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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

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Follow You Anywhere 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You're online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: I couldn't help myself.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"So... this is what it looks like today?" You aim your camera at the sky outside your window, "sorry, the screen is kinda in the way."

You let out a nervous chuckle and flip the camera to yourself. You make a silly face. You were never overly fond of your image on the screen but the vlogs help. Like a little diary, mostly for yourself. You and your seven followers on Insta.

You bat your lashes and fix the clip in your hair, "oh, I got this free. Yeah, I bought a new hair oil and they threw this in the bag." You let your thoughts run wild from your tongue. You found a journal too daunting, the blank lines leaving you just as empty. This is easier. "Anyway, I shouldn't have spent the money to begin with."

You give another splintered laugh. The one you let out when you're anxious, or scared, or happy, or even mad. You bite your lip and catch yourself in your digitized reflection. You stop and turn your camera to your bedroom.

"Today, I'm gonna clean this mess. Me and you guys together."

You scour the room with the lens. Your laundry is piled on the floor and you have a stack of books you need to put on the shelf. It isn't the worst it's been but it's getting cluttered.

"But first, we'll have breakfast, can't start the stream on an empty stomach," you chirp and nearly drop the phone, "oops, uh..." You fix your grip and check the number in the corner. You have one viewer; on a good day, it's three, most days, it's just you talking to the void.

You go into the kitchen, just down the short hall from your bedroom, opening into your living room. You go to the counter and prop up the phone so the camera is on you again. You tap your fingers and hum.

"What should we have for breakfast?" You ask. You don't feel as crazy talking to yourself even if there's really no one watching. "Oo, French toast. Gotta use up the eggs."

You go to the fridge and pull out the eggs and the milk. You bring them back to the counter, shuffling around for a bowl, a whisk, and the cinnamon.

You mix up your ingredients and dip the bread, one piece at a time. You put on a skillet and fry up the slices, presenting a stack of three to the camera. You smile and dust some icing sugar over the top.

“Probably shouldn't have all this sugar for breakfast,” you shrug at the camera, “alright, quick break…”

You put the stream onto the ‘back soon’ page and take your plate to the small foldout table against the wall. You're not a fan of eating on camera. You finish and rinse up before snatching your phone up again.

You return to your bedroom and put the phone on a middle shelf and flip the stream back to live. Still that one viewer…

“Anyway, I'm back,” you wave at the lens.

You hesitate, looking around as you stand straight and spin. Cleaning, right. Before you can set to work, the phone dings.

A message?

You go back to your phone and squint at the chat bubble floating up.

‘Looked delicious too.’

“It was,” you agree with a grin, “thanks.”

‘Don't mean the toast.’

The next message has you blinking. Your nape burns. They can't mean… you clear your throat and giggle.

“Well, let's get started,” you back up and clap your hands, “you know, I've been so carried away with work. This place is a pigsty.”

You sit on the floor and sort through the clothes. You toss them into the basket as you sit in silence. You stop yourself and glance at the phone.

“How about some tunes?”

You walk on your knees to your bedside and turn on your bluetooth speaker. You go to your phone and find a playlist before pulling the stream back to full screen. As you do, you hear a noise you've never heard before.

‘BourbonBear has tipped.’ Huh? Really?

“Oh, thanks, er, BourbonBear,” you giggle around the name, “how nice. Maybe one day I can afford a proper camera for this, huh?”

You smile and go back to the dirty clothes. You quickly ball up a pair of panties and shove them in the basket. You carry on until they're all untangled.

You move on and tidy your desk, bending underneath to gather up a few loose pens. You make your way around the bedroom, putting away books, fixing the blankets on the bed, and straightening the little figurines on the shelf above the bed.

You grab the stick vacuum and suck up the dirt and proclaim your task done. It took a lot longer than you thought. It's after eleven. The one viewer is still there.

“Whew, okay, I'm gonna get myself washed up and go to the park. Maybe I'll post that later,” you give a thumbs up next to your head as you talk to the phone, “thank you.”

You end the stream and let out a sigh. Your videos aren't much and you doubt they're very interesting but it's like venting for you. Almost like having an invisible friend. You think you will take some pictures of the flowers to share.

🧸

You take your usual path through the park. The walks help you unwind your worries. You try to come after work at least a couple days during the week and both days on the weekend. You find the mindlessness of the routine to be calming.

