#Vintage Kitchen Tools

[baglunchproducts]

Vintage Kitchen Tools That Deserve a Resurrection | Baglunch Products

Vintage kitchen tools deserve a resurrection because they blend nostalgia, authenticity, and functionality. Reviving these tools adds character to modern kitchens, promotes sustainable living by reducing waste.

[therecipelibrary]

Kitchen Utensil list and Imagery

Warne's Model Cookery Book, first published in 1800, my copy is circa 1880s

[vintage-tech]

I get irrationally excited when I see one of these stand collanders. I have one that I got at a barn sale years ago, and mostly use it for holding biscuits because the bottom rusted out.

[misforgotten2]

Oh my, Every Day is just around the corner and I haven't even started my gift shopping!

McCall's - April 1952

[vintageadsmakemehappy]

1960 “Man Gift” Black & Decker ad

[adtothebone]

Rise & Grind

[fineartphotographysandiego]

Timeless Charm with Vintage Egg Beaters

Discover the classic appeal of vintage egg beaters, blending functionality and nostalgia for your kitchen collection or decor. Add Vintage Egg Beaters into your kitchen collection.

[happi-meals]

Vintage Ice-O-Mat I just thrifted for ~$7.

Didnt come with the repticle but no need. This is apparently the Rival version that came out in the late 40s and the 50s.

Heres a video demonstrating how its used:

My apartment fridge doesnt have an ice maker or ice tray. But no need since I have several silicone ice trays, and the tap water is generally safe to consume.

This is a cool and very sturdy appliance that will let me have crushed ice again, something i grew up with.

I like it since its manual/hand crank, which means it doesnt need a power connection to function. Its probably fixable and probably very recyclable if it every breaks and becomes irreparable (which is unlikely).

[rosanacafe]

Time to bake por Rosana Por Flickr: For Macro Mondays: "Tool"

[sunlightmurdock]

Cut them Loose | dilf!bradley x nanny reader

spookweek masterlist

prompt: carving pumpkins

warnings: flirting, hints of a relationship between employer and employee. Bradley being a worried dad. He has three children of varied ages in this universe. Wc: 0.89k

…

“Giving them weapons seems… counter-intuitive.” He mutters, almost to himself as he pops open the trunk of his relatively sensible truck. These days his vintage Bronco is barely practical and almost strictly recreational — and his weekends are filled with things like Halloween parties at 1pm and pumpkin carving.

“They’re safety knives!” You prod him, scooping up two pumpkins and turning on your heel to head for the house.

You’re the one who talked him into this; he’s half sure you could talk him into just about anything.

The kids really wanted to carve their own pumpkins this year, and Bradley’s new resolve is to let them be more independent and do things themselves — at your recommendation. It’s just… hard to start.

Especially when starting with knives, of any kind.

He’s got three larger than average pumpkins, fresh from the patch, bundled under his arms. His kids are filled with cotton candy and hot chocolate, practically vibrating with sugar-fuelled energy. But, as he walks into the kitchen, he finds them grinning ear to ear with you.

The tension headache ebbs away from his temples, a reminder of exactly why he hired you. It’s almost relaxing to watch you do your thing. Working your magic on not just the kids.

You’ve got the youngest hooked under one arm, your load of pumpkins now settled onto the kitchen island along with the other two kids, fiddling with the kitchen speaker. You’re cute when you’re concentrating.

As the music comes through the speakers, your hips start to sway like moved by the sound itself. The little girl in your arm breaks into amused giggles, beaming up at you with enthralled eyes.

“Daddy, daddy, what are you going to carve?” Bradley’s eldest daughter asks, pushing herself up onto her knees. Right as he’s about to worry about her falling from the countertop, there you are, standing behind her and putting one hand on her back to keep her steady.

“A scary face!” His son answers with equal enthusiasm, banging at the countertop with the cutting tool. Bradley winces, watching it flail dangerously close to his kid’s face.

Again, there you are, gently plucking the tool from his hand and ruffling his curls.

“I’m not sure your daddy has the skill to pull off a whole scary face all by himself.” You challenge, making the kids coo in awe. They giggle and eagerly look to their father for his comeback.

“It’s a competition then,” He answers, eyes on you. His lips twitch, almost a smile. “We’ve got our three impartial—“ He shoots the kids a playfully stern look. “Judges, and the loser does laundry for a week.”

Lips curling into a devious smile, you reach across the counter and present your hand. He shakes it, squeezing at your knuckles with a firm flex of his fingers. “Deal.”

Sometimes a man like Bradley needs a distraction. It’s just because he cares so much, and with such beautiful, wonderful children — he’s got a lot to lose, and he’d go to the ends of the earth to keep each one of them safe. But, so would you, so it’s okay for him to relax every now and again.

His toddler becomes a de facto member of his carving ‘team’, but that’s okay, you tell him that he’s gonna need all the help he can get. He likes the way you smile at him as you say it.

The other two kids get an even split of your attention, eager encouragement from you and gentle warnings from their dad.

Bradley peeks across to see you whispering something to his son moments before the grinning six-year old is wiping pumpkin guts all along his arm.

Two can play at that game.

It’s his eldest daughter who drops a big scoop of her pumpkin’s innards right back into yours, slowing your progress so that her father takes the lead in your little ‘competition’. Watching the two of them smile the same smile and bark out the same laugh is almost worth the set back.

