheeks in greeting. He was the smallest bit shorter without the boots. No piercings in this early in the morning, but even his pajamas were all black. The tiny ghosts on his pants were cute.

The man's blue eyes came to life at the sight of you and he smiled. "Mornin'," they spoke in that soft, raspy voice you'd gotten acquainted with yesterday.

"Beat me to it. Good morning, Ren." You smiled back with ease. "Did you sleep well?"

"Perfect, actually." They yawned, eyeing the basket in your hands as they stretched. "All that f'me before 7am.? Fuck, y'might really be an angel." He paused and rubbed at his lower lip. "Sorry."

You held the basket out to him. "I heard nothing. No worries," you said. It was hard to tell if he was apologizing for cursing or flirting. Was he flirting?

He took the carrier, but still stood in the doorway, drumming his fingers on the sides as if thinking of what to say. "Soo… how d'you usually do these cute little coffee baskets for two people?"

"Two?" You hurriedly racked your brain. You were pretty sure his reservation was for one. He did have the door code already. Maybe he let his companion in late last night?

Did you need to make more coffee? Or tea? Did they have dietary restrictions you didn't know about for breakfast?!

Shit, shit, shit.

You never got to greet them and get their name and if they were still sleeping it'd be rude to wake them up just to ask and you couldn't expect a five star review anyways at this point but this—

"Ah, I meant…" The man interrupted your silent panic with a surprisingly nervous tone. He shifted slightly, fingers tapping even louder. "If ya wanted t'join me. I mean, I'm the only one here so I thought y'wouldn't be too busy with breakfast."

Ohh. He was flirting. Your job be damned.

"Breakfast would have to be a little late… but if you don't mind, okay."

Ren smiled a lot brighter this time. "Great. I'll get changed and meet you downstairs in a few, yeah?"

You wanted to tell them there was no need to change with how adorable his PJs were, but kept it to yourself. You couldn't tease them like that yet. "Sure thing."

#14 days with you #14dwy redacted #14dwy #14dwy ren #momo writing #sorry it's 1am for me #normal hours are not real #self indulgence babyyy #I want redacted to come play house with me #I can cook I can clean #green titles = I'm being weird and strange 🖤

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theeartuaist · 2 months ago

Text

The App (2)

Three weeks. Two burner phones. One frenzied apartment change. That was all it took for you to start believing you were free.

You’d torched every digital breadcrumb like a fugitive with blood on their hands. The old phone? In pieces. Your social media? Wiped clean, like a crime scene bleached of evidence. The new number came from a prepaid device you bought with cash at a rundown gas station two towns over—right next to a place that sold fireworks and pickled eggs. You told no one but your family where you’d gone, and even then, you didn’t tell them why.

The apartment was smaller than the last one. Claustrophobic, maybe, but it had good bones: thick walls, double deadbolts, and a front desk guy named Marcus who treated unknown visitors like they were walking lawsuits. Most nights, you even slept through without scanning the corners for shadows that moved too smoothly, too human, but not quite enough.

For a moment, a fleeting, fragile moment, you believed you'd done it. That you’d outrun Raye.

And then the books started arriving.

The first one came five days after you finally began to settle in. No envelope, no Amazon box. Just a dog-eared romance novel—The Billionaire’s Forbidden Love—resting right in front of your door like an orphaned pet. Shirtless dude on the cover, a woman swooning like her bones had gone soft. You laughed, briefly. Then you saw the neon-yellow highlighting, thick and uneven like it had been applied with too much pressure:

“You can run, my love, but you cannot escape destiny. What belongs to me will always find its way home.”

You didn’t laugh after that. You pitched it into the alley dumpster and double-locked the door. Then you added a chair under the knob, just like your dad taught you.

The next day, the second book showed up. But this time, it was inside. Sitting right on your pillow. The highlighted passage was even worse:

“He watched from afar, memorising every pattern, every habit. True love required study, devotion, and pursuit. She would understand, eventually, that his persistence was the purest expression of his feelings.”

You tore the place apart. Every lock, every latch, every inch of ductwork. The windows were sealed, the cameras at the front desk had nothing. No one but you had come in.

By the end of the week, you had seventeen books. Seventeen. Titles like – Surrendering to the Shadow King and The Possessive Duke’s Darling. And they kept appearing in places they had no business being. One in your refrigerator, its pages damp with condensation. One stuffed between your clean towels. One curled like a sleeping dog in your shower caddy.

Each with its own highlighted passage about destiny, ownership, and love sharpened into obsession.

You considered calling the police. Then you thought about what that call would sound like: Hello, officer? I’m being stalked by a man who may not be a man and who communicates exclusively via bodice-rippers. Yeah. That’d go over well.

Then came a knock.

You crept to the peephole, half-expecting a nightmare in a human suit. But it was Mrs. Abernathy, your octogenarian neighbor with a floral scarf and a fondness for raisin cookies.

“You have a package, dear,” she called sweetly. “Special delivery.”

You cracked the door just enough to peer out. “I didn’t order anything.”

Her eyes didn’t look quite right. Too glassy, like someone had forgotten to switch them on all the way. Her smile stretched a bit too wide, like someone had drawn it there with a knife.

“Oh, I know,” she said, waving a small wrapped parcel. “That lovely boy Raye asked me to bring it. He showed me pictures. Said you were engaged. Such a devoted young man!”

You slammed the door like it was a guillotine. Locked everything. Heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ribs.

Through the wood, her voice came again, but it had a different flavor now—tinny, mechanical, like it had been routed through a bad speaker. “He asked me to tell you he’s learned from his mistakes. Movies were poor research materials. He’s found much better guides now.”

You didn’t say a word. Eventually, her steps shuffled away.

You should’ve been gone by then. Should’ve run. But something—foolish hope, or maybe just fear—kept you rooted to that spot. That night, the package still showed up.

You found it on your kitchen counter. Inside was a leather-bound journal. Handmade. Not a book but a log. Each page was filled with razor-precise handwriting—cold, methodical, obsessive. A surveillance diary.

It catalogued your life: what time you left for work, what you ordered for lunch, who you spoke to, how long your showers lasted. Some entries even had photos. From behind bushes. Across the street. Through windows. They dated back months before you ever met him.

The final page was in red ink, as if written in something warmer than pen:

“I have identified the errors in my courtship approach. Fiction is an incomplete source for behavioural protocols. I have been observing actual human mating behaviours and have identified more successful strategies. Persistence is key.”

“I have instead been consulting superior information repositories that your species calls Reddit, 4chan, and various forums dedicated to "game." I have also analysed dating advice blogs and YouTube channels dedicated to human mating strategies.”

“The consensus is clear: females respond to what humans designate as "alpha" behaviour. One must "hold frame" and employ "negging" and "dread game." The courtship requires what your species terms 'pushing past last-minute resistance”. I will begin again tomorrow. You will find my improvements satisfactory.”

You didn’t read any further. You just grabbed your things, left the apartment, and checked into a hotel the furthest from your apartment.

You didn’t care anymore. The world you thought you knew had slipped away, and now you were just running, your phone buried in the lining of your suitcase. At dawn, your eyes opened to a rose on the pillow beside you.

Your phone buzzed, though it was supposed to be off. You checked it. The app was back.

A single message blinked at you like an open eye:

Good morning. I have located your temporary nest. Your evasion techniques are impressive but unnecessary. I now understand that pursuit and resistance are part of the dance. This is biology. I will perform correctly this time. I am upgrading for you.

You didn’t even stop to brush your teeth. You didn’t bother packing. You didn’t bother trying to reason with yourself. You checked out of there in a flash, running down the hotel hall, looking for an exit; a chance to breathe without Raye’s presence closing in on you like a vice.

You burst into the morning air, your breath clouding in the cold as you stumbled into the streets. The first taxi you spotted felt like a lifeline, and you threw yourself into it without thinking twice.