The deeper you get into the wooded length of the path, you slow to admire the birds in the branches and the critters crawling in the brush. You take out your phone and snap a few photos of a blue jay before it wings away shyly. You smile and flip the cam, smiling as you take a goofy selfie. You can add that to your post.

The path winds ahead and you follow it in the din, listening to the river just down the incline to your left and the tweeting from the sky. You lift your face and inhale the woodsy scent. The sudden crack of a twig startles you and you spin to face the noise. There's no one there. Sometimes you forget other people are free to just walk on through.

You chuckle at yourself and continue on. The path leads out to a suburban street where you like to look at the houses. They're much more spacious and pretty than your grimy brick apartment building.

You come out from the shade of the trees and wander along the avenue. There's a mailbox painted to look like the house it stands before and a little nook for second hand children's books to be borrowed through the neighbourhood. Sometimes you picture yourself living in one of those houses though you don't think it could ever truly be.

As you crane your head, you sense a shadow in your peripheral. You're walking a bit slow. You sidle to the side to get out of the way of the other pedestrian. When no one passes, you look back. No one.

You must be imagining things. You shrug and plod along. You're already thinking of what kind of tea you'll have when you get in.

🧸

You sit down with your mug of ginger citrus tea and set to editing your post. You add a light filter to the photos as you shuffle through them on your laptop. The process is slow as the computer is nearly five years old now and chuffing on its 4GB drive. You get to the selfie you snapped, a stop.

You lean in to get a better glimpse of the background. It's fuzzy but there's a figure just over your shoulder. How could that be? You looked and there was no one there. That's so strange.

You stare as a chill courses through you. You're thankful you hadn't put your earphones in. You wouldn't have heard whoever it was and they may have even snuck up on you. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light.

You hit ‘post’ and try to shake off the foreboding. It's nothing. You're being silly. Besides, you're home and safe now. Next time, you'll be more alert.

A message pops up. You stare at the dot over the chat bubble. You tap with your thumb and bring up the DMs.

'Stream tonight?' BourbonBear asks.

You tilt your head. You already did some today. You're tired and want to lie down and enjoy your time off. You type back 'sorry, not tonight. tomorrow <3' and another notification vibrates. A comment on your latest post.

'Pretty sweater', also from BourbonBear. You heart their comment and leave a thanks below.

You flip back to the selfie. You can't really see your sweater in the picture, just the scalloped knitting of the collar. Well, you suppose it does look cute. You put your phone down and leave it on your desk. That's enough Insta for today.

🧸

You time your shopping trip for the least busy hour. It's early and the store is almost empty except for employees stacking bread on shelves or wandering listlessly around the deli. You have your phone in the basket of the cart, aimed at you as you roll it along slowly and check your list.

The stream is just as empty. It's only just started but you don't expect too many people to be up at this hour. You stop and grab a loaf of sourdough, checking the date before showing it to the lens and putting it in the cart. You smile and announce the next item.

"Strawberries... you know I was thinking I might get raspberries instead," you say, catching the eye of one of the yawning employees. You must seem like a weirdo. It's why you typically don't film in public.

As you roll around to the fruit, you notice the count change. One viewer. You choose a basket of raspberries and show those. You see a message float up; morning.

You smile and return the greeting softly and place the berries down carefully beside your phone. You need yogurt to go with the berries.

You work down the list, making some substitutes as you tick off each item. You linger in the ice cream section a bit too long and talk yourself out of a gallon of rocky road. You lean on the handle of the cart and smile down at the lens.

"Going to check out," you say, "see you all later."

All? There's still just the one. You end the stream and take your phone out of the basket.

You wheel around to checkout and line up at the only open till. You put your items up as you greet the cashier with a smile. She seems tired as she gives a dull response.

As you put the yogurt on the belt, you sense someone join the queue behind you. You glance over as a large man stands only feet away. He's tall and burly and staring at you. Maybe he heard you talking to your audience, or he would think, yourself. You continue to unload your groceries.

"Never tried those," he comments as you take out a box of strawberry Pocky.

You pause and hold them up, chuckling nervously, as you do.

"Pretty good," you answer, "I eat way too many."

You notice the man doesn't have a basket or a cart. That realisation needles under your skin. Maybe he's just getting lotto or smokes?

"You like sweet stuff."

