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oneforthemunny · 1 year ago

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surprise, surprise |eddie munson x reader|

prompt: eddie forgets your birthday. or maybe he doesn't.

my birthday is in a few days and i wanted to write a little birthday ficlet blurb :) no aus, just eddie.

contains: angst/fluff. birthday doom. kinda asshole eddie?? kinda asshole friends?? really fluffy sweet ending. language.

“So,” Heather leaned over, chin propped in her hands dramatically slumped over the counter. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Nothing,” You hummed, fingers flicking through the crinkled bills. “Why? You know something fun going on?”

“It’s your birthday.” Heather gawked playfully. “You’re not doing anything for your birthday?”

You rolled your eyes lightly, pushing the cash drawer closed. “No.” You shook your head, voice tight.

“Eddie isn’t taking you out?” Heather’s brows furrowed. “Or you’re not going home? Going out? Are you getting a cake?”

Your heart sank, a familiar burn rising in your chest. You didn’t speak about your birthday much, not much of an occasion for celebration to you, more of one that was dreadful. Another year closer to death, you’d grumble cynically. Still, when Eddie hadn’t even acknowledged it, when your friends had all blown you off for other plans, a new kind of ache formed in your chest. The sting of being forgotten, of being unimportant and discarded- on your birthday.

It left a bitter taste on your tongue, sardonic and painful when you spoke about your impending birthdate. “No,” You shook your head, chin ducked to your chest. You had never wanted a customer to come in so badly, save you from this painful conversation with your co-worker. “They’re all busy.”

“Oh.” Heather quipped, face falling at your tone.

“I mean, it’s my fault.” You added quickly- defensively. Why you were so defensive over the people who had discarded you so easily, you weren’t sure. “I should have planned something earlier, but… I dunno, I got busy and life got super hectic and it just slipped past me-”

“-No,” Heather shook her head, curls unmoving with the abundance of Aquanet she used, still. “That’s really shitty of them, all of them. It’s your birthday.”

You stayed silent, wiping the counter half heartedly, swallowing back the familiar burn in your throat that choked you. “I mean, if it was my girlfriend or my friend, I would be buggin’ about their birthday.” Heather shrugged.

“Yeah, me too.” You muttered. Bouts of memories pouring back into your mind. How you’d planned a party for Eddie, baked him some stupid cake from scratch that was in the Lord of the Rings. You’d gone to countless second hand stores trying to find the ancient recipe, and it took you a day to perfect. Now, he couldn’t even be bothered to take you out? Get you a cheap store bought cake?

“I’m sorry.” Heather muttered, a solemn, nearly guilty pout on her lips. “Well, you’re off tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I get off at three. What if we go out? We can go to the bar- oh, there’s this new band playing in Franklin. Tommy could drive us.” Heather, ever the bubbly optimist, grinned, eyes shining with pride. It was endearing, made your heart squeeze with an ache you weren’t quite sure how to describe.

“I’ll even get you a cupcake. A good one, from Nadia’s.” Heather added.

“You don’t have to do that.” You shook your head lightly. You and Heather were work friends, hung out on the rare occasion after work to bitch about work, about the other coworkers, the pain-in-the-ass customers of the day over glasses of Pinot. Selfishly, it felt nice to have someone excited for your birthday.

You hated that you wished it was Eddie, your own friends.

“What’s your flavor, hm? Chocolate?” Heather pressed, brushing you off cheerily.

“Don’t get me a cupcake. I’ll throw it up if we’re drinking. All the icing and liquor.” You snarled your nose playfully.

“Fine. I’m buying you a drink then.” Heather nodded. She paused, nails drumming on the counter too. “And, I mean, if you want Eddie to come too, of course he’s invited.” Her eyes cut to yours carefully. “I didn’t know if you wanted him to come.”

“I mean, I don’t know if he’d even be able to.” Your lips pursed, a cutting edge of annoyance in your tone. “He’s so busy.”

Heather cringed, shooting you an apologetic look. “Yeah, that… I’m sorry, that sucks.” She mumbled.

A stiff silence fell between the two of you over the whirr of the air conditioning blowing through the vents. “Since it’s so dead, why don’t you go early?” Heather suggested. “I can cover closing.”

“Heather, Mel will be pissed-”

“-Mel will be pissed if she has to pay both of us for standing around.” Heather gave you a pointed look. “And you came in before me. I got it.”

“Are you sure?” You hesitated. “I don’t care to stay in case there’s a rush-”

“-At seven?” Heather scoffed slightly. “Go. I’ve got it.”

“Thank you.” You smiled softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I’m on my way, ‘kay?” Heather chirped.

“See you then.” You waved, cringing at the sing-songy Happy birthday! Heather shouted at you.

You pulled open your cubby, gathering your purse, your umbrella. You wrote your time on the clipboard, the phone taunting you on the hook next to it. Any other day, you’d call Eddie- call home or the shop, wherever he was, just to let him know you’d be home early. He’d always reply with a silly comment that had your cheeks rushing with heat, warmth swelling in your chest.

Tonight, you decided against it. He was too busy, anyway. Too busy at the shop, with his friends, at band practice. You tried not to dwell on it, let your mind spiral and spin down a damning dark hole of what ifs. It consumed you anyways, on your drive home, the radio playing on a static filled station that you didn’t bother to change. Background noise drowned out by your own hammering heart.

Eddie’s van was parked in the gravel of his driveway, leaving just enough space for you to slide in under the covering attached to the trailer. He always let you have that spot, closer to the door, protected from the elements- so considerate.

It was hard to fathom that it was the same boy who had forgotten your birthday, brushed it off like it was just another day.

Your throat tightened around the ever growing lump, hands tight from the white knuckled grip you had on the wheel when you turned the keys out of the ignition. The stairs squeaked under your weight, the screen door hissing with the familiar soft screech when you pulled it open.

“No- Henderson, what the fuck is the matter with you?” Eddie huffed, his voice trailing in from the living room.

You paused, hand catching the door as it fell, quieting it as it latched. The air was thick, warm with a sticky, sweet smell. Music playing in a low hum from Eddie’s beloved boom box he kept in the living room.

“You said to hang it!” Dustin’s shrill tone cut through the air.

“Yeah, hang it high- Jesus Christ, I shoulda just waited until Robin got off.” Eddie was hidden by the wall, but you could practically see him pinching his nose, hand running over his curly bangs. “Can you- Can you go see if we can ice the cake yet?”