The driver was an old man—silver hair combed neatly, liver spots on his hands, eyes soft and wet like a dog’s. He glanced at you in the rearview mirror and smiled, a slow,little smile.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice gravelly and warm, the kind of voice you think should come bedtime stories.

“Train station.” Your voice was high, tight. “Please hurry.”

The cab pulled out with a gentle lurch.

“Bad morning?”

You nodded, eyes glued to the window and pressed yourself against the door. You stared out the window, your heart was still punching your ribs. You thought if you stayed quiet, maybe you could disappear. Maybe he wouldn’t find you.

“Boyfriend trouble?” the old man asked, trying to make it sound harmless.

You swallowed. That word—boyfriend—curled in your throat like something rotten. “Why do you care?” you asked, too sharp.

He fell silent.

The city blurred past—gray buildings, flickering signs, streets that all looked like they were exhaling their last breath. Then you realized something was off. A left turn when it should’ve been right. A street you didn’t recognize. You sat up, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” you said, leaning forward, “you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

“Sir? Did you hear me?”

Still nothing. The cab made another turn. Left. Not toward the bus station. Not toward anything you recognised.

“Hey! Sir this isn't where the train station is,” you repeated, the chill of dread sliding under your skin like ice water. “You’re going the wrong way?”

The driver’s voice came again, but it had changed. Just slightly. Too measured. Too... calculated.

“Creating uncertainty increases emotional dependence,” he said.

You froze.

“What?”

“The literature states that unpredictable environments produce deeper attachments.”

You reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

You yanked this time. Still locked - child locks. Of course.

Your stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless lake. You turned back to the driver, heart hammering. “Let me out,” you said. “Now.”

“The manuals suggest limiting options increases compliance,” he says, smooth as ice, still not looking at you.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. No signal. Useless. You pounded the window, screaming. “Let me the hell out!”

The taxi sped up, turning down a quieter road—broken sidewalks, chain-link fences, warehouses that haven’t been used in decades. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one finds out until it’s too late.

In desperation, you looked at the driver, ready to plead, threaten, whatever it took—and froze. In the rearview mirror, where the old man's eyes should have been reflected, there was nothing. Just empty space.

As if sensing my realization, the driver's face rippled. Like wax left too close to a fire, the old man melted away. The silver hair receded, the wrinkles smoothed. And what’s left was him.

Raye.

His familiar, too-perfect face stared back at you from the mirror, his expression neutral, observant.

“Was the old man's disguise inadequate?” he asks, genuinely curious, like a scientist observing a mouse that bit back. “I modeled it after ‘trustworthy archetypes.’”

“You... you.. just, let me out,” you said, quieter now. Not because you’re calm, but because you were trying to be. “Please.”

“Your heart rate has increased,” he noted. “The forums suggest this indicates attraction, yet your verbal cues suggest aversion.”

His head tilted. That same goddamn tilt you remembered from your first and last date.

“The data remains inconsistent.”

“Well, gee, perhaps the reason for that is because you are kidnapping me!” You saw the road slipping past. Warehouses and rusted fences blurring by. You tried to memorize every turn. Useless. You knew it was useless..

“Your cultural narratives celebrate pursuit after rejection. They frame perseverance as romantic despite the ethics and laws. Is this your attempt at stimulating narrative tension? Are you playing, as your people say, hard to get?”

You were shaking now. Not from fear—but from thr hot, boiling pit simmering inside you. “They’re written by people who want control, not connection. Hell, do you even understand what you're reading?” You said, breath trembling, “You have no damn idea, do you?”

He processed that. You can see him processing it. "The research is indeed inconsistent." The cab had slowed now, creeping down a service road lined with oleander bushes, their pink flowers drooping like exhausted dancers. "I calculated the most efficient approach based on available data.. the forum posts with the highest engagement metrics suggested—"

"Shut up wbout your stupid data! You don't know anything about love!" I gestured at the surroundings; the locked doors. "This - what you're doing - just creates fear. Not love.”

Raye's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Just slightly. The knuckles went white, then translucent, something that looked like starlight filtering through fog.

"I have exonerated my sources. I have watched 689 romantic films," he continued, voice carrying a new edge like glass scraping against glass. "Read 447 romance novels. Monitored 432 relationship advice forums. Observed—"

"OBSERVED!" You were shouting now, past caring. "That's all you do, isn't it? Watch and copy and calculate, but you've never felt a goddamn thing in whatever passes for your life. Relationships aren't algorithms. You can't learn them from books or websites. You need real experience. And you never experienced love in your life!"

The cab jerked to a stop.

In the terrible silence that followed, your own breathing, ragged and harsh, ricocheted in your ears. Raye's reflection had gone perfectly still. When he finally spoke, his voice was different — quieter, with a sound like distant rain.

"You are... correct. I have no experiential database for the emotion you call love. Only... approximations. Simulations." His head tilted, that familiar gesture now seeming disappointed rather than curious. "The inconsistencies in human behaviour patterns suggest an underlying complexity I failed to accurately model."

Something changed in the air. The child locks clicked open.

"If love cannot be calculated or observed from the outside," he said, still facing forward, "then my research methodology is fundamentally flawed."

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers were on the handle, your foot hitting the cracked asphalt before my brain could catch up. You were already running, but his final words followed you down that empty road: "I will... recalibrate. Begin new research. Attempt to understand the variables I overlooked."

For three days, there were no books, no messages, no signs of Raye. You began to hope that perhaps you had crashed his reasoning, created a logic loop he couldn't resolve.

Then on the fourth morning, you found a book on my new kitchen table in yet another new apartment that no one should have known about. It wasn't a romance novel this time, but a philosophy text opened to a passage about identity. A note had been paper-clipped to the page, written in that same mechanically precise handwriting:

"I purged the corrupted data. Your internet contains many viruses of thought. I will observe more carefully now, without intervention. When I understand the paradox, I will return."

"The designation "fiancé" was premature. The designation "researcher" was inadequate. I find no human words for what has transpired between us. Thank you for identifying the error in my programming. I will experience love."

next chapter

#yandere #my writing #male yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yan blog #yandere x y/n #yandere alien #fantasy #alien oc #writeblr #yandere oc

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saltnsugarbear · 7 months ago

Note

Giving each other small smiles across the room with Conrad maybe friends to lovers trope

definitely not my best, but I actually love Conrad Fisher soso bad

word count: 0.6k

content warnings: none other than a silly prank!! bugs mentioned!!

You've know Conrad for forever. At least that's what it feels like.

Your mom met Susannah when you and Conrad were little. The Fishers have been a fixture in your life since then.

Meeting the Fishers meant meeting the Conklins. All of your mothers became quick friends which made all of you kids quick friends.

Being closer to Conrad and Steven's age made you part of this smaller group between you five. Being the oldest meant automatically having more say in any matter.

However being part of the older kids group meant you got to be part of the pranks.

Usually you had a blast with these. Helping Steven and Conrad scheme with how they could pull something on Jeremiah or Belly. Over the years you've come up with some plans that had been Hall of Fame worthy.

Some of them were intricate beyond belief, some were incredibly juvenile.

This one you're a little worried about though. It was mostly harmless, Taylor and Belly weren't going to end up in any harm, if just a little embarrassed. And this one ended up being Steven's idea, so you were prepared to drop all credit if necessary.

Steven had thought it would be a great idea to buy cookies from the grocery stores bakery, and plant a realistic fake cockroach among the cookies. His plan hinged on the timing and the girls wanting one of the cookies, leaning more room for error.

So with Steven and Conrad getting the fake cockroach, you picked up the cookies from the store and set to plating them in the Fishers kitchen. The two older boys snuck in the house with ease, even with the girls down at the beach.

"Wait, wait, lift one," Steven says, sidling up beside you against the counter. Conrad comes up on your other side, leaning with his hands on the counter. If he ever mentioned how you leaned against his shoulder, you'd say you never noticed.