He spends the afternoon with his family, which has come to include you, carving designs and listening to the radio over their laughter.

Bradley, at his son’s request, carves a menacing smile. His daughter carves a spooky cat. His son carves an attempt at matching his. And you carve a bright, big smiling face.

He takes a moment to sit out on his front porch and admire them all that night, while you’re putting the kids to bed. As he had hoped, it doesn’t take you long to join him.

Fuzzy socks on your feet and armed with a blanket, you settle down beside him on the porch swing and cover the two of you, then wordlessly settle your head against his broad shoulder.

“No incidents.” You say softly, with a smile, tracing your fingers along the length of his forearm.

There’s no hiding the way you feel for him, but he isn’t ready to take that leap. You don’t mind waiting.

He chuckles and nods, thinking of his wild children. “Sometimes I forget that they aren’t… babies anymore, I guess.”

You reach across and give his hand a gentle squeeze, “It’s okay to worry about them. I do too.”

He nods once more, quiet this time, enjoying the feeling of you curled close to his side — ignoring the thought in the back of his mind that he’s crossing too many boundaries with you.

“So, trick-or-treating,” You prompt him suddenly, and he can hear the shit-eating grin on your face. “I was thinking that we could all wear matching—“

“Nope—“

…

[baglunchproducts]

Redefine Your Kitchen With Wooden Accessories | Baglunch Products

Embracing the growing trend of incorporating vintage kitchen tools into kitchen design, we invite you to explore an exquisite transformation. 

[outlawruben]

Modern AU headcannons

The Vandermatthews family edition

When John was a teenager he made slime and got it in Dutch’s expensive Persian rug he keeps in the office. (Dutch was LIVID.)

Hosea reads late into the night, which caused Dutch to buy one of those clip on reading lights so he can finally sleep peacefully.

Dutch and Hosea do embarrassing dances in the kitchen/living spaces when the kids are around. Arthur and John cringe hard at this.

John was introduced to Limp Bizkit and his life was forever changed.

Arthur: “GET OUT OF MY ROOM.”

John *In the doorway*: “IM NOT IN YOUR ROOM.”

Arthur: “dinner is ready.”

John: “OKAY.”

Arthur, louder: “OKAY!”

Arthur tans at the beach, John burns

Arthur has straight A’s, John has straight C’s

John will take a (monthly) shower and get the WHOLE floor wet

John’s favorite Christmas was when he got a bass guitar, and Arthur’s favorite was when he got his blue truck.

Arthur sits on Dutch/Hosea’s bed and just spills the tea to Hosea late into the evening (Dutch wants to get ready for bed soon)

Arthur is a PC player, and John is a console player

John has to go to the mall with Arthur when he wants to go alone because “John doesn’t socialize enough”

They both got to choose their bedroom colors, however, John wasn’t allowed to do THE DARKEST black in the store, so his room is a dark grey with a black accent wall. (Arthur’s room is blue)

Branching off of that, Arthur and John could decorate their rooms HOWEVER they wanted, there was no intervention from the dads

Hosea does the “Dad hand” during road trips when the boys have a snack he wants.

Hosea is the designated driver because Dutch has terrible road rage

They live on a pond, in fact Dutch and Hosea argued over it before buying the house, so much so that Hosea threatened a divorce because the ONLY thing he wants is a pond. Dutch folded, and Hosea fishes everyday.

Arthur loved Percy Jackson and John loved Warrior Cats.

Arthur is a cereal eater, and John is a pop-tart eater

The contrast between Arthur’s masterpieces vs John’s doodles are crazy. (They’re both proudly displayed on the front of the fridge no matter what) (yes this is based on their canonical journal entries, sue me)

John and Arthur took those embarrassing Macy’s photoshoots in the early 2000’s that are out on display for everyone to see in the future.

John has an INCREDIBLY embarrassing graduation photo from when he was in his emo phase in high school, and his dads refuse to remove it. (It’s placed next to Arthur’s gleaming grad photo)

Dutch has slippers he wears around the house, and Hosea just wears his socks.

John still doesn’t know how to swim in this AU, Hosea has tried to teach him, but John refuses to get in the water.

They have taxidermy in their house from when Hosea went hunting more often when he was younger.

Somehow Hosea and Dutch’s aesthetics work so well together.

Dutch is very much old money, and maximalist, and Hosea is definitely Vintage and Woodsy (It works together if you saw their house)

You would be convinced that John’s nails were naturally black and chipped from how much he painted them.

Hosea has a “Shop” in the garage like every dad has to have. (It’s full of fishing supplies, paint cans, and other tools ofc)

John’s room is very dark, messy, and covered in posters from every movie/Tv show/video game he’s ever seen/played. Also, making the bed? What’s that?

Arthur’s room is open and airy, with his own mountain murals painted on the walls, a full art desk, and he also doesn’t know what making the bed means.

[id-element0]

The Permanent Fix For Counter Texture Glitch

A while ago I posted this tutorial for fixing the counter texture glitch. But it was not perfect and couldn't fix each and every cc counter out there.

I've finally found a fix for that too. Problem was corrupt TXTC resources that needed to be replaced. Now you can download every cc counter that comes in sims3pack and extract them into package and never have the annoying counter texture glitch ever again. Bad news is you have to do it all yourself. But don't worry! it's not that difficult and I've come with pictures.