"Too much," you squeak even though it doesn't sound like a question.

He just stares, not saying a word. You swallow tightly and pull the last few items out of the cart and get behind it to wheel it through the lane. As you do, he looms closely, adding to the sweat gathering on your lower back.

You roll along and wait for the cashier to ring through the rest of your things. She bags them up neatly in two large paper bags. You pay with your card and thank her as you lift the first into your cart. The man behind you moves forward and grabs the second, startling you.

"Got it," he says as he places it with the other, squeezing by you, crowding you.

"Oh, excuse me, sir," you stammer, "oh," you lean on the cart to roll it to the end of the lane as you make space between you and the stranger. "Thanks, er, uh... thanks."

You turn and grab the handle, jittering. He's really weirding you out. Especially as you realise he's walked right by the cashier. He's following you.

"I can help get ‘em in your car," he offers in a drawl.

"Oh, that's alright, I... bus," you cringe as you realise you've said too much.

"I could drive you. I have a truck."

"No thank you," you walk faster, the cart rattling with your pace.

"Why not?"

"I don't know you, erm, sorry--"

"You don't?" He catches up and shoves his phone in your face, your Insta profile glaring back at you, "I paid for the milk, maybe the berries..."

"What?" You stop, just by the door and turn to him. "I don't--"

"You haven't eaten, have you? I'll take you for French toast. That's your favourite."

"Um," you blink at him as your eyes tinge, "I don't..."

"You got me through a hard campaign, just wanna say thank you," he adjusts his cap and you notice the pin on it. He's a veteran. Oh, 'campaign'.

“Just got back home," he shifts on his feet, a meek gesture for such a large man, "and... your videos helped me remember it. Helped me hold onto it in the sh-- in the stuff."

"I... wow, okay, that's... I'm glad I could do that."

"I really don't mind giving you a ride. Lots of weirdos on the bus," he insists.

"That's nice but--"

"Please," he softens his tone, "been a while since I sat down and had breakfast without worrying about the sky falling."

You shudder and grip the cart tight. You don't know how to say no. You didn't think about who was watching. You always just assumed they were bots. Then you think of the chaching noise and the amount flashing on the screen.

"BourbonBear?" You ask.

"Yeah," he cracks a crooked smile and smooths his hand over his thick beard. "Everyone calls me Syv.”

#dark!captain syverson #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #follow you anywhere #sandcastle #captain syverson #dark captain syverson #captain syverson x reader

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wildinstyl · 1 year

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Happy holidays from French Fry Oil. Both of us are going to spend the day curled up and warm. We recommend you do the same-

#wildinstyl #digital art #warrior cats #oc #cats #warriors #warriors of the cliffside #french fry oil

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doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou · 3 months

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Protecting French Fry

Oiled Paintings (1)

> melissa schemmenti x fem!reader

> requested? maybe?

> content/warnings: mentions of violence

> a/n: this got me staring at the wall for 4 hours 😭 i rlly don't know if this can compete with the first part

Contrary to popular belief that French people were extremely rude; Mr. Morton thinks that the lone French in their school have been nothing but nice and cheerful. Unfortunately, Mrs. Microft and most of the 7th to 8th grade teachers did not share the same sentiment. Thus, leaving them to tolerate the rude welcome and treatment of the senior teacher towards you, and that went on for the whole five years you’ve been in Abbott.

“Good morning, Mrs. Microft!” You greeted the senior teacher with a smile. And although she paid no attention to your presence and your greeting, you maintained your composure and left your lunch inside the fridge, then went on with your day.

Yet, when you came back to the lounge for lunch, you found no remnants of your lunch; even the container was gone. Deciding to let this slide, like the other mistreatment you got from the senior teacher, you sighed and took your purse to eat lunch at the coffee shop near the school.

“Damn, Y/N. That is wild; I didn’t think white racism would be prominent here; guess I was wrong.” Ava gave you a pat on the back while sipping her coffee. “This coffee is also wild! Y’all gotta try this new coffee maker I got for the school!”

Barbara and Melissa gave Ava a look before giving you sympathetic glances. This made you roll your eyes at Ava. “Stop looking at me like that; that was about three years ago.”

“If y’all ever want to plot revenge, I got her address somewhere in my office. I ain’t helping you look though,” said Ava, leaving all of you to think for reasons you haven’t reported her to HR yet.