You lift one of the more obvious cookies, watching as Steven tucked two cockroaches in between a few cookies. With the fake bugs in place, you put the top cookie back and make sure they're unnoticeable.

Almost as if on cue you can hear the girls walking up the path with Jeremiah. The sound of them getting closer causes you and the boys to scatter, you and Steven running to sit at your spots at the table and Conrad ducking into the mudroom.

You and Steven start some menial conversation while you wait, paying no mind as the girls walk in.

"Oh hey Jere," Steven says off-handedly before continuing your conversation. It's a minute before either of the girls notice the cookies.

"Ooo," Belly hums, spotting the cookies first. "Are these for everyone?"

"Huh?" You ask before looking over at her. "Oh, yeah. Susannah dropped them off before she and mom's went out."

You're playing the part of having no knowledge of the prank perfectly, complaining about your schoolwork to Steven.

"Oh, what the fuck!" Taylor shrieks. Belly squeals as well, dropping her cookie on the counter.

All the noise draws Conrads attention, walking into the kitchen and feigning innocence. "What? What happened?"

"There's cockroaches in the cookies!!" Belly exclaims while Taylor fake gags over the sink.

"Oh..." Conrad says, looking at the plate on the counter.

Without much second thought, Conrad grabs one of the cookies from the plate. One of the ones on top of the fake bugs. He takes a bite out of it and shrugs, "Tastes okay to me."

His laid back mindset makes you snicker. Your giggling across the room makes him perk up and look in your direction. At your amusement, Conrad grins, showing you the cookie still in his mouth. The overwhelming sense of dorkiness coming from him makes you smile wider, crinkling your nose at him. Despite this, Jeremiah and Steven make fake gagging noises, causing you to roll your eyes.

If there was one thing you loved the most about Conrad, it was that he knew how to make you smile. Really smile.

#saltnsugarbear #not enough sugar #conrad fisher x reader #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher fanfic #conrad fisher fanfiction #conrad fisher imagine #the summer i turned pretty fanfiction #tsitp fanfic #tsitp fanficition #200 grains of salt [ 200 followers celebration ]#the garden [ mutuals! ]#tumblr daughter [ sonia ]

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munsonsmixtapes · 1 year ago

Text

Angel

Evan “Buck” Buckley x fem!shy!probie!reader

summary: You and Buck have been acting weird since the night at the bar and the other members of the 118 get suspicious of your relationship

word count: 2k

part one part three part four part five part six

The kitchen was empty when you showed up to work. You had gotten there early to prepare the meal you were going to share together to thank the crew for being so welcoming. You had a big feast planned out and were really looking forward to everyone enjoying the meal you prepared for them and the time that it took to do so.

Not only had you wanted to impress Bobby, but you also wanted to impress Buck…maybe a little. You hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the night before and were suddenly really excited to see him.

It seemed like everyone entered at the same time and they all followed the smell of your cookies that had cooled down just enough. Buck was the first to enter the kitchen and he reached for a cookie, but you slapped his hand before he could get one.

“Damn, slugger,” he winced as he clutched his hand to his chest in a dramatic manner. You had every intention of letting him have a cookie, but now you kind of wanted him to work for it.

“Who’s slugger?” Hen asked as she got a cookie and took a bite.

“No one,” Buck winked at you. “Just an inside joke.” You felt your cheeks warm and you lowered your head, feeling your cheeks warm.

“An inside joke?” Eddie asked as he also got a cookie and took a huge bite out of it. “This is so good. What’s the occasion?”

“Yes,” you nodded your head. “And I just wanted to make you guys something to thank you.” You felt yourself becoming all shy again despite how close you were getting to everyone.

“You didn’t have to thank us,” Bobby spoke up as he entered the kitchen, followed by Chimney and Ravi, all reaching for the baking sheet, now the only one not with a cookie being Buck. “You’re family now.”

Your heart warmed at the words and you turned to Bobby who gave you a smile. You then turned back to Buck who was already looking at you, a smirk playing on his pink lips. You picked up a cookie off the sheet and handed it to him, your fingers brushing as he reached out to grab it.

“Well, since we’re family, I’m making you all my best dish. Homemade lasagna.”

“Sounds great,” Eddie gave your shoulder a squeeze and Buck didn’t miss it, still unsure of whether or not something was happening between the two of you. He really hoped there wasn't.

“Is there going to be garlic bread?” He asked and you gave him a look as if to say "Really?"

“You're right," he chuckled. "Stupid question."

"Of course there's going to be garlic bread, Buckley. And salad and more cookies." You smiled to yourself proudly as you watched the rest of the crew devour the cookies you had gotten up early to bake.

"Good," Chimney spoke up. "Because these definitely won't last until dinner." He grabbed another cookie and chewed on it.

"Yeah," Ravi chimed in, grabbing another one as well. At that point, it was hard to keep track of how many there were to begin with. You were so glad you had doubled the recipe at the last minute.

Buck moved closer to you, letting his shoulder brush yours and you were still unsure of his intentions as far as you were concerned. You were still very unsure whether or not he was actually interested in you. Maybe you'd have to ask Eddie since asking Buck himself was definitely not something you felt ready to do.

Even though you were getting more comfortable with him since you had hung out at the bar the night before, you still didn't feel as close to him as you did to Eddie, who had become your closest friend in the 118. He was like a brother to you and you were very grateful to have him.

You turned in his direction, but you weren't thinking about him. Buck had invaded your mind and all you could think about was how you should have just taken the chance and kissed him in the elevator the night before like you had wanted to. You weren't sure how it would have played out, but you would have hoped that he would have returned it.

"Whatcha thinking about over there, slugger?" Buck nudged your shoulder and you immediately pulled your attention away from Eddie, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

"Nothing," you shook your head.

"If you like him, you should say something," he said low enough for just you to hear.

"I don't like Eddie." And you didn't. Not like that, anyway. You were afraid you were starting to feel that way about Buck, though. But you were going to push those feelings down because you didn't think that getting involved romantically with a coworker was the best idea. You had seen that play out so many times and it never ended well.

"Well, it seems like you do with the hearts that were forming in your eyes." How were you going to explain that you were thinking about him and just happened to be looking in Eddie's direction? And it would have been just downright embarrassing to admit that you were thinking about kissing him. As far as you were concerned, you were going to take that secret to your grave.

"Alright, I guess I believe you," he nudged you shoulder one more time before grabbing one more cookie than heading over to the couch to take a seat.

Buck didn't understand how you couldn't see how he felt about you. Everyone else in the 118 could, so why did you seem so clueless? And why couldn't tell if his feelings were reciprocated? That was something that was so obvious to him, but you were just a big question mark. You were mysterious and he couldn't figure you out for the life of him.

He knew that you were shy and maybe he just needed to get closer to you for you to fully open up. But then there was Eddie. You were definitely close to him and Buck was definitely jealous of that even though he'd never admit it. Every time he watched the two of you, he felt sick to stomach and would suddenly be filled with anger.

He watched Eddie whispering something as the two of you sat on the couch, not even aware that he was crumbling his cookie in his fist, catching the attention of Chimney. He sat to the left of him, completely blocking his view of you and Eddie and maybe that was for the best.

“What’s going on, Buck?” Chimney asked and Buck just furrowed his eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Buck shook his head.

“Well, something clearly made you upset since you crumbled your cookie.” Buck looked down and opened his hand, the cookie crumbs falling to the table.

“It’s nothing, Chim, I swear.” Buck knew that Chimney was just looking out for him, but it just seemed like he was trying to pry and Buck didn’t like that. Not one bit. This was no one’s business but his own. And maybe yours if he ever got the guts to tell you how he felt.

“Well, let’s just say that if looks could kill, Eddie would definitely be dead.”

Buck sat with the words the entire day, deciding that he was finally going to tell you after work. He could see how it would play out so clearly in his head. He’d show up at your apartment and tell you exactly how he felt about you and you’d respond with a kiss before telling him that you felt the same way. You’d then invite him inside and the two of you would snuggle up on your couch and watch a movie, your night filled with nothing but kisses and giggles.