What you'll need: s3pe, s3oc and texture tweaker 3 - and optionally Sims3Pack Multi Installer or s3ce. The download link for TT3 is in the 3rd post and there's a tutorial here. If you don't have them already, go download them. You can NOT use TSRW for this tutorial since TSRW itself is the problem. :)

First extract the package from the sims3pack using either Multi Installer/Extractor or s3ce. After you have your package file, open it up in s3pe. In my example, I'm using Gosik's New Vintage Kitchen Counter 1. Select the first OBJD resource in the resource list.

Also make sure you have Preview selected at the bottom of the program window in s3pe.

On the right side, you will see the preview of the resource in text. Scroll down until you see the InstanceName.

It's usually counterBaseModern but not always. This is the instance name of the object that this counter is cloned from. In modular objects like counters there are multiple objects. Four counters they are base, top and corner. Keep that in mind for now.

Take a note of or copy the instance name and open s3oc. First, Go to Settings -> Game Folders and make sure game folders are detected. If not, add them manually. You can also define your creator name under the Settings menu. Now, go to Tools -> Search.

Paste the instance name in the search bar; select Resource Name and hit Search.

You will have two results: counterBaseModern and CounterModernSuite. I suggest that you clone the suite because it's the modular object that contains all the parts of a counter: base, top and corner. If not, you have to clone every part individually which are counterBaseModern, counterTopModern and counterCornerModern.

Cloning the Suite makes the process a lot quicker so I'll continue from there. Click on the CounterModernSuite and hit Clone or Fix at the right side.

That will open the cloning interface. Make sure you UNCHECK the Renumber/rename internally. We do NOT want to renumber. Then hit Start.

It will ask where you want to save your new package and if you already have a creator name defined earlier it will add it to the package name. If not, it may or may not ask for your creator name. Honestly, I can't remember and I don't think it matters. Anyway, chose a folder - preferably a work folder you created earlier - and keep the name it suggests. It will inform you when it's done.

We cloned our package. Now we need to export the necessary TXTC resources from it. We need the Diffusemap TXTC resource for each part. Start another instance of s3pe and open the package file you've just created which should be something like this: creatorname_CounterModernSuite_someAlphaNumericals.

You'll notice that there are 6 TXTC resources in the resource list. Check the resource names and the Group IDs. You need the DiffuseMap for base, top and corner parts. Click on the resource, then right click and Export.

You can export them all at once or create a folder for each if you don't want to get confused. Notice that they all have different Group IDs and names. As we move to the next part keep that in mind.

After exporting, you can close this package. We'll go back to the package we want to fix, in this case, Gosik's New Vintage Kitchen Counter 1. Open the package again or switch to it if it's open in s3pe.

Select the first TXTC resource which is most likely is the DiffuseMap for the base part. Unfortunately, most cc doesn't have a _KEY resource so they don't have resource names. Group ID's come in handy here. For this counter suite Group IDs for parts are like this:

base -> 0x00045638; top -> 0x002794E0; corner -> 0x00D661FD3

But there are 2 TXTC resources for each Group ID. One of them is SpecMap which is not corrupted. The corrupted one will have a preview like this:

This is simply s3pe telling you it's having an 'Error reading the resource'. My interpretation: The resource is corrupted. So combine this with the right Group ID and right click on the resource and choose Replace. Do not use Import! You need to Replace the resource without changing its instance number. Choose the right resource you exported earlier. Again check the name and Group ID. it should be something like: S3_033A1435_00045638_A85033BB5A059932_counterBaseModernObjectRgbMask_Face_DiffuseMap%%+TXTC

This is for the base object. For top and corner parts, repeat the replacing step with the right resources.

After you replace all the corrupted resources, s3pe will no longer give an error reading those resources when you click on them. And neither will TT3. You will now save your package and close s3pe. A reminder: If the TXTC resources are not corrupted in CC package, skip all and continue as below.

After that you will open your package in TT3 and follow the tutorial here. But a brief rundown would be: select each 'Normal Object' one by one and switch to CASt presets tab after each selection. In this tab, all you have to do is uncheck and then recheck the box next to PatternA and hit Commit. Do it for every preset. Repeat it for every object in the package. Save. Close. Done. :)

For island counters, process is the same but with 4 parts. Base, EndW, EndE and Corner. Also this works for other modular objects like cabinets and sectional sofas.

One last clarification: If the object is cloned from another counter suite, the Group IDs that we used will be different. Also some CC will have Group IDs different from the main object it's cloned from. If that happens, you may need to have a leap of faith.

Usually the order from top to bottom is base, top, corner (counters) and base, endW, endE, corner (islands), starting with the first TXTC resource. So in theory, if you select the corrupt resources from top to bottom, you can replace with that order without the Group IDs.

That's it. I don't think anyone will bother with this. But If you have questions, ask away.

[hyunnielix]

read your mind. | h.h

Series Masterlist

'Decompressing, tryna ease the tension. But you got me stressing'

— hyunjin x (f) reader

— word count: 1.6k

— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).

— warning's: bestie!felix (and minho), jisung mention/cameo, angst! fluff. Felix being a cutie pie as usual. Baking! sort of...