“Yeah, what do I do?” Dustin questioned, a silence falling between the two of them. Your lips curled, swallowing a giggle. “What? I’m not a master chef or something. You act like I should know this. There wasn’t a cake making class-”

“-There was, you moron. Home Ec, which clearly, you failed.” Eddie huffed in annoyance. You froze at his heavy footsteps, voice carrying closer and closer.“Whatever, can you- just make it look nice in here? Put the rest of the streamers up and- shit!” Eddie flinched, jumping at the sight of you in the doorway. Wide eyed and still, like you’d been caught.

“Baby,” Eddie’s breath startled. “Hey, uh, what are you- you said you didn’t get- you’re home already?” His voice lifted, carried high in a squeak of surprise.

“Yeah, I got off early. I thought you were working late.” Your brows furrowed at the tear of plastic, leaning to look around the corner. “What are you doing-”

“-Don’t look in there.” Eddie snapped, his hand falling on the doorframe, arm blocking your vision. You jumped, glaring at him with annoyance. “I thought you closed tonight?”

“I thought you closed tonight.” You huffed, arms crossing over your chest. “Clearly that’s not true. What is this? Another campaign night?” You rolled your eyes, body burning with irritation, jaw wound tight with it.

“What? N-No, I-I thought you wouldn’t be home until later, and I’d have more time-” Eddie rambled, side stepping to block your view behind him.

“-Ed, I don’t care if that’s what it is.” Your shoulders deflated, a wave of painful exhaustion, disappointment falling over you. “I just wish you would’ve let me know before you invite all these people over to play your game, so I could-” A shimmering glimmer of multicolored sequins caught your eyes, shining in the yellowed light of the kitchen, iridescent hued droplets cast over the cabinets. There, draped over the chair in bright, glittering letters, a small sash that read Happy Birthday! in obnoxiously big letters.

You paused, eyes scanning towards the cake, cooling on the rack next to the mixing bowl of icing, the icing spatula still in it. Paper mache streamers taped to the ceiling, hung in swooping bouts mixed with the shiny streamers and balloons all the way to the living room. Eddie had brought out the folding table from the crawl space, even put a plastic tablecloth from the store over it to hide the yellowing stains that would never fade.

Dustin’s eyes met yours, wide and darting between you and Eddie, still holding the roll of streamers he’d yet to hang. “Uh, Happy Birthday?” Dustin shrugged.

Eddie huffed, shaking his head at him. “Fuck, I-I’m sorry, it was supposed to be a surprise.” Eddie’s foot bounced with anxious adrenaline. “I thought you didn’t get off until eight, and-and I had it all planned, sweetheart, I really did. Steve’s getting the pizza, and everyone’s coming over at seven thirty-ish, and I- I was even going to have them park at Wayne’s in the back so you wouldn’t see.”

Your chest felt deflated, void of any air, words, anything. Eddie chewed on his lip, hands twitching next to his jeans. “It was going to be this whole thing, fuck!” He huffed. “It was going to be a whole big thing, and…”

Eddie’s heart leapt when your eyes finally met his. His fingers still drummed against the rough material of his jeans, veins filled with icy excitement, fear, anticipation? He wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry.” Eddie whispered, stepping to hover over you, voice dropping to a soft coo, hands sliding over your cheeks. “I’m- I wanted it to be a surprise.”

You swallowed thickly. Eddie’s touch was soft, but it left you with a tingling burn when his thumb delicately traced your cheek bone. “You- This is for me?” You squeaked.

Eddie’s lips curled in a half smile, brows creasing. “Well, yeah.” He said playfully. “Who else would it be for?”

Your brain was deafeningly silent, stunned at every new detail you’d discover. “You said you were busy.” Was all you could muster out, blinking up at Eddie. “You said you had to work late.”

“I might have fibbed a little.” Eddie tilted his head sillily. “Told a little lie so I could get this set up.” He nodded towards the living room, a balloon floating near the doorway.

“I just really wanted to surprise you.” Eddie’s shoulders fell. “I was trying to outdo you. Tryna out do what you did for mine. I called all your friends- even Alexandra,” You rolled your eyes at the mention, she was Eddie’s least favorite friend of yours.

“And I… I just wanted to surprise you.” Eddie blinked down at you. “Just wanted your day to be special.”

Your day, the phrase wrapped around you, swirled through your veins like a warm hug, squeezing your heart.

“I’m sorry, it… I didn’t think about work.” Eddie shook his head, running a hand over his forehead. “I didn’t even think about it, and I-”

“-Eddie,” Your voice caught in your throat.

Eddie tensed, cringing with expectant dread. He’d ruined it, blew it, the tears were coming and they were deserved. You’d done so well on his, surprised the hell out of him with the cake, decorated for his birthday campaign with lanterns and candles you’d thrifted. Gone all out for him, and he couldn’t even pull off a simple surprise party.

“I’m sorry.” Eddie whispered, head pressing to yours. His eyes cut around the room, making sure a certain Henderson pest was lurking.

“Sorry?” You repeated. “Eddie, I-I am surprised.” You choked out, looking around the room with gleaming eyes.

Eddie paused. “You are?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I thought you’d forgotten.” You admitted. “I thought everyone had forgotten.”

Eddie’s brows pinched in a confused scowl. “You thought I’d forget?” He muttered.

A watery laugh fell from your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah.” You admitted. “You were really convincing.”

Eddie’s chest boasted playfully. “Oscar worthy?”

“You’d sweep the competition.” You jested back, arms sliding over his forearms. His hands found home on the small of your waist, pulling you into him.

“I didn’t forget your birthday.” Eddie said softly. “Just… for the record.”

“I can see that.” You giggled. “Thank you. It’s-It’s really sweet.”

“Yeah? I’m glad you like it.” Eddie’s hands rubbed down your spine. “It would look better but… Robin and Nancy didn’t get off until later, and it’s just me and Henderson.”

“It looks great. Perfect.” Your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His nice shirt, Eddie always called it. Broke it out for special occasions.

“Not perfect. Fucked up the main part.” Eddie grumbled. “I can call everyone, let them know that they can park out front since there’s no surprise anymore.”

“No, don’t do that.” You shook your head lightly, chin propping against his chest to look up at him. “I’ll leave and come back, and you can still do it. I can pretend to be surprised.”