“I’m just glad she left; with no one to torment me now, maybe the other teachers will also treat me like a colleague.” You straightened your posture and gave a clap. The smile on your face was so contagious, it took Melissa turning her back to you and looking at Barb to hide her smile.

“Doubt that.” Mr. Morton always knew when to rain on your parade. His comment made Melissa’s face turn serious.

“And why’s that, huh? Y’know any more teachers that’ll torment French fry here?” Melissa tilted her head towards you while still looking at Mr. Morton. While the protectiveness was appreciated, you couldn’t help but blush at the nickname that the redheaded teacher gave you. Ever since knowing that you were French, the Italian made it her daily routine to criticize your lunch, whether it was homemade or a takeout from the local French restaurant.

Sitting down on the nearest chair, Mr. Morton nodded and opened his lesson plan. “That girl, new hire, Charity Microft.”

The hand supporting your face fell on the table with a bang, making Melissa and Barbara look at you incredulously. With your eyes as wide as saucers, you gave Mr. Morton a horrified look. “What do you mean, Charity Microft? As in, Charity Microft the girl I talked to you about? Or Charity Microft the successor of Mrs. Microft the she-devil?”

“Both.” Letting out a cry, you hid your face from your ‘friends’ if you could call them that and huffed.

Janine, the ever-caring human that she is, caressed your back for a solid second before she saw Melissa giving her a glare, making her pull her hand away from you and whisper something to Jacob. Whatever Janine said, it made Jacob choke in fear when he glanced in Melissa’s direction.

As Barbara was about to say something to Melissa, the bell rang, making the kindergarten teacher sigh and give Melissa a look that said. ‘We’ll talk later’.

Nodding her head, Melissa stood up and pulled your arm. "C'mon, French fry, let’s get you to your classroom. We’ll talk later.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your ‘talk’ didn’t happen. In fact, Melissa left before you and Barb could even catch her. She only saw Ava before leaving with a grin.

“What do you mean she left flexing her arm?”

Sighing, Ava dropped her foot from the table and leaned forward. “Look, I ain’t snitching why she left that way or why she went here before leaving.”

Huffing, you crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow. “And why is that, Ava?”

“She’ll beat my ass,” Ava said before shooing both of you out of her office.

Pursing her lips, Barbara turned to you and gave you a pat on the shoulder. “Now, I need to leave. My Gerald and I have a schedule at that French place you told us about. But after that, I’ll try to get a hold of Melissa, and then I’ll call you to tell you what I gathered.” Then she left, leaving you to contemplate whether to call Melissa on your own or wait until tomorrow. You decided on the latter.

Groaning, you stomped towards your Harley-Davidson Pan America 1250. Your mother harbored great disdain for your choice of vehicle, and your father was extremely happy when you told him you bought a bike rather than a car. He even went all out to message you every detail about riding motorcycles in America and how it differed from riding a motorcycle in France.

As you drove our normal route, you thought you saw Melissa’s car parked on the street a block away from you, but you shook your head and thought there was no way she lived that close to you. Parking your vehicle in front of your house, you jumped repeatedly, a tradition you caught on to because of your father back in France. Your father told you that jumping just outside your home left the awful things that latched onto you that day outside.

Stepping inside your house, you were greeted by your cat purring around your leg and nipping your toes to get your attention. Laughing, you gave your cat a pat on the head. “Okay, okay. Mommy’s going to give you treats once she gets out of these uncomfortable clothes.”

But you didn’t get to change your work clothes. A knock souned through your house walls before you could walk into your room. "Oh, come on!” You stomped towards the door and pulled it open. “What do you want?”

“Hey hon,” said a redheaded woman holding a baseball bat covered in shards of glass and red paint. What you hoped was red paint.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter x reader #lisa ann walter

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what-even-is-thiss · 6 months

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european here (genuinely curious): in reference to your “american home-cooked food isn’t just fast food, it’s a lot like french/italian food” post, could you give some examples? I don’t know what foods are american home staples, but your post piqued my interest

Well stews and soups for one. When I read recipes for stuff like beef bourguignon it’s quite familiar to me. Less wine perhaps but the principles of the dish are similar.

Italian-American food often also makes for easy quick food on weeknights. Pasta is something that can be just as easy or complicated as you want. You can make it from scratch at every step or just make sauce from canned ingredients and boxed pasta. Tomato paste, flour, pasta, and dried herbs are staples in most kitchens. Pretty much every household has their own way of making pasta sauces.