→ playlist on spotify

The walk to the baking class was brisk. You pulled your coat tight against the cool air and approached the storefront with its polished gold-lettered sign reading 'Tiff's Bakery Masterclass'.

You paused, your lips quirking into a faint smirk at the name. It was a little pretentious, wasn’t it? The building itself felt charming enough, with its warm brick façade and a row of flower boxes spilling violets and rose blossoms over the ledge. A chalkboard easel sat by the door boasting, "Perfect Your Pastry Skills Today!" in a looping cursive font, complete with a few flourishes you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at. You could only hope Felix understood exactly what he’d gotten you both into.

You pressed your palms against the opaque glass door, pushing it open. A soft chime rung out as the smell of warm sugar and cinnamon wafted through the establishment. The interior felt cozy but modern, with rows of gleaming countertops and shiny stainless steel appliances reflecting the glow of vintage-style bulbs hanging from the ceiling. For all its pretension, the room was inviting—enough to almost make you forget how silly you felt walking into a class with total strangers.

Felix's aura radiated like sunshine through stormy clouds, his energy demanded attention with golden hair and freckles dusted like sprinkles on a cupcake. His deep laugh echoed through the room and you tilted your head. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, unbidden and slow. You were supposed to be annoyed with him damn it! Yet every time you saw him you melted, like seeing a kitten playing with yarn for the first time. Too damn adorable.

You approached his table. He sat next to another boy, one with brown Boba eyes and shortish onyx hair. Your eyes travelled to the boy's tank top, drawn to the tattoo peaking out which read— 'blessed'.

"Y/N, you made it on time!" Felix wriggled in his chair, blonde hair slightly tousled and dressed in a white apron. He embodied the confidence of someone who’d done this before.

"Lix," you sighed, shaking your head as you pulled out one of the tall stools. The scrape of its metal legs echoed in the tiled room. "I thought this was a beginners’ class."

He grinned, the kind that tugged at the corner of his lips and added a spark to his pretty eyes. "It is!"

The door opened, the chime reverberating once more as it revealed a tall figure. She entered the room with flour-dusted hands and a smile which softened the stern lines of her face. Her voice carried over the hum of excited chatter, authoritative yet calm. "Welcome everyone, to the beginners masterclass. Contradictory, I know," She began and picked up a wooden spatula that sat on the desk before her. "Familiarise yourselves with your stations. Everything you'll need is here." She pointed toward the tools.

You took a moment to glaze your eyes over the bench before you. A gleaming metal mixing bowl sat beside a whisk. While an array of sharp knives glinted under the kitchen lights, rolling pins positioned beside folded aprons.

“Ingredients are premeasured and labeled to avoid confusion,” she added, nodding toward the small, clear containers of sugar, flour, and butter at each station. Her eyes scanned the room, pausing to offer a reassuring smile to a student gripping their whisk like a lifeline. “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes!” she proclaimed, “Baking is equal parts strategy and art, today, you’re all artists.”

Your lips twitched into a bitter smile. Artists. Sure, let’s call them that.

"Today we will be making an assortment of puff pastries."

You hated baking. The delicate techniques required a patience you didn’t possess, and your heavy-handed attempts only made things worse. The instructors hands moved with a precision one could only acquire through relentless practice, slicing the butter into thin sheets and layering them over the dough. You leaned closer, brows furrowed and attempted to mimic the fluid motion, your fingers awkwardly pressing the butter too deep into the dough.

The instructor began to move around the room. You felt the looming presence over your shoulder and sighed.

"Gentle precision," The instructor corrected, and guided your hand.

The scent of flour and yeast mingled in the air while rolling pins clattered against the metal tables. The dough stretched, folded and thinned. You abandoned using your hands and reached for the rolling pin, hoping your determination could make up for your lack of finesse.

The instructor’s words rang hollow in your ears as you tried, and failed, to fold the dough without tearing it. Every mistake seemed magnified under the scrutinizing gleam of the overhead lights. It wasn’t just the technique—it was the vulnerability of it, the need to be careful, precise and tender. You didn’t know how to be gentle anymore.

"Oh for fuck's sake," You muttered under your breath as the dough resisted the smooth glide of your pin. The quip earnt a soft chuckle from the instructor and she moved on around the room toward other students.

You sat up, taking in the other students and how they worked with varying degrees of success, their voices mixed together, airing questions and nervous laughter. One, which included Felix.

Your mouth fell open at the sight of his dough. The sheen of butter glistened on the surface, whispering a promise of a golden flaky crust.

Felix halted his motions, setting his rolling pin on the bench. "You seem a little spaced out. You okay?" He tilted his head ever so slightly.

You sighed and slouched, staring mindlessly at the dough. "Would you believe it if I told you I just bumped into Hyunjin at my favourite coffee spot?"

Felix's eyes widened and his lips parted, caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm. “He’s back?” he breathed, his voice low but taut.

"Yeah." You poked your finger in the dough and cringed at the consistency. No way you were saving that...

"For how long?"

"I didn’t ask. I wasn’t really thinking." You reached for your rolling pin, letting it twirl absently between your fingers, the rhythm grounding you.

"Are you alright?" he pressed gently, his voice steady but laced with worry.

"I—I’m not sure," you admitted, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting at the edge of your tongue.

"I just hope Minho doesn't get any ideas."