Eddie’s lips curled, pulling back to look down at you. “You’re gonna pretend?” He tilted his head.

“My turn to act.” You teased, brow lifting gently. “Give you some competition.” You poked his tummy playfully.

Eddie grinned, pulling you back into him, lips sliding over yours in a soft kiss you savored. Melting into each other, fusing into a gooey puddle- it was corny, a cliche. One you’d roll your eyes at if it was anyone else.

“Happy birthday.” Eddie muttered, lips brushing and tickling your own.

“Thank you.” You whispered back, hands finding the base of his neck, pushing him back into you. Eddie’s hand fell against the wooden door frame, steadying himself in a rapidly heating makeout.

“Uh,” Dustin’s voice interrupted the two of you, just as Eddie’s hands were sliding under your work blouse. “Yeah, I-I finished with the streamers.”

Eddie glared at him, jaw ticking in annoyance when you pulled away. “I’m just going to grab my makeup bag, and I’ll go.” You whispered, cheeks flooding with heat.

Eddie huffed, rolling his eyes at Dustin when you left. “What? What did I do?” Dustin threw his hands out.

“Such a fuckin’ cock block, Henderson.” Eddie muttered, stomping into the kitchen. “Put the plates and shit out, will ya?”

Your performance was Oscar worthy, Eddie decided later, when you stepped through the door of the now darkened trailer, gasping when the lights flickered on and everyone jumped out. You looked positively radiant, glowing with excitement at the small crowd of friends crammed into the doorway. Eddie kissed you, sloppier than he should have, especially in front of everyone, but he didn’t care. Overwhelmed with affection for you.

He couldn’t tell if you were still pretending when he brought out the cake, the room singing in a harmonious tone to you, candles lit and glowing in the dim light. Eddie didn’t miss the way your eyes sparkled, fingers pressed to your lips at the now iced cake. When your fingers curled under his chin, sharing a fork-full of cake with him, kissing him after so quickly it left his head spinning.

His birthday girl, it was your day. Eddie never thought he’d love a random day as much as he did. He had no idea how important that day would become when he’d first met you, how it would engrave itself in his mind forever.

He was glad it did. Looking at you, giggling with your friends on the couch, then again, the next night, singing with Heather at the crowded bar- Eddie’s chest heart swelled. Proud that he’d surprised you, hopeful that he’d get to for the rest of his life.

Next year, he’d do it right. Really pull off the party you deserved. He’d start saving now, planning too. He decided it that night, tucked between the sheets, your head still on his sweat soaked chest. He could still taste you on his tongue, lips numb from the time he’d spent between your legs. Lashes fluttering in sleep, curled into him, Eddie pulled you closer. He’d get it right next year, you deserved it.

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itertarot · 3 months ago

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TAROT | YOU

Which foods you should try/cook:

Pick an image:

Pile 1:

Homemade bread.

Homemade pasta.

Try a food from another country.

Try a blue drink.

Try a recipe your mother or grandma used to do.

Try to do a very warm and lovely soup.

Try new recipes with chocolate.

Try a dish that feels wrong, like in Sao Paula they make hot dogs with mashed potatoes, which is a crime to me, but it makes an amazing recipe for them, try something different.

Try new tea flavors.

Be creative.

Try spice recipes.

Try Hispanic recipes.

Try seafood.

Pile 2:

Try a random food generator.

Try a seasonal food.

Try a cheap or on a budget food.

Try a pasta recipe.

Try churros.

Try foods that need to go to the oven.

Try a childhood recipe.

Try a strict recipe following step by step.

Pile 3:

Try a meal that takes HOURS to me prepared.

Try octopus.

Try an unusual seafood.

Try something you have been delaying for a long time.

Try a homemade recipe.

Try a very different homemade bread.

Try making a recipe from scratches, like doing a Fried pastry from 0.

Try a food from your childhood that takes a lot of patience and time to be made.

Try doing again a food that makes you used to love but don't eat it anymore.

Pile 4:

Try cooking a food you believe you're not capable of.

Try a very different, surprising food.

Don't follow a recipe, cook as you feel, put the ingredients you want.

Try a very highly recommended food, or a 5 star restaurant food.

Follow step by step a new recipe from a very well-known chief.

Try cooking with other people, or enter a cooking challenge with other people online.

Try a food from another culture.

Try a food from somewhere you crave to travel to.

Try a food that is "tall", like a cake, potato tower, norwegian cake and so on.

#tarot readings #cartomancy #divination #free tarot #tarot reader #tarot reading #tarotcommunity #tarot cards #tarot deck #tarot spread #pick a pile #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a card #tarot #free readings

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yiiyiiwrites · 10 months ago

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Baking with their mates

I’ve been baking a birthday cake today 😌 and just had this in my head. [Acotar masterlist]

The guys baking:

Azriel:

He’s baked with you a few times, but it’s the decorating where he feels the most confident. His shadows steadying his movements as he adds fancy piped icing to the buttercream exterior.

You like admiring his concentrated gaze and how the silence wraps around you. Sometimes he even hums to himself when he’s really focussed.

You can tell from Azriel’s face that he doesn’t want to cut the cake and eat it after. But the pesky dark wisps smudge the edge, so he sighs and cuts you both a slice to eat. Azriel asking bakers on perfect buttercream mix and the different size piping nozzles.

Cassian:

Chaotic mess, but you’re just the same. You enjoy the shared activity, the light brushes as you squeeze past each other to do certain parts like you’ve got a good routine/production line going between the two of you.

It’s not till you’re waiting for it to bake do you realise the mess you’ve left behind. It’s like a battlefield and you both try to get out of it by rock,paper, scissors but you end picking the same thing and end up cleaning up together.

Cassian always tries whatever you bake straight from the oven, even when you warn him not to. Has roped you into making a chocolate cake after seeing Bruce eat an entire one in Matilda.

Eris Vanserra:

Pastries are your favourite thing to bake and Eris hovers around the kitchen testing your latest experiments. He even asks you teach him taking full advantage of getting your help or opinion. Praise.

He likes when you hold his hands and guide them on how to present the pastry. Smirk on his face as you fall for it every time as you know he’s a bit of perfectionist.

Makes sure you taste it first, his elbows on the counter and leaning forward to catch your expression. Learns how to make churros after you try them at the autumn equinox celebrations.