But all of that came crashing down when he watched Eddie chasing you around the firehouse. As soon as he caught you, he picked you up and spun you around, giggles spilling from both of your mouths. Nothing going on between you and Eddie his ass. He didn’t want to see the rest of the interaction and hurried to his locker to grab his stuff. He really needed to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

“Damn, where’s the fire, Buck?” Hen chuckled. “Got a hot date?”

“Something like that,” Buck muttered under his breath as he put the strap of his bag over his shoulder, making a beeline for his jeep just in time to watch you and Eddie exit the firehouse to the parking lot.

“Hey, Eds,” you called after him. Eds? Yeah, Buck was so fucked. “Can I get a ride to the bar? I left my car there last night.”

“Sorry, I have to go pick up Chris. But Buck should be able to.” Eddie was trying his hardest to set the two of you up and he was hoping that now he would finally be successful. He had hoped that leaving the two of you alone at the bar the night before would have made you confess your feelings to each other, but considering the fact that you weren’t acting like a couple, he was beginning to think that didn’t happen.

“Is that okay, Buck?” There was no fucking way that he was going to be in a car alone with you. You were a taken woman and he was afraid of what he would do. He wanted to kiss you so bad and he definitely wasn’t going to hurt his best friend by doing so.

“Sure, come on.” He nodded his head towards the parking lot and you followed him. He should have known that he couldn’t say no to you. Once you were both in his jeep, he sped off to the bar, simultaneously wanting you to be out of the car as soon as possible but also wanting to spend time with you. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind. Especially since it seemed like you were dating his best friend.

Buck was suspiciously quiet as he drove, maybe going a little bit over the speed limit. You looked over at him and could see that his jaw was clenched and he seemed very upset. What had happened that the man who never shut up had been rendered speechless? Surely it had been your fault, right?

“Buck?” You asked, turning to look at him again. He kept quiet, not even looking your way. “Buck, c’mon, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it’s not. I know we’re not exactly close, but you can tell me, I promise.” His anger was reaching its peak as he pulled into the parking lot of the bar. He pulled into a spot and put the jeep in park before getting out, making his way towards the building. He couldn’t tell you now. He really couldn’t.

“Buck,” you called after him as you followed his lead, trying to catch up to him. “Buck, please,” you pleaded.

Now he felt like a dick. All you were trying to do was talk to him and he was treating you like garbage. You didn’t deserve that. Especially when you didn’t do anything wrong.

“You wanna know what’s going on?” He asked, turning around to face you. “Fine,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I like you, okay?”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words. Of course he liked you. You were friends, right? Unless there was some underlying meaning to his words that you were missing.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the moment you stepped into the fire house and it’s driving me fucking crazy.” He was stepping closer to you and you were just trying to wrap your head around the whole thing. He liked you? As more than a friend? Since when?

“You like me?” That was not what you thought he was going to say. It was very common for the people you liked to not reciprocate your feelings, shutting you down time and time again. But this was different. Buck liked you. He liked you and as more than a friend.

“I do,” he nodded. “But don’t worry about it. I know you’re with Eddie.” Where had he gotten that impression? You and Eddie were friends. Just friends, absolutely no attraction between you. And Buck should have known that.

“Buck, I’m not with Eddie,” you laughed. “He’s just a friend. More like a brother, actually.”

“You what-”

“I like you,” you told him, taking his hands in yours. His eyes widened then he looked on either side of him, but you grabbed him by his face, forcing him to look you in the eyes. “Yes, you, Buck.”

“But, what about-”

“For once in your life will you please just shut up?” You asked and pressed your lips to his. He gasped into your mouth but he eventually melted into you, wrapping his arms around your waist as his lips slotted between yours.

It was soft and sweet and everything either of you could have imagined. His lips were just as soft as you were hoping and he seemed to pour all of his feelings for you that he had accumulated over the past few weeks into the kiss, making you feel nothing but special.

Just as he licked into your mouth, a rain droplet hit your cheek. You pulled away just as it started to downpour and Buck grabbed you by the hand and pulled you under the awning to shield you both from the rain and his lips found yours once again and he smiled into it.

“What?” You laughed.

“Nothing,” he pecked your lips. “You’re just an angel.”

#evan “buck” buckley #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #evan buckley x fem!reader #evan buckley x you #evan buckley x y/n #evan buckley smut #evan buckley fluff #911onabc #911 abc #911 show

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thezombieprostitute · 7 months ago

Text

Christmas Grump

Summary: Walter has hated the holidays for many years, much to your chagrin. But this year you've got an idea to soften him towards Christmas.

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge.

Prompt: you hate the holidays and i love them.

Warnings: None. Please let me know if I missed any!

Walter has been on the force for long enough that he knows to expect the worst around the holidays. Good will towards mankind? Bah, humbug. He knows better. Christmas time is when the worst of the worst comes to the surface and he hates every moment of it.

You've been determined to temper his grumpiness at the holidays pretty much since the day you met, back when his beard barely had any greys to it. Unfortunately, Walter was just about as stubborn as you.

At the very least Walter didn't try to stop you from celebrating. You'd decorate the entire house, except for his office. And goodness knows he never complained about the extra baking you did this time of year. He could be the biggest baby about making sure he got "his share" of all the cookies and treats you made for the department. Some of his friends joked about him practicing for the role of Santa with how many cookies he would eat but he never let it get to him.

In truth, he had been warming to the Christmas holiday since you came into his life, but it was hard for him to still appreciate the moments in comparison to the years of holiday trauma he'd seen. It was actually one of the reasons he insisted on going shopping with you during this time of year. He could see your joy at the lights, the gift ideas, the cutesy holiday paraphernalia and he could keep you safe. More times than you knew he'd silently warned off someone who looked like trouble just by glaring at them. As much as he wished you'd pay better attention to your surroundings, he was very grateful you didn't see the world like he did.

Meanwhile you appreciated that he would go shopping with you because he could carry the heavy stuff and it gave you access to his big truck!

"You're sticking with me, right, big guy?"

Walter rolls his eyes, "in spite of my better judgment, yes."

You chuckle and playfully slap his arm, "such a grumpy old man!"

"I'm not that old."

"How old is Faye again?"

"Too old," Walter shakes his head. His daughter was attending college already and Walter was suddenly feeling his age.

You kiss his bearded cheek to distract him. "Well I, for one, think you've aged like fine wine. You're even more handsome than when we first met."

He snorts in disbelief, but lets himself smile at the compliment.

You're almost done with your shopping list. They didn't have the canned mandarin oranges for the cranberry relish, but you can do quick checks for them until it's time to start the cooking. Maybe they'll have the snack cups of them in stock if you run low on time.

Looking at the remaining few items on your list you stop to hype up Walter. "Okay, Walter, we're about to go into the toys section." He groans. "Hey, hey, hey, we're going to get through this. It'll be okay! We're just gonna get in, get a bunch of stuff for the toy drives, and get out. Right?"

"Right," he sighs.

"That was weak sauce, Walter! You can do better!" You cheer him on with a playful punch to the arm.

"Right," he repeats, more firmly.

"That's better! Let's do this! You keep close to me and watch my signals for when to stop, when to turn and when to get the hell out."

"Right!" he high fives you before you lead him into the overcrowded toy section.

Walter is on high alert. He's seen what happens when two or more parents fight over the latest popular toy.

You signal a few turns, wasting no time in grabbing some items specifically requested by the people running the toy drives. The bulk of toys donated were for kids between the ages of 3 and 11 so you made sure to go for the toys outside of those age ranges. Some baby chew toys, infant mirrors, board books and the like for the youngest ones. Sports equipment, sketch books, makeup kits and the like for the older ones.

Walter was helping you get some hockey sticks into the over-packed cart when you were both interrupted by a cry of "SANTA!" Suddenly Walter feels a weight around his leg and, as he looks down, he sees a toddler holding onto him like a baby koala.