Roasts are popular during the winter. Both roasted veggies and roasted meat. Potatoes are popular year round but in the summer things like potato salad or fries or bagged chips are more common than stewed, mashed, or boiled potatoes.

Americans commonly cook with butter and olive oil, though canola oil is cheaper. In recent years though there’s been health questions about canola oil and some people only use it for deep frying now.

French cream sauces are pretty similar to American white gravy which we make with cream instead of milk. We do also make white sauce too and will put it on most things. I find it especially good on pizza instead of red sauce. A lot of people also put it on pasta or vegetables.

A lot of the way we eat potatoes is pretty similar to some French dishes. What we call scalloped potatoes is very similar to a French dish called potatoes au gratin. Not identical, but extremely similar.

Stuff like French onion soup and duck a l’orange is also decently popular here even if not everyday food and are things you’d more commonly make yourself than buy from a restaraunt.

French style breads and pastries are also quite popular here. Baguettes are common things to cut up to eat with dip. Croissants with coffee are common things to eat for a small breakfast or an afternoon snack. French style breads both sweet and not are also common breads used for sandwiches. Italian style coffee is also more and more popular these days but that wasn’t true until relatively recently.

A lot of similarities really lie in the ingredients we use. We often cook things in butter for example. Or add flour to stews to thicken them. Or add milk to things. Or use wine to deglaze pans for the flavor.

A lot of home cooking in the US is affected by other immigrant populations. Tacos or curry are staples in my diet for example. But when you get down to more traditional comfort food it’s potatoes, cream sauces, stews, herbs, roasts, and pasta. Stuff that’s not identical to French or Italian cooking but is very heavily influenced by it.

TLDR: It’s butter!

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makethatelevenrings · 1 year

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Half Eaten Bagels // J. Todd x gn!reader

Requested? Yes!

WARNINGS: this has heavy discussion of emotional abuse by parents (I literally used a memory of my own home life, thank u therapy), emotional/panic attacks, discussion of food/food waste, disparaging comments made by parents that have been internalized

Summary: Jason had a shit patrol and you try to fix things only for familiar thought processes return from your past.

He didn’t mean to be angry.

You understood that, you really did. Jason wasn’t usually the kind of guy who slammed doors and let his frustration boil over and spill onto you, but today wasn’t a normal day. A drug bust yesterday had gone wrong and people were injured. Civilians and batlings. Jason hated being injured, but not more than he hated others getting hurt for what he deemed to be his failure.

So when you woke up to the sound of the front door slamming that morning, an unsettling emotion sank into the pit of your stomach.

“Jay?” you called softly as you climbed out of bed. You tugged the hem of his sweatshirt down until it hung to your thigh. A pair of soft sleep shorts were hidden underneath, but you didn’t care about propriety. You cared about the safety this single piece of fabric provided.

Quietly, you made your way out of the bedroom and found Jason at the fridge. His shoulders were tight and tense and you could see the edges of bandages peeking out from under his collar.

“Here, let me cook breakfast,” you exclaimed. Jason turned, not surprised by your presence but certainly surprised by your offer. He usually was the one to cook breakfast because it gave him a chance to do something for you before he sent you off to work and then took a nap. You rarely cooked breakfast since your culinary expertise focused more on dinner.

Jason decided not to argue and instead stepped away from the fridge. “I bought more eggs at the bodega and some milk.”

“Okay.” You spoke softly, ensuring that your voice wouldn’t raise at all so he wouldn’t view it as a challenge. That’s how your parents always viewed it. Surviving was simple. Don’t talk back, don’t raise your voice, and just accept whatever they say.

“Here, why don’t you go sit down and watch TV or something?” You pushed him towards the couch, ignoring the confused look he shot your way. Luckily you didn’t work today so you weren’t in a rush, but you also didn’t want to mistime your cooking and give Jason cold food. As you began to fry the eggs, you glanced nervously back at where he was seated.

Yeah, bad move.

The oil popped and caught you on the cheek. You let out a sharp hiss of pain and pressed your finger against the spot in an attempt to soothe the sharp, stinging spot on your skin. Jason was halfway up off the couch when you waved him off.

“Don’t worry. Just me being stupid.”