Lucien Vanserra:

You don’t know why you even said yes to letting Lucien in your kitchen. You both started off using boxed recipes and just adding an egg, now you’re trying to make it from scratch.

You can’t help but get distracted, his sleeves rolled up his muscular arms and the way his finger swipes off a splash of cake mix from your chin.

You end up burning the cake as you were oh so distracted by other things.

Definitely would be making pot brownies randomly when you can’t sleep. Making cookies and adding everything else instead of chocolate chips.

Rhys:

After a long time of Rhys asking to bake with you, you give in and wished you didn’t. Because he’s even better than you at it!!

You should have known though, he seems to pick up things pretty quickly and teases you when you accidentally put the mixer on the highest setting and splatter cake batter everywhere. His confidence and ability to do everything makes you feel butterflies and you’re a ditsy mess as you try to ramble off instructions.

Asks you when you’re opening your own bakery and reeling off business ideas.

Tamlin:

After you asked Tamlin to bake with you, he started researching edible flowers and brought them with him, recipe book in hand for you two to try making them.

The first batch goes horrible wrong, that you end up making something simple. Tamlin goes home and bakes them again multiple times till he perfects them.

He returns a week later, offers you some beautiful cakes decorated with flowers and flavoured with them. Gives you a recipe he amended that makes the best cakes.

#Azriel #cassian #Eris Vanserra #Lucien Vanserra #rhysand #tamlin #acotar #acotar x you #acotar headcanons #acotar fanfic #acotar fluff #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #eris vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x reader #tamlin x reader #acotar fic #rhysand x reader #eris x reader

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fullcravings · 9 months ago

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Best Chocolate Cake Recipe From Scratch

#homemade #chocolate #cake #food #dessert #baking #frosting #kids #birthday #recipe #buttercream #joyfoodsunshine

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veala2 · 2 years ago

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“ꜰᴜᴍʙʟᴇᴅ.”

fluff prompt: “I wanted to say “I love you” for the first time without stuttering, but that failed.”

SYNOPSIS - The love cook is diagnosed with a heavy heart and irritable face- redness syndrome. Safe to say: the boy’s in love. Now he just needs to confess to be cured! If only it was that simple…

CW - Cheesy, corny fluff that’s good for the soul, gn!reader, Sanji having chronic nose bleeds, Zoro shows up and spoils the show, and Chopper shows up to save the day!

A/N - Ahhhh I’m so glad I managed to finish this tonight. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

Increased heart rate for periods of time.

Blood heavily rushed to the face for long periods of time.

Blood heavily rushing from nostrils for extreme periods of time.

When Chopper caught Sanji (once again) earning his title as “Mr. Nosebleed'' so affectionately given by Zoro, he first diagnosed him with the classic ‘No more pervertedness!’ and expected it to work. But in a week's time, Sanji was once again lying on Chopper's bed with his face in his hands and ears tipping off his hidden cherry face.

“We need to try something new, Sanji. It seems like Nami and Robin aren’t the causes of this. Tell me what you were doing when the nosebleeds started.”

The chef sighs, thinking carefully about the past few days.

“Well, I was making Lunch one time. Luffy walked in with Y/N, and when I asked them what they wanted to drink, I couldn’t get it out and felt the blood rushing to my face.”

Chopper quickly scribbles this down, scratching his chin at the evidence given.

“Can you give me another example?” He asked.

“Uhm… I was out giving drinks to Nami, Robin and Y/N when I just couldn’t help but feel the blood spill down my nose.”

It was then that Chopper could vaguely put the pieces together. In the stories, Y/N seemed to be a constant in both. Appearing when Sanji’s strange emotions rose. An idea formed in his head.

“Sanji, all of these instances have Y/N in common. Do you have feelings for them?”

The chef's eyes swiftly widened at the thought of his crewmate, making him stutter like a mad man.

“What? No! I don’t- I can’t say… okay, maybe I do. It won’t stop no matter how many times I try. At first I just assumed it was all of Nami, Robin and Y/N. But when it was just the two of us… I understood.”

Chopper almost felt pity for his chef. His defeated slump, his hands covering his face and his undoubtedly- but deniable- feelings for Y/N.

“Don’t worry, Sanji!” Chopper chirped, patting his blonde hair with his hooved paw, “I know your cure! You just have to tell them your feelings and you’ll start feeling better. It’ll get rid of the heavy feeling in your chest and you might stop bleeding!… as much.”

Sanji almost wanted to cry.

“But!-“

“No buts! You're taking up my medicine making time by pining too much. You must do this, Sanji! For the good of humanity and your nose!”

When the morning sky falls and night comes into view, Sanji expertly makes a fantastical feast. Anything to keep him off the task that Chopper assigned for him. He knew what he needed to do.

The day that he discovered he was crushing hard on you was some random afternoon. He was experimenting with some recipes and decided to ask for your opinion.

The bright smile you had while munching on his food, cheeks a slight red and overall joy made his heart skip a beat. It’s a moment he’s not going to forget any time soon. Like a photographer, he snapped a mental picture of your face and just refuses to let it slide.

So, when Sanji once again asked for your opinion on new recipes, he tried to compose himself through deep breaths and drinking herbal tea.

“Hey, Sanji! I practically drifted in from that smell. Lemme guess: banana chocolate cake with… espresso?” You smiled, leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter with him on the other side. Making him red from the closeness.

“Uh- yeah! y-yeah, I added some in for some extra flavour. Surprised you picked up on it.” He stammered, looking away to keep his composure.

You grabbed a plate of the cake, grabbing a fork and taking a bite. Sanji closes and opens his eyes, spinning towards you and looking determined. Making you look confused.

“Y/N, I need to tell you something!” He starts. You raise an eyebrow.

“What’s up?” You asked, giving him a gentle smile.

“Look, th-there’s been something I’ve been wanting off my chest.. for a while. And it’s not the easiest thing in the world. You see, I-“

Before Sanji could confess, his least favourite man in the entire world bursted through the door, causing the kitchen to shake as a result. That said man places a hand on his three swords, an angered expression on his face.

“Not the kitchen, dining room, library or your locker! Dumb cook, where did you hide all the booze!?”

His abruptive-ness makes you giggle, only adding to Sanji’s frustration.

“Beat it, moss head! I’m busy here!”

Zoro looks over towards you and Sanji, the gears in his head turning as he realises what’s happening between the both of you. Thanks to his closeness with the little doctor, he knew about this exchange. If he did, it would be a safe bet to assume a part of the ship would be wrecked.