"Hello," he says to the toddler. "Can I help you with something?"

The toddler looks up, eyes wide with wonder. "I got wost. Mama says 'no talk to stwangers' but you Santa! You can he'p me!"

Walter's eyes immediately soften and he effortlessly picks up the kid. "Are you here at the store with your Mama?" They nod their head yes. "Can you tell me what she looks like?"

"She's pwetty," they answer.

"I'm sure she is," Walter says with a smile. He turns to you, "do you think you can get to the customer service? Ask them to send out an APB, or whatever they do, for a parent missing their child?" You nod and get moving, hearing Walter say, "how about I put you on my shoulders and you can look for her?"

It takes you a few minutes but you're finally able to find an associate to help out. They send out a notice over their walkie-talkies and you take them back to where you left Walter. You have to fight the urge to coo when you see the large, grey-haired, bearded man with a toddler on his shoulders. You and the associate show up just as the toddler starts pointing and yelling "Mama!"

It takes a bit to calm down both Mama and toddler. Your heart swells to see Walter in his element, taking care of others. It's one of the reasons you fell so hard for him. He is a very kind, caring person who genuinely wants to help others. But he needs someone who can take care of him so he can keep going. You're happy to be that person.

As they little family goes off, the toddler waves, "bye Santa! T'ank you!"

Walter's smile widens and you can't resist, "so when can I start calling you 'Santa'?"

He gives you a stern look. "Never."

"I dunno, I think that kid was on to something," you tease.

"No."

"I mean, the beard, the big build, getting toys for kids..."

Walter grabs you and growls into your ear, "be careful you don't end up on the naughty list."

"I wouldn't mind sitting on your lap," you giggle. He takes a breath and you can feel his body stiffen at the mental images. "But, first, we gotta finish shopping. Let's go, Santa!" you playfully yell as you break free and get back to the cart.

You keep laughing as Walter gives you a look that promises a delightful punishment for your behavior.

Tagging:

@alicedopey; @changenameno; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness;

@kingliam2019; @lokislady82; @peyton-warren; @ronearoundblindly

#walter marshall #silver fox!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall x you #walter marshall fluff #walter marshall imagine #navy and roo's sleepover

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jiniret-writings · 2 years ago

Text

Warm Blankets Pt. 2

Genre: angst, fluff

Pairing: Platonic!ot8 x 9th member!reader

Warnings: self-doubt, feelings of worthlessness

The actions of the members in this story do not represent how they are in real life. This is all fictional and should not be taken seriously.

Pt. 1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3

After buying snacks (and your favorite drink because crying really does numbers on your hydration), you headed back to your dorm and the minute you opened the door, you were met with quite the scene. The entire place looked like a scene from Alice in Wonderland: chaos in the kitchen, chaos in the living room, and something sounded like it crashed in the bathroom, but over it all, the dorm smelled delicious.

When you two walked deeper into the dorm, Minho was the first to look up from what looked like beating eggs. "Hungry?" he asked, pouring the egg mixture onto the pan. Truth was, you were starving. You'd skipped breakfast that day because of an early vocal lesson. Your stomach rumbled low enough for Hyunjin to hear who laughed lightly.

"I think we both are," he said, nudging you in more. Then, like a switch flipped, Hyunjin whined, "Hyuuuuuung! When will it be readyyyyy?" He flopped onto the island seat and laid his head on the counter, watching Minho cook. Minho glared at his younger member, picking up the spatula.

"When you're done cooking in the air fryer," he said in a monotone voice, flashing a Cheshire smile before dropping it and going back to the eggs. You laughed at them, sitting next to Hyunjin and across from Felix. Chan's words still circled your head.

It felt heavy, your head and your heart burdened with the hit of his words and the weight of your thoughts. It had been five years since Stray Kids debuted, yet the whispers never stopped. Comments circled online every month or so about whether you really fit into the group:

I don't know, it's just that the group might thrive more if it weren't for them.

Have you seen the new talker? See how they're off to the side most of the time? They're definitely going to leave the group soon.

I trust Chan and all but I don't know if he was right about them.

It was normal to get hate as an idol but maybe, just maybe, they were right? Hyunjin had reassured you that you were wanted and he was just saying whatever came to mind in his stressed state but, but maybe there were some truth to his words.

As thoughts raced through your head, you stared blankly at the counter. The boys around you looked at you worriedly, giving Hyunjin a look with one question: what happened? He hadn't told them why you had a bad day or what was wrong, but they still rallied to give you warmth and comfort. But you were worrying them. They just wanted the best for you and to do whatever it took to cheer you up.

Wanting to pull you from your thoughts as soon as possible, Hyunjin texted them the short version:

Chan-hyung said he shouldn't have fought for them to be in the group. 2RACHA are on placating duty.

With that sent, Hyunjin put his arm around you to not scare you, but the second you snapped out of your personal trance, Felix ran at you and tackled you to the ground. The little attack came as a surprise to everyone around, leaving them all frozen. The only sound being Felix's "lixie" sounds.

You were shocked as well, arms coming around the slightly older boy on instinct, but eyes still wide. "Felix?!? What was that?!?"

"I love you," he said, digging his face into your neck, causing you to hold in slight laughter because of how much it tickled.

"I love you too but what's this?" you asked, gesturing to the fact that the two of you were still on the floor. At that, he looked down at you, small pout forming.

"My love, y/n/n. Accept it," he said, leaving no room to argue. And in a flash, he stood up, pulling you up with him, and pointed to the pan he was working on with a big smile. "Look! I made brownies, cookies, and a cheesecake! Help me decorate?"

You wanted to refuse, to slip away to your bedroom to lie down and think--no matter how much of a bad idea that was--but the way he was looking at you like you were the sun, how could you not agree? Nodding your head, you walked behind the counter to where Felix was just starting to put on a final layer of frosting on the chilled cake. At that moment, Jeongin and Seungmin strolled. Seungmin sat in the seat you left and Jeongin came up next to you, putting an arm on your shoulder.

"I wanna help too! How do you want to decorate it?" he asked, pointing the question at you. You thought about it and your mind drifted to a movie you had watched recently.

"Lets do it Alice in Wonderland themed?" you asked, unsure if it was a bad idea. The voices around you did well ot drown out your thoughts but they'd pop up every now and again with a new sort of vigor. But with no hesitation, Jeongin just smiled and nodded. Felix brought out red and black food coloring, and started mixing it into different bowls of frosting. At that moment, Minho walked to you with a pair of chopsticks holding a piece of meat. He just brought it to your face and you opened your mouth without a second thought. It was like second nature: if one of your members was feeding you then it must be good.

Your members

The thought brought a feeling of warmth in your chest. Suddenly, tears filled your eyes. You looked away, trying to get them back under control. You shook away the ones that came up, but the warm tightness in your chest refused to let go. You excused yourself to go to the bathroom and once inside, sat on the edge of the bath tub, letting the tears flow.

My members, you thought, letting the tears flow freely.

Back at the kitchen, everyone looked at each other, more worried than before.

"How bad?" Seungmin asked, turning fully to face Hyunjin. He just shook his head, remembering the fight he walked in on.

"Really bad. He was yelling and they were yelling and he suddenly just yelled it out. I grabbed them and took them out right after," he said, looking at all the boys. They shook their head, knowing what it was like when they poked the too-still bear.

"How is he?" Jeongin asked, knowing how this went. Chan cared about all of you, more than he could put into words. Jeongin knew it would only be a matter of time until the eldest realized what he said and started spiraling himself.

"I don't know. The others haven't texted but they're probably just keeping him occupied with work like he wants to be."

Seungmin looked towards the bathroom door, then to the pile of blankets laid out on the living room floor. The table in front of the TV had a cute pink table cloth over it so they could bring all the food out there to eat and watch your favorite show and movies. "Is the food almost done?" he asked, looking at Minho. He nodded and took the lid off of a nearby pot, giving it a final stir.