He sat back down, but kept his gaze on you. Being under his stare was making your stomach roil. Was he waiting for you to fuck up again? No, Jason wasn’t like that. You were being unreasonable. Irrational.

But that’s the thing about anxiety. It’s irrational.

“Damnit.” This time, the bacon grease had caught your wrist and you shook it out quickly before grabbing your spatula again. You also needed to get the coffee machine started because Jason always had the french roast with a shot of creamer and a spoonful of sugar. The bread needed to be in the toaster in the next minute. Was there jelly in the fridge? He liked strawberry jelly on his toast. Did you forget to buy more when you got groceries? Shit.

“What can I help with?” Jason asked.

“Nothing, Jay. I’ve got it.”

His large hand enclosed around your wrist as you went to flip the eggs and you immediately wrenched away from his grasp.

“I said I’ve got it!” Jason stood in stunned silence at your outburst and you immediately dropped the spatula on the ground and sank to your knees. Your arms came up to cover your head as a bone-wracking sob tore through your body.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Wh-what can I do to fix it?” You didn’t want to look at him and see his frustrated face. You didn’t want to know how badly you fucked up.

You waited.

Nothing.

You hesitantly peeked up from the protective cradle your arms had created. The stove and oven had been turned off and Jason sat in front of you on the kitchen floor. His knees were drawn up to his chest but they were spread apart instead of guarding himself like you were. Instead of anger on his handsome face, there was only worry.

“What’s going on?” he finally asked. The words weren’t accusative, but rather a gentle exploration. You shut your eyes and looked away form him, the words to explain getting lost in your frustration. Jason sighed and scooted closer. You didn’t flinch back, but you did keep turned away from him.

“I was late for the bus once,” you said. “And food wasn’t allowed on so I ate half of my bagel and tossed the other half into the trash. I was eleven, y’know? I didn’t think about wrapping it up or saving it or anything but I’m getting off track. I didn’t think about it anymore, right? But then my mom called when she was leaving work to tell me to do the dishes and I could tell she was angry. She and dad had been fighting the night before and I guess work hadn’t made it any easier.

I figured I would be a good kid and do more than do the dishes. I was eleven and I swept and mopped the kitchen floor, I prepared the ingredients for dinner and had it laid out on the counter for her when she came home, and I cleaned off the dining room table. And when she walked in the door, I was doing homework at the table. The perfect kid. Quiet, hardworking, doing more chores than asked.”

Jason was silent as he listened to you. He could sense that there was something heavy hanging around your neck, but you had never elected to share. You always felt as though he suffered enough.

“But that damn bagel…” You took a deep breath in to steady yourself and finally turned your head to look him in the eye, a bitter smile playing on your lips. “She saw it on the top of the trash and lost her shit. Screamed about how fucking useless I was and wasteful. Said I was a waste of space and time. Said she regretted having me. Because of a bagel. I went to bed hungry that night because if I stayed in her eyesight, she would just find new things to be mad at. The utensils weren’t in the right drawers, I got the wrong kind of cheese out, I don’t know.

I learned to manage. I learned to keep her and my dad happy to survive. Being useful meant that I wasn’t worthless or a waste of space. It made me feel like they wouldn’t be able to get rid of me.”

A sob boiled up in your lungs, through your throat, until you were choking on the depths of your childish grief and Jason was at your side in an instant. One of his hands cradled your head to his chest as the other stroked up and down your spine.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you chanted.

“No. No, stop apologizing. Nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry I came in so angry.” He pressed kisses to your temple, forehead, hair as he whispered quiet apologies and faint praises.

“This is your home,” you whimpered. “You have a right to be whatever the fuck you want. You shouldn’t repress your anger because of me.”

He sighed and rested his chin on the top of your head. “You’re right. I just…I can’t see you like this again, sweetheart. You were freaking me the fuck out. And don’t you fuckin’ apologize.”

You hummed, your ear nestling against the fabric of his shirt and right over where his heart rested in his chest. The steady beat lulled you, regulating your breathing and heart rate with his. In and out. In and out. Your hips nestled between his legs, his strong hands holding you up…you had never felt more safe.

“How about this?” His breath washed over your cheek and you tilted your head up to take in the sight of his furrowed brow and sharp, calculating eyes. “You know how we have a safeword for scenes?”