“Oh, did you finally grow the balls to confess to Y/N? I’ll head out then.” He bails, pushing through the double doors and effectively sealing Sanji’s fate.

You sharply turn your head towards the love- sick cook. Eyebrows furrowing together and light pink dusting your face. An obviously embarrassed face. He feels like he’s going to explode from how embarrassed he was.

You… had a theory of his feelings for you. But it was never confirmed until now.

Well, watching a man gain a nosebleed by simply handing you a drink did make you wonder. How he would only ask you to try his new recipes, how he always turned a little pink while looking at you, how you could almost see smiles he would try to hide whenever you laughed or did anything. Cute, dumb, smart, it didn’t matter.

“Sanji… you like me? Is this why you’ve been so weird around me for weeks?” You asked, keenly focusing on his sweating form.

“Uh, yes! I like you! No, sorry, I-I love you! Dammit!”

The cook sighed, hiding his face in his hands, running his back against the cold kitchen wall and sliding down. After fumbling his confession, he couldn’t bring himself to bring himself up.

Crouching down, you sigh with a small smile and move his hands away. He tried to move his face away, but moved back towards you with your gentle hands on his face.

He wanted to scream and run away. Grumble and wallow in his own self pity. Wanting to turn back time to when he could be confident and charming, swooping you off your feet like a true prince. But instead he hides and wants to crawl into the ground.

“Hey… look at me…” You whisper, so softly and so kindly he thought it would hurt if he denied you. So he turned, eyes sad.

“I… I wanted to say “I love you” for the first time without stuttering… but that failed, so…”

Your heartstrings tug a little at his tiny voice. Not to mention his sad face is cute as hell.

“Sanji, it’s ok,” You start, standing him up on his own two feet and looking into his eyes.

“I thought it was perfect, no failures at all. And - for the record- I kind of knew you had feelings for me... And it’s reciprocated.”

It was almost like a light shone down from the heavens with that statement. His once glossy eyes now turn to pure joy. He smiled, an honest ear- to- ear smile.

“Really!?”

“Really really.”

In a love- stricken haze, he leans against the wall. Almost floating in the air with how light he feels. No more heavy blushing or profuse bleeding, no. Just pure euphoria with how his confession was received. After a couple seconds, he shoots back up, holding out his arms to hold both of your shoulders. A thought rushing through his mind while you give him a bewildered look.

“Wait, that means you’ll date me! Does that mean I’m your boyfriend now? Oo! Does that mean you’re my girlfriend?”

Oh man, were you gonna have fun messing around with him and loving him.

#one piece x reader #op x reader #one piece x you #sanji x reader #one piece headcanons #vinsmoke sanji x reader #blackleg sanji x reader #sanji headcanons #sanji being a DORK #and you all loving it ❤️

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squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame · 4 months ago

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A New Hobby

Character: Nam Gyu X fem!reader

Summary: You try to teach Nam-Gyu how to bake, but he keeps making a mess and eating the ingredients instead of following the recipe.

Warnings:none🦑🦑

You were determined to share one of your favorite hobbies with Nam-Gyu: baking. The two of you had spent countless evenings together in the kitchen, but this time, you’d decided to try something new—a homemade cake from scratch.

“Okay, let’s start simple,” you said, holding up the ingredients. “We need flour, sugar, butter, eggs… You think you can handle it?”

Nam-Gyu grinned mischievously. “Of course I can. How hard can it be?”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical but hopeful. “Famous last words…”

The first few minutes went smoothly, with him following your instructions to add the dry ingredients. But as soon as you turned your back to grab the eggs, you heard him snickering.

“You’re not supposed to eat the flour!” you exclaimed, turning around to see him with a spoonful of the powder in his mouth.

“It’s fine, I was just... testing it,” Nam-Gyu said, looking sheepish but still holding the spoon like a guilty child caught in the act. “Anyway, you said it’s the basic ingredient, so it must be good, right?”

You sighed, but couldn’t hide your smile. “That’s not how this works, but fine. Just… help me crack the eggs.”

You handed him the carton, and his eyes widened at the sight of the eggs. With too much enthusiasm, he tried to crack one against the edge of the bowl, but it slipped from his hand and landed on the floor with a squelch. Nam-Gyu winced and looked down at the mess. “Oops.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your composure. “Alright, alright. I guess I’ll clean that up—just please, no more cracking eggs with your hands.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Not my fault you have delicate eggs.”

Despite the chaos, you had to admit he was amusing to watch, his clumsiness only adding to the charm of the moment. As you began mixing the batter, you noticed that Nam-Gyu was sneaking more and more ingredients, particularly the chocolate chips you had set aside for decoration.

“Nam-Gyu!” You turned sharply, only to catch him mid-chew. “Those aren’t for you!”

He swallowed, grinning like a child who had just gotten away with something. “What? I was making sure they were fresh. You know, for the cake.”

You snorted in disbelief, shaking your head as you continued working. At least he was having fun, even if it wasn’t exactly the lesson you’d intended. After a while, the batter was finally ready—though it was a little more clumpy than you’d hoped, thanks to all the interruptions.

With the cake in the oven, you turned to him, watching as he leaned against the counter, licking chocolate from his fingers. “I have to admit, you’re not great at following instructions.”

“Hey, I’m getting better,” he said confidently, his mischievous grin returning. “I mean, look at how much I’ve improved”

You shot him a playful glare, but deep down, you loved the lighthearted energy he brought to everything. As the timer went off and you pulled the cake from the oven, you both looked at the result: slightly lopsided, with a few burns here and there—but somehow, it was perfect.

“Well, I think it still looks good,” Nam-Gyu said, grabbing a fork before you even had the chance to frost it. “I mean, you know, I’ve helped.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “We’ll call it a ‘Nam-Gyu Special,’ and next time, you’re definitely sticking to the recipe.”

He simply grinned. “I can’t promise that.”

And as you both sat down to enjoy your creation, messy as it was, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, baking together was a hobby you’d never give up—especially if it meant laughing through the chaos with Nam-Gyu by your side.

🦑🦑🦑

#squid game netflix #squid game 2 #squid game season 2 #squid game #squid game headcanons #squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #namgyu x you #namgyu headcanon #namgyu squid game #namgyu x reader #namgyu headcanons #nam gyu #player 124

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wonderful-emoji · 7 months ago

Note

recipes for the cakes (the ones that exist IRL)

you are asking me for cake recipes?