The offhand comment made you pause, a flicker of confusion flashing across your face as your brows knitted together. Minho. Your roommate.

“What do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice cautious, leaning into the kind of question which already carried an answer you might regret hearing.

Felix shifted, his lips twitching with hesitation before he let out a soft, dry laugh. “He literally threw a plate at Hyunjin's head.”

Your stomach dropped, envisioning the scenario. "He did what?"

"I forgot I wasn't supposed to tell you that." Realisation washed over Felix's features.

"When did that happen?"

"Before he left. A few years back."

"He told you two before he told me didn't he? I remember that."

The memory of that night hit you with a wave of heaviness. You had returned to the apartment, the door clicking shut behind you, but the reality inside felt more chilling than the cold air. Minho broke the news, his voice low, but the words still sharp, cutting through you. The silence that followed was suffocating, each second stretching out, thick with the weight of unspoken grief. Then, Minho had pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up as if he could protect you from the world and all its terrors.

"Yeah, Minho made me promise not to tell you how he lost his shit over it," Felix whispered. He shook his head, as if the memory still surprised him.

"He doesn't need to protect me. I can handle Hwang Hyunjin."

"I know you can. I just think Minho doesn't want you to do it alone. Y'know?"

You pursed your lips and the sentiment made your chest ache. How blessed you were to know these boys.

The boy from earlier leaned over Felix's shoulder, his arm casually draping across it as he grinned wide, his expression full of mischief. "I can't help but overhearing, this Hwang guy seems like an asshole."

Your brow rose and Felix shrugged.

"Jisung." He reached out his hand. "You'll be coming to more classes right? you two seem cool."

Felix gazed at you with wide, pleading eyes, his lashes fluttering. He tilted his head just enough to make his expression unbearably cute.

You let out a resigned sigh. "I'll think about it."

"That's not a no! it's not a no!" Felix celebrated, his hands raised in triumph before turning to Jisung. Without missing a beat, they both exchanged a quick, energetic dap, the sound of their hands slapping together echoing in the air. The camaraderie between them both made the atmosphere feel lighter and you couldn't help but grin.

A vibration in your pocket drew your attention. You pulled the phone out, trying not to dust it with flour remnants.

Hyune: Le Lux Charm, booked for seven thirty tomorrow night? :)

Y/N: You're lucky my schedule is free.

Hyune: I'll see you there.

You expelled a breath you didn't realise you were holding, placing the phone face down on the messy bench. "I'm catching up with him tomorrow night apparently."

Felix leant forward and reached for your dough covered hands. "If you need anyone to save you. Me and Minho will be there."

Jisung piped up. "Me too. for y'know emotional support." He gestured to his head with his pointer finger then winked at you.

"I just met you."

"And? who could resist this cute face!" Jisung slapped a hand on his chest with a dramatic flourish.

Felix's giggle sounded and you couldn't help but follow in tow at the absurdity of it all. Maybe the baking classes weren't a bad idea after all.

[sweetercalypso]

Something Right (Frankie Morales)

Summary: For your first Valentine’s Day together, Frankie goes all out. But can the evening be saved when his plans fall apart?

Word Count: 1.6k

Notes: minors dni; kissing, brief finger sucking, mutual mast., mentions of alcohol, eating/sharing food (chocolate), one tiny injury, afab reader wearing a dress, no use of y/n, Frankie is a sap and we love him for it

Frankie had been planning this date for weeks. Hours spent meticulously crafting a menu, tasting wines, arranging heart-shaped balloons in every corner of the house – anyone could tell that he was a man in love.

He’d ordered an abundance of long-stemmed roses, picked out the perfect card, and agreed to whatever other embellishments the young store clerk had recommended. The first Valentine’s Day as a new couple is meant to be a spectacle, and Frankie’s determined to show you how much you mean to him, no matter the cost.

The evening had started off without a hitch. The house was decorated, the table was set, and Frankie still had enough time to pull his old record player out from storage. Unfortunately, that’s where his luck ended.

He’d chosen an uncharacteristically formal ensemble of dark slacks and a pressed button-down shirt, opting to retire his beloved ball cap for this special occasion. He’d slung a dark red tie around his neck, then switched it out for blue, then abandoned the idea entirely as his nerves began to fray.

The longer he stood in front of the mirror, the more he picked apart his appearance. His pants were too tight, his collar wouldn’t stay in place, and he’d run his fingers through his hair too many times, leaving his beloved messy curls in a state of disarray. Maybe he’s just not the fancy type.

Nevertheless, he moved into the kitchen with the hope that a nice, home-cooked meal would excuse his disheveled look. He’d chosen something simple enough that his rudimentary cooking skills would suffice, yet eloquent enough to still be called a ‘dinner date’. He’d really put in the work to make this evening perfect.

With the table prepared and the sound of vintage crooning love songs playing softly in the living room, there wasn’t much left to do except tackle the intimidating mountain of ingredients waiting on the counter. He sucks in a deep breath and runs a hand down the side of his face, trying to decide where to begin.

A drink first, he settles, aiming to calm his restless energy with a taste of liquid courage.

Cradling the wine in the crook of his arm and skillfully balancing two glasses between his fingers, Frankie rummages through the kitchen drawers in search of a tool to open the seal on the bottle.