"Its all done. Just need to plate it and bring it to the table," he said. Jeongin took out the plates from the cabinet behind him and spread them out to make plating easier. Minho thanked the youngest by ruffling his hair and got to plating. Felix and Hyunjin in the meantime were trying to finish up the cake. Felix had just finished doing a slightly lopsided, but still made with love, checkerboard pattern and now Hyunjin was...it was hard to tell if that was Alice or the Cheshire cat, but either way, it was very "Wonderland".

When you walked out of the bathroom, having checked your eyes one last time to make sure they weren't red, you walked straight into Seungmin's back. When he turned around, he just smiled and put an arm around your shoulder, guiding you to the mess of blankets.

"What movie should we watch first?" he asked, sitting you down front and center. The boys were each bringing out plates of delicious food and your stomach growled again, much louder this time. You blushed slightly, looking down. Seungmin just laughed and handed you the remote.

"What type of movie?" you asked Seungmin.

"Whatever you want. We're happy with anything," he shrugged, leaning back against one of the pillow piles. With the food finally set, Minho sat behind you, patting your head lightly. You leaned into his hands, which then started massaging your head. The other boys came around too, Felix sitting on your other side and Jeongin and Hyunjin sitting on either side of Minho on the couch.

Felix grabbed one of the blankets from behind you and draped it across your back so it was hugging you. He then started passing around the plates of food to everyone as you finalized a movie.

With everyone snuggled in, you watched the movie and ate happily, laughing with your members as they recreated scenes, repeated funny lines, and made comments throughout the entire movie. Finishing your food, you put the plate back on the table, passing Minho’s and Jeongin’s plates onto the table as well, before putting your head on Felix’s shoulder and snuggling close.

Felix smiled down at you, grabbing a duck plushie and putting him gently into your arms. You looked from the stuffed duck to Felix and back to the duck. You smiled at it and gave it a squeeze.

You suddenly felt a small pressure on your hand and turned to see Seungmin had scooted closer to you and put his hand on top of yours. He gave your hand a squeeze and gave you a small smile before turning back to the TV.

Now feeling someone pat your head, you looked up and saw Minho patting it softly. Next to him, Jeongin was looking through a bag of clips you hadn't seen before and was picking out all the clips in your favorite color. You looked forward again and the tears were building up again. You held them back as much as you could when suddenly, Hyunjin huffed from above.

Before you could ask what happened, the tall boy made his way in font of you, Seungmin, and Felix and just flopped on all three of you. You all groaned at the sudden weight, moving every way to avoid getting his by his arms and legs as he found a position that wasn't extremely uncomfortable. Once settled, he looked at you with a cheeky smile, that then turned into a soft one. He brought his hands to your face and wiped the few tears that had escaped. He didn't say anything further, just patting your cheek and turning back.

Everything was calm now, the second movie now playing. You felt warm, both outside and inside. You always believed actions spoke louder than words, and the way the members all cared for you and spent time with you, how could you not feel welcomed? This was your family. Now, this was part of your family. You still had three members that you know care for you too.

Chan's words still hurt and you weren't just going to blindly forgive him, but he was still part of this big and crazy family you found when you found them years ago.

"We're never letting you go, I hope you know that," Seungmin muttered next to you, now holding your arm. Felix and Jeongin nodded, Felix placing a small kiss on your wet cheek.

"Never. It doesn't matter what people online say or what's said in the heat of an argument. We're never letting go," Jeongin said, squeezing your shoulder for good measure.

"The big bad wolf was extra grouchy today, which means everything out of his mouth was a big bad lie," Minho said, kissing the top of your head.

"If he's the big bad wolf, who is little red riding hood?" Hyunjin asked, turning his entire body--eliciting a groan from you, Felix, and Seungmin--and looking at Minho.

Without missing a beat, he looked at Hyunjin and said, "You are, you're going to get eaten soon."

"Do I taste good?"

"Go into the kitchen and find out," Minho said, standing up and going to grab Hyunjin, but he was quick. He got off of you three and ran to the kitchen, and he and Minho had a mini chase around the kitchen island. You laughed at their chase, moved by the kind words and the usual shenanigans of the members.

Jeongin came down in front of you and laid his head on your lap, looking up. "You're a important part of our group, y/n/n. We all love you here." You smiled at the youngest and wiped the last tears before they could escape. The lull of the TV, the comforting sounds of chaos from the kitchen, and the warmth from the members around you made you feel safe, and stopping yourself from fighting it off, you fell into a comfortable sleep, the negative thoughts nowhere to be found.

Here's the second part! I am genuinely so thankful for everyone who has read and liked part 1. I didn't even think it would get as much attention as it did! I finished part 2 early so I figured I would upload it a bit early!

I'm in the process of writing part 3, but I hope to get it done soon! Part 3 will have a happy ending, so I hope you enjoy that when it comes out as well! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. And as always, have a great morning, afternoon, evening, and night!

-Jini

Divider made by: @cafekitsune

Taglist: @neyangi

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libraryofgage · 2 years ago

Text

Addams Family Steddie AU Part 2

Part two of the Addams Family Steddie AU from this post! Anyway, here are five times Eddie gave Steve a gift plus one particularly special gift Steve gave him in return

I'll be honest, this one really got away from me LMAO

Also, @xjessicafaithx asked to be tagged if there was a part two so here ya go! I have a few more ideas for this AU so there might be more parts later too lol

One~

Steve is idly flipping through the mail he just pulled out of the mailbox, delaying his return to the house where Dustin is currently screaming about dice rolls over a Discord call, when he feels someone staring at him. His shoulders tense, and his grip on a junk letter creases the envelope as he looks up.

Crouching on the walkway leading up to a pitch-black house, elbows resting on his knees and a covered plate in his hands, is Eddie Munson. He's staring straight at Steve, eyes practically boring through him. When he realizes Steve has noticed him, Eddie perks up and balances the plate in one hand so he can wave with the other.

Steve hesitates before flashing an unsure smile and waving back. He thinks of the recently-washed plate that held the arsenic and chocolate chip cookies currently in his kitchen, waiting to be returned. Maybe he can return it now?

While he's thinking, Eddie has apparently taken the wave as permission to pop to his feet and walk over. And, well, he isn't wrong. It's not like Steve immediately started walking away after waving; he just kept standing there, locked in place by neighborly social conventions and Eddie's intense gaze.

"Good morning, Stevie," Eddie says, flashing that too-sharp grin at Steve as he leans on the mailbox. "You're looking particularly ravishing today."

"Ravishing?"

Eddie slowly looks him up and down, his eyes dragging along Steve's figure before finally letting their gazes meet once more. "Good enough to eat, really," Eddie replies, leaning in a little closer and making Steve's heart race with something that could be fear but is more likely embarrassment. Not that he wants to admit that. So, fear it is.

Steve laughs awkwardly and leans back, looking away and blaming the heat in his cheeks on the sun. "Uh, thanks. You, uh, look nice too," he says, glancing back at Eddie to take in the ripped jeans and short-sleeved black button-down (is that silk? It looks like silk) and chunky rings shaped like bats and skulls and coffins and wow, Eddie's fingers are kind of long.

Thankfully, Steve is saved from his mind wandering too far by Eddie shoving the covered plate into his hands. It's a familiar motion, and Steve almost laughs at it. "Thanks, sweetheart," Eddie says, letting his fingers brush across the back of Steve's hands before pulling away. "Anyway, Wayne baked more last night before communing with some spirits. He made too many eye of newt brownies, and I thought you'd enjoy them."

Steve blinks, looking down at the plate in his hands. "Eye of newt?" he asks, curiously lifting the tin foil to see perfectly normal-looking brownies inside.

"Yeah, they're to die for," Eddie says, his grin widening as he pushes off the mailbox and leaves Steve with a plate of brownies and a confusing feeling in his chest.

Two~

"She likes meatballs."