From an emoji blog?

Well consider yourself lucky I'm a good cook too so I know where to look, but let it be known I'm not doing this again

(and the disclaimer I haven't made these recipes myself so I can't verify their quality)

#google emoji kitchen #non emoji #baking #recipes #recipe #cake #food #moodboard request #do not ask for this again

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afewproblems · 2 years ago

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So it's my birthday today, and I originally wanted to try out the microfic challenge for this month's prompt - cake, but this drabble definitely got away from me! So, please enjoy this little Steddie bday gift to me and to everyone else in the fandom ❤️

🎂🎂🎂

Eddie wipes his cheek with the crook of his arm, as he pours the finished batter into the first greased cake pan on the counter. His shirt sleeve comes away from his face dusted with the same flour that covers almost every inch of the Harrington's kitchen.

Robin turns a page of the open cookbook on the counter, her eyes scan down the page, "the icing recipe is on this page, did you take the butter out?"

Eddie groans loudly and as he pours the rest of the batter into the second pan, knowing that the other block of butter is still sitting in the fridge on the top shelf.

"If you didn't remember, what makes you think I did," he grumbles, running his pointer finger along the edge of the now empty bowl before popping a large dollop of batter into his mouth.

It's perfect, and Steve deserves nothing but perfect.

Steve who confided in Robin that he hadn't had a birthday cake since he was twelve years old, let alone anything made from scratch.

Made with love.

Not that Steve needs to know that…or Robin for that matter.

Eddie hazards a quick glance at the clock on the stove, they should have time to give everything a wipe down before--

"Guys?" A voice calls out as the front door unlatches and swings open.

Robin whirls around in a panic, grabbing to recipe book and tossing it into the cupboard beneath the sink while Eddie picks up the mixing bowl and shoves the rest of the dirty dishes into the sink.

"Their shoes are still here," the voice continues, soft and contemplative this time as Eddie turns too quickly, colliding with Robins side.

He fumbles with the mostly clean mixing bowl in his hands, watching as it slips through his fingers and clatters loudly across the floor, flinging chocolate batter across the tile and baseboards before rolling to a stop beside a pair of socked feet.

Eddie looks up from the feet to see Steve standing in the kitchen entrance with a bewildered expression on his face.

He's in the middle of taking off his Family Video vest. Steve's shirt rises to reveal a slim patch of skin, his eyes shift from the bowl, to Eddie, before landing eventually on the oven.

"Well…it looks like you two had a busy afternoon," Steve says slowly as his mouth curls into a fond grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He pulls at the bottom of his shirt, stealing the hint of golden skin that has Eddie practically drooling in the kitchen.

God he's so unfairly pretty it hurts.

Eddie barks out a laugh and steps forward to block the view of the two pans on the counter.

"You know what they say about idle hands," Eddie laughs, his voice tinged with panic as he wiggles his fingers. He winces even as he says it and quickly drops his hands, god could he be any more of an ass?

He spots Robin standing to the side with clear panic on her face, mouthing the words, 'Get Him Outta Here' with wide eyes.

And, well, never let it be said that Eddie Munson couldn't think on the spot.

Steve tries to walk further into the kitchen as he drapes his vest on the island, "okay, you two are being more weird than normal what's--"

It's like Eddie moves on instinct, his hands dart out to cup Steve's cheek and the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

Steve's startled gasp is muffled by Eddie's mouth as he walks them backwards until Steve is over the threshold and back in the living room once more.

Steve is frozen, tense, against Eddie and shit, he can't believe he tried this shit, he's so getting punched for this.

But then, Steve seems to relax slightly as he crowds closer into Eddie's space. His lips part as Steve breathes out a low moan.

Two broad hands come up to circle Eddie's hips, they squeeze once as Steve slots a leg between Eddie's own.

And holy shit, Eddie feels his brain go offline as Steve takes charge of the kiss, walking them backwards until Eddie is pressed against the wall of the living room.

It's good, so good, it's like something out of his dreams, the hot slide of lips against his own as Steve nips at his bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth to sooth the bite with his tongue.

"Fuck," it's Eddie's turn to moan this time as Steve pulls back slightly to run his nose along the crest of Eddie's cheek. Steve's right hand is splayed beside his head, against the wall, while the other rises to thread long fingers into Eddie's curls.

"You taste like chocolate," Steve hums softly against Eddies lips, "good choice for birthday cake".

Eddie winces, surpressing a groan, "Shit, you saw the pans?"

Steve laughs as he pulls back further and lifts his hand away from the wall to gesture behind him at the foyer.

"I mean, I saw the birthday bag and decorations you two left at the door?"

"God Dammit!" Robin yells from the kitchen; Steve snorts at the string of muttered expletives she continues to spout and shakes his head.

"I wasn't expecting a birthday kiss though," Steve continues after a beat, a small crease in the middle of his brow grows the longer he looks at Eddie with nervous eyes.

Oh.

It's Eddie's turn to grin now, he snags a handful of hair to pull over his face, hiding the pink flush he can feel spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

"Oh yeah, I mean, that was just a sample, see if you, uh, liked it or not," Eddie says softly. He steps closer, emboldened by the way Steve's breath hitches.

"I did," Steve whispers, "like it, I mean, a lot," a light pink flush rises in his cheeks to match Eddie's own blush.

"Ugh, get a room dingus,preferably one not in hearing range," Robin yells again, the sound of the oven door opening and closing punctuates her words, "cake'll be at least half an hour anyway".

"Is the rest of gift upstairs?" Steve asks slyly with a grin.

Eddie's head tilts as he processes the question, until Steve cocks an eyebrow and his eyes dart towards the stairs, then back to Eddie in one fluid motion.

Eddie swallows harshly and nods vigorously as Steve takes his hand, "Yes, jesus, it's supposed to be your birthday not mine".

"Best one I've had in awhile," Steve says softly before leading Eddie up the stairs and towards his room.

Robin's voice trails after them, exasperated but fond, "you assholes owe me, happy birthday you horn-dog".

Eddie can't help but laugh as they cross the landing and open the door.

This wasn't the surprise he and Robin had initially intended; but as he watches Steve walk backwards until his knees hit the plaid bedspread, Eddie can't help but feel that this was much better than he'd planned.

Perfect even.