The delicate glasses clinking precariously in his hand require the better part of his attention as he adjusts his grip and hunts blindly for the corkscrew he knows is somewhere in here and-

“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, jerking his hand free from the drawer.

In his distraction, Frankie had skimmed his thumb across the sharp edge of a knife disguised in the clutter of endless utensils. His sudden movement had also jolted the wine glasses in his hand, knocking them together harshly and cracking their fragile sides.

He exhales through his nose and places the wine and the broken glasses on the counter before bitterly tending to the cut running across the tip of his thumb.

The noise of the record player turns to static as the last track ends, and Frankie huffs and shoves his hand under the kitchen faucet to ease the sting and assess the damage done by his impulsivity.

Maybe this would turn out to be a drink-from-the-bottle type of celebration, after all.

Just as he’s drying his hands and returning to the feat of preparing dinner, the resounding chirp of the doorbell rings through the air. He freezes in his tracks, wide-eyed and panicked as he checks his watch. 7 o’clock. You’re right on time.

The walk from the kitchen to the foyer is a painful reminder of how unprepared he is for your arrival. An entire day spent getting ready for your date with nothing good to show for it. This day was supposed to be a monument to love, and he feels like he’s let you down.

He’s embarrassed and red-faced as he opens the door to greet you. The mouth-watering neckline of your dress is a cruel poke at his own shabby appearance.

“Frankie,” you drawl, drinking in the sight of his mused curls and the swell of his cotton shirt pulled taut over the muscles in his shoulders. “Don’t you look handsome.”

“Hey sweetheart,” he dips his head in a bashful acknowledgement, opening the door wider to welcome you inside.

You press a chaste kiss to his cheek as you pass by, handing off a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a sappy Valentine’s Day card with big cursive letters on the front.

“Couldn’t show up empty handed,” you mention as the corners of his mouth curl into a grin.

He follows instinctively as you move through the house, guided by the trail of decorations leading into the living room. You stop to admire the bouquet displayed proudly on the coffee table, running your fingers lightly over soft, red petals.

“Oh Frankie,” you gasp. “It’s beautiful.”

He nervously scratches at the scruff on his cheeks as he plants himself beside you. “I had so much planned but everything went wrong,” he confesses. “I tried to look nice and I was gonna make dinner and-”

“It’s perfect, Frankie.”

You cut him off with a kiss before his self-deprecating rambling can continue. “This is all I need for Valentine’s Day – just you.”

He melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist, humming a pleased sound against your lips. “You’re worth more.”

You pull back just enough to speak, chiding him as he follows your lips with his. “Knowing that you went through the effort is enough.”

His chest is warm under your hands as you smooth your palms down the front of his shirt. “Besides, I think you need to be rewarded for all your hard work.”

His subdued energy is quickly replaced with a reinvigorated interest. He tightens his hold on your hips, raising a brow in question. “Yeah? What’d you have in mind?”

“Since you planned dinner,” you begin, fingers tracing over the row of pearly buttons lining his shirt. “Why don’t I take care of dessert?”

You motion towards the couch and Frankie scrambles to follow your direction. He settles back against the cushions with your gifts placed neatly beside him, thighs spread eagerly as his cock begins to swell against the confines of his boxers.

With slow, teasing movements, you climb into his lap, thighs fitting snugly around his waist as you balance above him.

Frankie’s hands slowly wander up to your hips, bunching the hem of your dress in his fist as he inches his attention higher. When you tug on the waistband of his pants, he stops you with a hand placed over yours.

“Not yet.”

You pause to watch as he reaches beside him and grab the novelty chocolates you’d brought. He brings the heart-shaped box to his mouth, tearing into the plastic with his teeth and unwrapping the sweet treats.

The lid to the box is discarded somewhere to the side as he settles the box in your lap and pulls out a rounded, cream-filled chocolate and places it against your lips. When you open your mouth to accept his offering, Frankie’s fingers linger on your tongue, the taste of his skin salty against the taste of sweetness.

“Good?” he asks, dragging his fingers over your tongue before selecting a piece for himself and tossing it into his mouth.

Half the box is finished in a haze of shared kisses and the rich, fruity flavor of storebought chocolate. When you’ve finally had your fill, Frankie leans forward to deposit the rest on the coffee table, arm slung around your waist to keep you close to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” he grins, dropping back against the couch.

The movement jostles you in his lap, pressing your core against his hardened cock; a glimpse of exposed skin peaks from beneath the hem of his shirt, providing the perfect chance to remind him of your earlier promises.

“Need to feel you.” Your fingers curl around the button on his slacks and Frankie is quick to agree.

He expertly pulls himself free and runs a hand up the up the underside of his length, slowly dragging his thumb over the head. “You want my cock?” he asks, thighs tensing subtly underneath you as a warmth spreads through your chest.

“Raise your pretty dress up, touch yourself for me.”

You gather a handful of material at your waist while Frankie lazily strokes his cock, watching intently as you slide your underwear to the side and press a finger to your clit.

“S’that feel good?” He speeds up his pace to match the messy tempo of your pleasure, finding his own motivation in the way your thighs hug his hips.

“Frankie,” you cry, chest heaving with the effort of keeping yourself upright. “Please fuck me.”

He swears under his breath and fights the temptation to lay you down and give you what you’re asking for.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he pants. “Need you to come first.”