You nodded, curious as to where he was going with this. Jason licked his dry lips and then grimaced before continuing. “What if we make a safe word for this? Anytime I think you’re in a bad headspace or you find yourself falling back into old patterns, we call the word and time out. Sit down, talk it out, get out of the house, do something that isn’t some sort of task you think you need to do to appease me.”

“Yeah, that could work.”

“Alright.” HIs cool lips pressed against your temple once again. “How does Pluto sound?”

You giggled. “Like the planet?”

“Good, you still acknowledge its rightful designation. Does that work?”

“Yeah.”

Jason squeezed your hip and then made you sit up and face him. He wiped away the sticky tears that were quickly drying on your skin and then grasped your hands. He rose them to his face and pressed a delicate kiss to each palm.

“What word do we use for the bedroom?” he asked.

“Giraffe.”

Jason kissed your inner wrist. “Good. And for outside of the bedroom?”

“Pluto.”

He kissed the other wrist and then pulled you into his chest once more. “Good. That’s good.”

“I’m sorry the food’s cold,” you whispered against his cheek.

“Don’t you worry about that right now. I gotcha.”

Tag List: @khaetiin @mcrmarvelloki @gone-batty-fics @someoneimsure @perpetual-fangirl900 @visagebrise @cursedandromedablack @alexxavicry @the-wayward-daughter @raging-trash-of-mind @kat-nee @khaylin27

#red hood x reader #red hood imagine #red hood fluff #jason todd drabble #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd fanfiction

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gabessquishytum · 4 months

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I'm on something of a mob run right now,,,sorry 😉😝

Hob is the live-in chef for mob boss Dream; and during a home invasion attempt on Dream and bb!Orpheus's lives, Hob protects them with extreme skill..... he might have killed at least one guy with an appetizer.

👊🏽

Hob used to be a hitter - he could (still can) take down a room of guys without breaking a sweat. But he got tired of the fists, knives and gun life, he wanted to use his hands for good, nurturing things, so he cooks now.

Granted working for a high profile mobster isn't safe, but that just means that Hob can handle himself if stuff goes down. Besides, when he needed a cooking job Death found him this one, and he owed her - so working for her grieving baby brother squares them and is easy enough.

Morpheus Endless has it rough, so Hob can understand how feeding himself is low on his priority list - he's on essentially a forced paternity leave (from the mob. He lost the mother of his infant son in child birth and he can't really trust anyone else to take care of him. (There have been some rumblings that someone might be out to get him.)

So Hob cooks for him and as they are getting to know one another, Hob helps with cutie little Orpheus.

Hob doesn’t think much of it when Jessamy and Mathew both have tasks that remove them from the house and property (he packs them their preferred breakfast sandwich and waves them off); he's busy prepping and planning dinner so initially misses when the guard shift change doesn’t happened; but he notices the sounds of gunshots too close to the front of the house to be anything but purposeful. He gets upstairs and pushes Dream and Orpheus into the panic room then goes back down to see what's going on.

He will protect his new friend, and family, and if unfortunately, dinner is a little late because that pan of hot oil was used to fry a face instead of french fries.....that's on the idiots who broke into Hob's kitchen.

Love this!!! It definitely gives me vibes for a slice of life story where ex-enforcer Hob uses his renowned skill with knives to cut veggies instead of bodies. Along the way he naturally falls in love with his new boss and the absolutely adorable lil Orpheus, who loves sitting on the counter and watching Hob making yummy food.

Just imagine Hob in his frilly apron with his hair tied up in a bun, maybe with a hairnet (he takes food standards seriously). He's got one of his massive knives that wouldn't look out of place in a butchery. He's poured grease onto the floor so the attackers have all slipped on their butts, and one of them has a massive black eye already forming because Hob threw a whole rotisserie chicken at them then followed it up with a dozen baking potatoes. Jessamy and Matthew are already speeding back to the residence, but Hob doesnt really need the help. He's warned the home invaders that he doesn't want to waste his nice sharp knives on them, but he will.

The story of how Mr Hob killed a man with a potato becomes Orpheus's favourite bedtime story from then on (Dream added a few embellishments, the guy didn't actually die). And Hob is well rewarded for his loyalty to his new family - at a candlelit dinner after all the mess has been cleaned up, Dream kisses his chef in shining armour, and politely asks him to stay. Forever.

#the sandman #dreamling #chef hob

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