Permanent Tag List: @eriquin @luvinthefreaks @cinnamon-mushroomabomination

#afewproblems writes #birthday drabble #steddie #stranger things #an excuse to write about the kissing #birthday kisses #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #robin is 100 percent done with their shenanigans #steddie kisses

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rumbelleshowdown · 9 days ago

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⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Author: stella artois

Prompts: heart condition; room with a fireplace; wild eyed

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Something Sweet

It started with lemon scones. Belle, desperate for feedback other than praise from her dad, had rushed a batch freshly cooled over to Mr. Gold’s shop and begged him to try one. He’d agreed on the condition that Belle clean up any mess, which was the easiest yes considering she didn’t think Mr. Gold had ever created a crumb in his entire pristine life.

“Why is it flat?” he’d asked, breaking it in half and studying it.

Finally, someone who knew what they were talking about.

“I don’t know.”

He broke off a corner and placed it on his tongue, closing his mouth around it.

“Too much liquid,” he’d declared. “Did you measure your lemon juice?”

Belle flushed. “The recipe said it was about the juice of one lemon.”

The disappointed look Mr. Gold turned on her only fueled her. Next time, it would be better.

—

Next time was not better, and neither was the time after that. She brought him chocolate chip cookies that were crunchy on the bottoms and sides, doughy blueberry muffins, orange scones that he described as “one-note,” and a dry chocolate cake.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked after suffering through sandy shortbread, gazing at the offending treat, wounded. “Is this payback for something?”

She hadn’t told anyone why she was baking. Not her father, not Ruby, not random strangers on the internet.

“That’s my new price,” he said when she still didn’t answer. “And I don’t want this ‘I’m trying to improve.’ That’s a lie.”

Belle licked her lips, tired of throwing out bad batches and stuffing okay batches into her packed freezer. She wanted to get something right.

“I’m making a career change.”

His jaw pulsed, probably with the effort it took not to be rude. She appreciated that. Whatever was coming would not be intended to devastate her, and she knew it was because, secretly, Mr. Gold enjoyed that she stopped by every few days to force feed him baking disasters.

“Perhaps pastry school,” he said eventually. “You’re a smart woman. You like school.”

She did like school. She had spent the last two years taking business classes at the nearest community college in her limited free time between working at her dad’s flower shop and waitressing at Granny’s.

“I’m not going to be a baker,” she said.

Mr. Gold, always dramatic, made a show of wiping a hand across his brow. “That’s a relief.”

—

What she wasn’t telling anyone was that an old building she loved had gone up for sale two months ago. It was two storeys with a rickety spiral staircase, shelves built in to the walls, and a gorgeous brick fireplace.

It was Belle’s dream location for the bookstore cafe she’d been taking business classes to open, and it had gone on sale well before she was ready.

She’d wanted to buy it outright, but though every cent she made at Granny’s went into savings, she couldn’t even scratch the surface. But the bank had approved. They liked her business plan. They loved her record of paying bills on time and that she was desperate enough to accept a 15% interest rate.

So the building was hers, but all she had was a spiral staircase, a fireplace, and built-in shelves.

—

“Do you even like baking?” Mr. Gold asked, setting a gritty cheesecake down after one bite.

“I just don’t understand how this happened.” She’d thought the cheesecake, a no-bake recipe, would be a cinch. Was it fair to want to sell a cheesecake she hadn’t even put in an oven in her bookstore cafe? Who cared? She was desperate.

Mr. Gold, a braver man than she’d realized, scraped off another bite, and Belle could see him rolling it around on his tongue even though his lips were closed. No matter how badly she fucked up, Mr. Gold gave each and every item his careful attention.

“If you baked a cheesecake, the sugar would melt,” he said. “It wouldn’t be gritty. What is your career change?”

She couldn’t tell Mr. Gold about the bookstore. It had been over a month since she’d bought it, and she hadn’t made one single item that he liked.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Mr. Gold narrowed his eyes. She waited for him to press it, to tell her he knew she was lying. Instead, he pushed the plate away from him.

“This one is for the garbage.”

—

With more of her loan, she’d installed a bakery case, a counter, and coffee equipment. This was a fool’s errand. The building was bare, the spiral staircase needed a professional to reinforce it, and she didn’t know how to make espresso, but she didn’t even have nice carpets. What was the theme? Who would want to sit in such a tragic building and read while drinking burnt coffee and one-note scones?

—

So, yes, Belle was crying into a bowl of pumpkin bread batter into which she’d poured peppermint extract instead of vanilla. And yes, that was why she ignored the knocking.

Sue her. She didn’t want Ruby or her dad to know that she had tied all of her self-worth to baking something that didn’t suck.

But the knock was insistent, and after three minutes of wallowing, she had to stand up.

“Just a minute!”

After hiding the offending bowl in the microwave, she opened the door and nearly fell over.

“Mr. Gold!” She wished she’d taken a moment to wipe the flour off her face or splash water on her eyes. “Is everything okay?”

He looked, as always, ready for a photoshoot. Suit fitted, not a hair out of place, shoes shined, and here he was, stepping into Belle’s sugar-coated disaster apartment.

“I know,” he said.

Belle frowned. “You know what?”

“I know you bought the old millinery.”

Perhaps if she hadn’t just yesterday fed him eggy lemon bars, or if she hadn’t put peppermint in her pumpkin bread, or if she had bought just one rug for her bookstore, she might not have stumbled back to her couch where she could continue weeping without the effort of holding herself up.

Expecting Mr. Gold to avoid this situation like the plague, it only made her cry harder when she heard the door shut and then saw him looming over her. God, how embarrassing.

“Belle—”

“How do you know?” She couldn’t look at him.

“I know everything.”

Of course. She could keep a secret from everyone else in Storybrooke, but not Mr. Gold.

She cried for another minute while he stood before her like an uncomfortable statue, and then she sniffled and wiped her eyes.

“Do you want to sit?” She gestured to the couch.

He looked around her tiny living room, toward her tiny kitchen, and sat himself in a chair there, amidst a disaster of bowls and dirty spoons.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

She didn’t want to. She felt stupid enough for doing all this on barely more than a whim. Yes, she’d had a plan, and yes, this was her dream, but she’d barely finished her business classes. She wasn’t ready.

“I’ve been baking so much because I have a heart condition—” she began, but then stopped because the remainder of a lie didn’t come to her. Mr. Gold waited. She tried again. “My doctor said—”

“Are you opening a bakery?”