Steve blinks, staring at the concerningly large Venus Fly Trap in El's hands. Behind her, Eddie is smirking at him, holding his sister's shoulders and giving Steve an expectant look as El holds the flower pot out to him. The pot itself is also concerningly large for how she's holding it, and Steve can't stop himself from quickly taking the pot so she doesn't strain her back any more than she already has.

He grunts at the sudden weight when she lets go but doesn't drop the pot. Instead, he carefully and gently places it on the ground, silently letting out a breath of relief as the plant sways slightly in the pot, brushing against his hip.

The two had caught Steve when he was getting out of his car, his entire body already feeling heavy from work. His plan had been to go inside, do his best to not fall asleep standing in the shower, make Dustin dinner, and then pass out in bed until his alarm woke him again in the morning.

But instead, El had run over to him the moment he got out of his car, cheeks slightly flushed with excitement as she offered him the plant. Eddie had leisurely followed her over, amusement clear on his face as he watched Steve's brain struggle to catch up.

"Doesn't she eat flies?" Steve asks, looking down at the plant. For some reason, he feels like it's staring back at him.

El shakes her head. "Flies are not big enough. You should feed her one pound of meatballs on Wednesday and Sunday."

Cool. Great. Perfectly normal. It's not like Steve has had a Venus Fly Trap before, so he can't contest that. "Why are you giving her to me?" he asks, tearing his eyes away from the plant to look at El.

"Aunt Morticia took cuttings of her Cleopatra and sent us a few," El says, her tone implying that should be more than enough explanation.

Steve's expression, however, surely says differently. Thankfully, Eddie picks up on it and leans forward over El. "She'll make a great guard plant for you and Dustin, Stevie. Plus, she's almost as good a listener as I am," he explains, playfully wiggling his eyebrows at Steve.

"Oh," Steve says, pointedly ignoring the second part of that explanation. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Nix," El tells him.

"Nix?"

"Yeah. Stevie," Eddie says, pointing at him before pointing to the plant and saying, "Nix. Because you said you like Fleetwood Mac."

Yeah, Steve did say that, but it was in passing, and he didn't think Eddie had actually heard him say it or paid any attention. It was said to Dustin while they were walking to the car, and Eddie had just happened to be sitting on his porch at the time.

But he did pay attention. And now he and El have given Steve and Dustin a plant whose name is a reference to Fleetwood Mac. Steve can't help a smile, suddenly feeling a lot lighter than just ten minutes ago. "Thanks, I know Dustin will love her, too," he says, feeling blinded by the tiny smile from El and the full-on grin from Eddie.

Three~

Nix likes to get sun, but she doesn't like being in the sun for too long. She also doesn't like staying still in the sun; she prefers to be moved around constantly, never staying in one spot for more than a minute if she's particularly patient. She also prefers to go on a sun walk right after eating her pound of meatballs.

These are things Steve learns over the course of three weeks through trial and error that often resulted in Nix snapping shut around his arm whenever he didn't immediately do as she liked. Steve had never heard of a plant having a personality before (especially not such a temperamental one), but he's come to find it endearing. Plus, carrying Nix around the yard does make for an effective workout.

So, on a very hot Sunday at the very end of June, Steve is carrying Nix around his backyard. Her pot is in his arms, sweat is dripping down his back, and Nix is helpfully trying to shade his head from the sun using her...head? Steve actually isn't sure what to call the top part of her. Is it a mouth?

"It's called a lobe."

Steve jumps, his grip on Nix's pot tightening as he whips his head around and sees Eddie crouching on the fence dividing their yards. He isn't even sure how Eddie manages it, considering how narrow the fence is, but he's also stopped trying to figure it out.

"What is?" he asks.

Eddie hops down, walking over to Steve and carefully taking Nix out of his hands. He continues walking around the backyard, and Steve doesn't even question following him. "This," Eddie says, pointing to the top of Nix's head. "This is called a lobe."

"How'd you..."

"You had a curious expression and were looking at Nix."

"You know my curious expression?"

Eddie looks over at Steve, a smile pulling at his lips and his eyes softening some, and Steve suddenly feels like he's drowning in the ocean and floating among the clouds. "I know all your expressions, Stevie," Eddie tells him.

Steve feels seen and terrified and...and utterly under whatever spell Eddie has spent the past few months carefully casting. He doesn't say anything about it, though. Instead, he rather dumbly says, "Oh."

The smile widens, and Steve finds himself wondering not for the first time what it would feel like to run his tongue over Eddie's too-sharp canines. "By the way, I got something for you, Stevie."

Steve blinks, watching as Eddie easily cradles Nix's pot in one arm and reaches into his back pocket. For a brief moment, Steve thinks he's going to pull out his dagger again. Last time, he'd placed it in Steve's hand and very seriously told him, "If you ever see me on the verge of death, take this dagger and stab it through my heart. I'd rather die by your hand than whatever else got to me first." He'd then showed Steve where he kept it, his smile bright despite his words leaving Steve speechless.

Eddie does not, in fact, pull out a dagger. He pulls out a tiny, leatherbound journal. The journal is black like everything else the Munson family owns, and a heart is carefully painted onto the cover with two skulls looking outwards and meeting at the jaws to create the heart's point.

Steve slowly takes the journal, the cover feeling soft under his thumb, and he looks up at Eddie. His confusion is made even stronger when he sees his bashful expression. Eddie uses his free hand to tug on a lock of his hair, habitually hiding his mouth behind it. "I, uh, write music, you know," he says, waiting for Steve to nod once before rushing out in one breath, "I wrote songs for you."

When the words actually register, Steve's eyes widen, and he cracks the journal open to a random page. Eddie's familiar scratchy handwriting crosses the paper. Steve can only just see a line about the arrows of fate and burning stars before Eddie's hand covers the page. "Maybe, uh, maybe read them later."

Steve easily agrees, and Eddie quickly changes the subject. After finishing Nix's walk around the garden, Eddie helps Steve return her to her room and returns himself to his own home. Steve watches Eddie through the window, waiting for him to go inside before opening the journal once more and finding the page Eddie had covered.

i'll throw myself before the arrows of your fate// take all your misfortune as the gift it is// piercing my ribs as you burn brighter than stars// unhindered by the despair i have stolen for myself

Four~

Eddie's hand is warm in Steve's as he leads him up the stairs of the Munson home. The halls are dimly lit by old lanterns whose flames make shadows dance across the walls, and Steve finds them more romantic than creepy. When they reach the attic, Eddie stops at the door. "Okay, some of them don't look like normal bats," he says, turning to look at Steve.

"Are you giving me one of the normal ones?"

Eddie nods once. "Yeah, the demobats are too unpredictable, and the hivemind doesn't help. You wanted one bat, not a swarm."

Steve hums softly, leaning closer and placing his free hand on Eddie's chest, right over his heart. "I would accept a swarm if you gave it to me, babe," he says, smiling reassuringly at Eddie.

His words are rewarded with an arm around his waist, holding him closer like Eddie wants to pull Steve under his skin and hold him in the spaces between his bones. "But I wouldn't get nearly as much attention then, Stevie," he replies, punctuating each word with tiny pecks that begin at his forehead, follow the bridge of his nose, and end on his lips in a lingering kiss.

Steve almost loses himself in it, but he'd rather not get carried away where Wayne or El could catch them. So he begrudgingly pulls away, playfully reaching up and tugging one of Eddie's locks when he pouts. "You know you're dearer to me than all the bats in the world, Eddie. Now, which bat is mine?"

Eddie's pout immediately becomes a grin, and he opens the attic door. It's dark as night in the room, the only lights coming from red eyes staring at them from the ceiling. Eddie keeps his arm around Steve's waist, keeping him close as he shortly whistles three times. A screech sounds from the ceiling, followed by the flapping of wings and a bat flying out to land on Eddie's outstretched arm.