Your mouth twists into a disconcerted frown, but your fingers persist, spreading a sheen of glossy slick over the apex of your thighs. You’re both chasing that same feeling, both hurtling towards the same end. Frankie’s free hand closes over yours on your hip like he’s anchoring you in place, urging you closer to your climax.

“C’mon sweetheart. M’so close.”

The pressure building in your gut finally reaches its peak, sending you into Frankie’s chest as you sputter through your release. Frankie follows with a breathless noise as he tips over the edge, spilling pearly rivulets of spend over his tight fist.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, or maybe that’s Frankie’s pulse thundering over yours. His grip on your hand loosens and he cups the back of your neck, bringing your mouth to his in a hungry, determined kiss.

“Give me five minutes,” he pants against your lips, tasting of chocolate and heady desire. “And I’ll give you anything you want.”

[applejuicebegood]

All My Love - Platonic!Gaz x Teammate!Reader

Fem!Reader

Summary: Stressing over the cooking for that evening and bad memories, Y/N finds Gaz who talks them through what their feeling. A/N: Wrote this for the very sweet @midnights-song and @kaoyamamegami for their very kind words on my last fic. This one is a sorta fallow up, please enjoy! Masterlist

Cw: Descriptions of absent + alcoholic mother, mentions of PTSD-related flashbacks, elder-child syndrome Word Count: 1960

The smell of cedar smoak and garlic clung to your hands and hair. A dull ache snaked its way up the back of your knees and into your thighs. Wringing your hands with a damp tea-towel you looked over your kitchen, the results of your labour tucked away in the humming oven and boiling on the stove top. Flour and spices swirled together across every vacant surface, oil-stained pots and bowls crowded your skink, and potato skins and egg shells were crowded in a pile across from the filled compost bin you were meaning to take outside to feed to your chickens. You puffed out a long breath, resting your wrists on your hips. You had finally finished all of the cooking for tonight's supper for your teammates. 

Your experience with cooking has been relegated to that of your small family. The distant memories of your aunts and grandmothers crowded in the same kitchen where you stood now, knives and peelers making quick work of the harvested meat and potatoes your farm had cultivated. It was the only thing you recalled as you struggled to discern the cramped handwriting of the recipes left behind by your family. Their jovial laughing and quick gaelic speak now distant memories carved into the cabinets and countertops. Smeared on the vintage china and cast iron skillets hung on the oak walls. If you stayed still and concentrated enough you could remember the feeling of your grandmother's rough palm on your supple cheek and her lips on your forehead. The smell of milk and wheat wafting through your senses. 

You were much younger then. Your fingers easily slipping onto the knife's blade and your wrists burned from boiling pasta water. You needed to use your baby sister's step stool to stand over the cutting board properly. Your mother was too busy passed out on the couch with a bottle of whiskey slipping from her limp grasp to worry about feeding her children. You were the eldest, therefore it became your job to try and emulate the effortless dance you watched your female relatives perform every holiday season or family reunion. 

Now you were quicker, easily controlling the tools in your scarred, tattooed hands. Your time in the military proved helpful in quickening your reaction speed, allowing you to cut through the squash and potatoes faster than before. You had begun the cooking process that morning, refusing the offered help from your teammates. Insisting that guests shouldn’t be expected to cook and that you could handle it. And you could, although it resulted in the ache in your thighs spreading into your lower back, causing a hushed groan to escape from your throat as you tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You quickly turned at the harsh thumping of boots on the creaking wooden stairs. Drawn out of your spiralling stupor. 

‘Holy.. smells fucking amazing in here lass..’ ‘Language! Johny!’ You say through clenched teeth, motioning to the living room couch where your baby sister was supposed to be sitting next to your captain. The volume of the football game on the TV turned down. Johnny winced in apology, hushing his booming voice to a whisper. ‘Sorry.. Sorry, here you go sit.. I’ll clean’ 

Johnny says after looking you over and taking the towel from your hands. Your team had gotten good at noticing when exhaustion or strain worked its way into each other's bodies. Your hunched shoulders and wide eyes giving away your building stress. ‘Oh Johnny no.. you don’t have too-’ ‘Yea.. yea, Go sit lassie.. After mak’in all this food I’m surprised you're still standing’ Johnny says ushering you to the living room before patting your shoulder and turning to find a starting point in the stack of dishes. 

You sigh. The instinct of obeying your higher ranking sergeant hadn’t seemed to wear off yet. Walking to the couch you expected to have your little sister squeal and jump into your arms. Only to find her little body curled against your captain’s side. Her hands bunched up under her chin, the delicate skin of her eyelids shut. Price’s head rested on the back of the couch with his arms stretched out over the cushions, his mouth slightly agape. You quietly leaned down to brush your sister's forehead, as if in response she snuggled her cheek against Price’s side at your touch, not wanting to be woken up just yet. Price twitched in his sleep, pulling Emi closer against him. You kissed the side of her head, pulling the knitted blanket up over her shoulders and across your captain's lap. The warm prick of relief spread across your skin at the realization that your baby sister had grown comfortable enough to fall asleep in the circle of your captain's embrace. Hoping that she had found someone other than you to admire and emulate.  

You made your way to the back porch, pulling on a leather overcoat to protect your warmth from the bite of the winter air. As you swung the glass door open, the brush of cold against your warm cheeks soothed you, your breath clouding up in front of you. You looked out onto the backyard of your farm, a few metres of blanketed gardening space trailing out to the fenced off cliff side. The clothesline pole used in the warmer months stood to the right, the cable attached to the house swinging in the swirling wind. The fence built to keep your cows and sheep and your sisters from roaming too close to the cliff edge poked out from the dull white snow. Past the drop of land, you could see the storm-grey waves churning and thrashing against each other like fighting children. Stretching further into the distance. You slowed your breathing and shut your eyes, trying to test if you could hear the water slap against the cliff side. When you were little, you would climb through the wire fencing and peer over the cliff's edge, never realizing how if you took only a few more steps death would embrace you like the waves embraced the fistfulls of grass and pebbles you would toss over the edge. Sometimes you wished you could return to that state of not even being afraid of falling from a cliff face. 

‘Hey.. Y/N?’ ‘Oh! Kyle.. shit you scared me!’ 

The jolt of surprise at Gaz’s voice ran up your spine and over your chest. In your daze, you didn’t realize Gaz settled on the porch's couch, a book from the living room shelf open in his lap. The deck held a few mismatched outdoor chairs and a couch, crowded with old throw pillows and spear blankets. Small metal lanterns hung overhead, painted and decorated by your sisters when they were both in primary school. The dwindling candle light gently swayed over Gaz’s smooth brown skin, a warm break from the multitude of grey stretching out before you. 

‘Heh sorry, here.. Sit. You look like you need a break’ Your boots scuffed against the deck floor as you settled yourself by Kyle. You tucked your legs up underneath you with a groan. The pain settling in your legs. You were still fixated on the blurred horizon line stretching beyond the haze of clouds that were beginning to roll in from the town harbour. Gaz’s presence beside you blurring like the apparent ending of the surrounding oceans. ‘Hey.. you alright?’ Gaz asked with the snap of his book shutting. ‘Yeah.. yeah of course.. Just, just thinking about.. Ya know, I mean… I-I just want things to be good for you guys’ You say, looking up at him. Folding your arms over your chest. ‘What.. What do you mean? Y/N.. things have been perfect, I honestly don’t know what else you could do to make this trip more enjoyable’ ‘I know.. I mean- I think, I don’t know Gaz.. I just worry that.. that this isn’t.. Ugh! I don’t even know what i’m saying’ You chuckle, gripping your head as you run a hand through your hair. Glancing at Gaz you notice him scratching the jagged scar on his forearm. 

It was during a mission in your last deployment that an enemy soldier split his skin open with a combat knife. Your stitches were frantic and clumsy, being that you were in the back of a moving helicopter for the evac and you had to watch the consciousness drain out of your friend's face. You noticed how as the cut started to heal Gaz would scratch at the scar absently, something that annoyed you being that it would remind you that the split wouldn't be so gnarled had you been able to keep your shaking hands steady.  ‘You really have no clue how to stop worrying..’

His tone was sad, grey like the ocean waters.

‘Worrying ‘bout you lot is my job.. It’s not something I can just.. Turn off’ You were frustrated, picking at the loose threads of the embroidered pattern lacing around your skirt. ‘I get that. I had that during my first break home, not being able to remember how to.. Ya know.. Be normal. To be a person and not a soldier. God, it would drive Ma mad, how I could only get up at five in the morning and.. Ya know.. The flashbacks’ You watched him as he talked, his rich brown eyes cast down at his hands. ‘There really isn’t a proper way to “be normal”, not after what you've been through, what you’ve seen. But that's not something you have to figure out on your own.. I mean hell, most of us would be dead if you weren't on this team Y/N’ ‘Ha.. I know’ ‘Exactly, what I mean is.. You've got people around you who would do anything for you. And we are probably the only ones who know what it’s like to be stuck in trying to remember who you were before deployment. It’s something we’ve all experienced, so don’t you believe for a second you should go through it by yourself.’ Gaz leaned forward, placing his hand on your knee. You instinctively took his fingers into your own, his hands cold. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, gently nodding your head. Your smile tight, trying to hold back the growing dampness in the corners of your eyes. You squeezed his hand, running your thumb over his knuckle. He squeezed your fingers back, a silent language you shared when words were too daunting to put together. You always found it shocking how this kind of comfort felt like it was being directed at someone else. Like it was a puzzle piece ripped in half, it could still fit in the piece but it appeared foreign. You weren't used to it, and how easily it appeared to flow from Gaz. In his words and in his viable willingness to help you. The unusual sensation of being understood made it hard to express your gratitude for it, Gaz knew this. Which is why you both sat there, in a shared understanding only the both of you as colleagues and friends could have. ‘You smell great by the way’

His blunt comment caused a ripple of laughter to fall from your lips, a tear drifting down the bridge of your nose. ‘You dick..’ You scoffed, leaning your head onto his shoulder, tucking your arm under his. 

‘Do aingeal den sórt sin’

You mumble, directing your attention back to the grey horizon line. ‘What does that mean..?’ Gaz asks, following your gaze outwards. You respond with a simple sigh. The stress and aching dissipated for the moment, something you didn’t want to risk losing with your supposed inability to properly thank Gaz for his tenderness and care.

A/N: ‘Do aingeal den sórt sin’ translates to 'your such an angel' in Irish Gaelic