With his foot, Eddie shuts the door as he holds the bat in front of Steve so he can get a better look. The bat is small, no more than three inches, and its nose looks vaguely like an upside-down heart. It tilts its head, studying Steve in return as it shifts on Eddie's hand. "Isn't she cute?" Eddie asks.

Steve smiles and holds his hand out to the bat, a few seconds passing before she moves from Eddie to him. "Yeah, she's really cute," he says as she surveys her new spot. She shifts a few times before pushing off Steve's hand and flying to his shoulder. She settles close to his neck, a warm softness against his skin partially hidden by his hair. And then she chirps, sounding like the squeaking of sneakers on a gym floor.

"She's an African heart-nosed bat," Eddie explains, starting to pull Steve down the stairs again. "They're very territorial, and they mark their territory by singing."

"Is that what she's doing?" Steve asks, raising his free hand to gently brush a finger against her head. She humors the touch for a few seconds before gently nipping his finger, not breaking the skin but clearly getting across that he shouldn't touch her anymore.

"Yep," Eddie says, grinning at Steve. "So, what are you gonna name her?"

Five ~

Hulyet buries herself in Steve's hair as he stares at the floor-length black dress Eddie holds up. She apparently picks up on Steve's confusion and slight concern, decides something is invading their territory, and begins singing aggressively in Eddie's direction.

The sudden squeaks and chirps break Steve out of his confusion, and he can't help a laugh. He reaches up, gently stroking her back to reassure her that everything is fine, and asks Eddie, "What's with the dress?"

"All Hallow's Eve is approaching," Eddie says, "I thought we could go as Dracula and his bride."

"Am I the bride?"

Eddie pauses, looking at the dress for a moment before looking back at Steve. "I haven't figured that out yet," he admits. "If you don't want to be the bride, I don't mind it."

Steve blinks, suddenly realizing this is Eddie trying to plan a couple's costume for Halloween. A familiar warmth floods through him, and he can't help smiling. He studies the dress, coming to the conclusion that he doesn't mind wearing it. For Eddie, of course.

Well, actually, he also thinks it looks hot.

"Okay. Let me try it on," he says, holding out his hands. Eddie lights up, handing over the dress and looking at Steve expectantly.

Well, there goes changing in the bathroom. Steve sighs, feels relieved he wore briefs, and strips down. Hulyet grips tighter to his hair as he moves, chirping once in indignation before settling once more as Steve wiggles his way into the dress.

It's tight, but not overly so. The material hugs curves Steve didn't even know he had, and the neckline plunges between his pecs and stretches into off-shoulder sleeves. The very bottom of the dress flares outward in a spiderweb pattern formed by lace. He takes a few experimental steps, relieved to find his movement isn't too restricted by the dress and fascinated to discover the spiderweb at the bottom stays perfectly spread out.

"How's it look?" Steve asks, turning to Eddie only to find that he'd moved right behind him at some point. He startles, taking a step back and getting his foot caught on the back of the dress. Before he can hit the floor, though, Eddie catches him, arms around his waist and holding him in a dip.

Steve's heart is pounding against his ribs, his breath short as he tightly grips Eddie's jacket collar and tries to ignore Hulyet painfully yanking on his hair. Eddie grins at him and says, "You look enchanting, Stevie. I would have fallen on my knees to worship you if you didn't beat me to the falling part."

Steve snorts and relaxes his grip, sliding his arms around Eddie's neck instead. "How long are you planning to hold me like this?" he asks.

"I could hold you as the world burns to ash around us. Even after we die and have decomposed, our skeletons will still be wrapped around each other, forever locked together."

From anyone else, Steve thinks he would worry about being murdered. But from Eddie, Steve just thinks it's one of the most romantic things he's ever heard, right alongside everything else Eddie has ever said to him. "That sounds perfect," he says, happily smiling into the kiss Eddie gives him.

Plus One~

"Fucking hell, Steve, stop bothering me about this!"

Steve frowns at Dustin, slouching on the couch as he anxiously turns a velvet box over in his hands. Dustin is laid out on the floor with a bowl of cheese puffs, his head resting on Dart's back as the demodog naps. "You're such a supportive brother," Steve says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Dustin scoffs and throws a cheese puff at Steve's head. "I was plenty supportive the first fifteen times! Just fucking give him the ring already," Dustin says, returning the stuck-out tongue that Steve sends him before looking down at his phone and typing something. "Dude, it's Eddie. You could give him a used soda can and he'd give it a fucking pedestal in his room."

Okay, yeah, Dustin has a point. That doesn't make Steve any less nervous, though. He forces himself to take a deep breath, pushing down his anxiety long enough to say, "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Literally, when have I ever been wrong, Steve?"

"Shut up."

Dustin flashes a grin just as Eddie's familiar rhythmic knock sounds against the door right before he opens the door. "By the way, I told Eddie to come over so you'd stop bothering me," Dustin tells him, his grin widening as Eddie saunters into the room.

"All right, gremlin," Eddie says, nudging Dustin with his foot, "get out."

As Dustin practically bolts from the room, Dart right on his heels, Steve decides he's going to make zucchini spaghetti for dinner so Dustin is forced to suffer through vegetables.

"So, whatcha got there, Stevie?" Eddie asks, perching on the couch next to Steve and looking pointedly at the box in his hands.

Well, there's no escaping it now.

Steve takes one more deep breath and opens the box. He pulls out the ring inside and presents it to Eddie. It's smaller than the rings he normally wears, but the sterling silver band is engraved with bat wings and an anatomical heart is carved into the garnet on top. A small, almost imperceptible clasp can be found just under the garnet. "I found it at an antique store with El and Max," Steve explains. He hesitates before carefully pushing the clasp to reveal a compartment just beneath the garnet. "It's one of those poison rings."

Eddie is uncharacteristically silent as he takes the ring, carefully shutting the compartment so he can turn it over in his hands. Once he's fully inspected the band and garnet, he pushes on the clasp and studies the size of the compartment. Finally, he slips the ring onto his left ring finger, his sharp canines coming into full view as he grins. "Yes, of course."

"Uh, yes what?"

"You're proposing, and I'm saying yes," Eddie explains, taking Steve's hand and bringing it to his lips. He kisses Steve's palm before lightly dragging his teeth over it, and Steve thinks he shows incredible character growth by not jerking his hand away.

His brain catches up a few seconds later. "Wait, proposing? This wasn't...I just...we've only been dating for three months?"

Eddie hums softly in agreement, sliding Steve's hand to his cheek and leaning into the touch. "I know," he says, "We've shown incredible restraint so far. Most Munsons get married within weeks of meeting their loves."

Honestly, that doesn't surprise Steve at all. Who could resist the Munson charm? Who could say no to the all-consuming devotion that shows no sign of ever fading? Steve's mouth suddenly feels dry. "Right," he mumbles, gently brushing his thumb over Eddie's cheek, "That, um, that's just a little fast, I think."

Eddie's smile doesn't fade one bit. He just nods, his eyes glowing with understanding and love and Steve's weakening resolve practically crumbles when Eddie says, "That's okay, Stevie. As long as I can see you and be near you, I don't care about anything else. You could put a knife through my heart, and I'd thank you for the chance to get a closer look at your eyes."

Steve...Steve is fucking weak. He abandons any idea of maintaining a distance between them, climbing into Eddie's lap and kissing the cheek he isn't holding. "It's not an engagement ring, but...but consider it an engaged-to-be-engaged ring," he says, the words feeling ridiculous as he speaks them.

But that doesn't matter because Eddie practically lights up. "Is that a promise? That we're engaged to be engaged?" he asks.

"Yeah," Steve says, his voice soft, "Just wait at least three more months before you propose, okay?"

Eddie's grin gets even wider, and he presses a searing kiss to Steve's lips, leaving him breathless and light-headed and absolutely sure Eddie is already planning his proposal.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #addams family au #addams! Eddie Munson #dustin henderson #el hopper #hulyet is yiddish for howl btw #addams family steddie #addams family romance my beloved #my writing

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