She swallowed. Shook her head. He settled.

“A bookstore?”

“How did you know?” she asked again, even though if Mr. Gold had read her mind, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

He shook his head, mouth tilted in a wry grin. “I know you. You’ve been preparing for this for years.”

Belle blinked, tears disappearing. How did he know that? Ruby didn’t even know why she was taking business classes.

He sighed, though she hadn’t said a word. “A man does not become like me without paying attention. You have asked me about running a business more times than I can count.”

Belle frowned. “I have?”

He crossed his hands over his cane. “I can’t help you if you aren’t honest.”

Her cheeks heated. Mr. Gold had come to her apartment to help her? He had gone out of his way, climbed a flight of stairs, and sat in her tiny kitchen that smelled like burnt sugar and mint, and it wasn’t just to talk her out of baking?

“Why do you want to help me?” she asked.

He licked his lips. “Perhaps I’ve grown tired of dry cake,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

—

With the story off her chest once and for all, Belle almost felt silly. Laid out before Mr. Gold like this, it didn’t seem like much at all. So she needed rugs, so what? She’d find rugs. She could make coffee. High schoolers worked in coffee shops all over the world, and she was thirty. She could learn.

The books, she’d taken care of. She was starting with just the bottom floor, which also meant she didn’t need to refinish the staircase yet.

Everything was going to be fine.

So why was Mr. Gold looking at her like she was wild-eyed and crazy, like she was about to lop his head off?

—

“Belle,” he said gently, again like she might attack. “Why not just buy from a bakery?”

Belle scowled. “No. This is supposed to be local.”

He heaved a sigh. “There are plenty of bakeries in Maine that most people would still consider local. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“No.” Why was she so stubborn? “No, I will find something you like.”

He stared at her. She stared back. She wasn’t crying anymore, and after getting it all out in the open, she felt so light, she didn’t think she’d cry no matter what he said.

“Fine.” He stood, studying her apartment, and her heart sank. He was leaving already?

“Thanks for listening,” she said to the floor, the weight settling back onto her chest. She swallowed, trying to push it down. It didn’t matter if Mr. Gold stayed or went.

“Show me today’s recipe.”

She looked up, and Mr. Gold was eyeing her kitchen now, all the dirty dishes and open bags of flour and sugar and cornstarch.

Without a word, she retrieved her bowl from the microwave, and he looked at it with interest until she presented it to him and he got a whiff of mint.

“Okay, first note. We read the bottles before we pour them into the bowl.”

Amusement bubbled up, and suddenly, instead of crying, all Belle could do was laugh. She covered her mouth, but it wasn’t quick enough to miss the way Mr. Gold’s lip wavered on the edge of a grin.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” She saluted, and he pursed his lips, but his eyes crinkled at the corners.

—

It turned out that there were things recipes expected the baker to know. For example, Belle didn’t consider that ovens could be wildly different, or that there was a right and wrong way to measure. She also did not know that flour had a variable moisture content.

Next on the docket was a custard tart. Due to the variable moisture content of flour, the amount of water needed in the crust was not exact, something she wouldn’t have known without Mr. Gold. Things were already looking up.

But when she pulled out two knives to cut the butter into the flour, he frowned.

“What are you doing? Use your fingers.”

All Belle did was stare blankly at him, so he sighed, and before she could wrap her head around what was happening, he’d unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. Belle flushed as if he’d stripped to his underwear.

“I thought I was clear, I am only instructing from a distance,” he said as he washed his hands.

“I didn’t ask you to get up.”

He narrowed his eyes, but soon he was at the bowl, deft fingers crumbling the butter and flour together.

“You see?”

She did see, but she couldn’t speak. She mumbled her agreement, and then she must have moved too fast to take his place, because instead of seamlessly transitioning the bowl, their fingers tangled together. Mr. Gold jumped, and they both ripped their hands out, flinging pea-sized butter-flour droplets around the kitchen.

Belle stared at Mr. Gold, and he stared back, and both of them were breathing with such effort, their shoulders moved.

“You have butter in your eyebrow,” Belle said.

“You have butter in your hair.”

Belle let out a snicker, then Mr. Gold did as well, and then they were both laughing. If anyone saw Mr. Gold in her dinky kitchen, thousand-dollar-suit covered in food, they would never pay him rent on time again.

“Here, let me.” She tried to clean a spot on her finger to wipe the butter off, but all she succeeded in doing was slicking his eyebrow down.

“How do you feed yourself?” Mr. Gold asked. He grabbed her wrist when she reached with her other hand, and they both stopped laughing.

“I’m an excellent cook.” She watched his eyes, and he watched hers. “That’s why baking is so frustrating.”

“Ah.”

He didn’t let go of her wrist. Watching him, she took a step closer and raised her other hand to his face. He didn’t grab her until she had already lain her fingers on his cheek.

“After this, I could make my specialty,” she said softly.

“What’s your specialty?”

This would leave a floury print on his cheek, but he didn’t pull away. She took a step closer, and then another until they were nearly nose-to-nose.

“Spaghetti and sauce from a jar,” she said. “But the secret is I grate the parmesan myself.”

He stared for a beat, then laughed. Belle grinned back, and then, because Mr. Gold had been listening to her for years and he’d gamely eaten everything she’d baked, and then he’d come over and rolled his sleeves up and let her fling butter onto him, she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him.

He kissed her back, and when his buttery hands found their way to her hair, hers found their way to his, and he didn’t seem to mind that this might ruin his suit.

“You know,” he kissed the corner of her mouth and then her bottom lip, “You’re not a bad baker. You’re just not a professional.”

“You’re only saying that because you want me to keep kissing you.”

His cheeks reddened, and Belle grinned.

“I do want that,” he said softly. “But I also want you to build your dream business. And you will.”

She nodded, tightening her grip on him. “I know.” She smiled. “Thanks to you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need me.”

Maybe she didn’t. She had gotten this far on her own, hadn’t she? Written up her business plan, gotten the loan, started work on the building? But then, what was all that if she had no one to share it with?

“I need you to stop distracting me so I can bake this tart,” she said, but when he disentangled himself, all she did was pull him in for another kiss.

#rumbelle showdown #rumbelle fic #author: stella artois #group: final #round 4

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my-my-my · 23 hours ago

Text

Summary: It's Ichigo's birthday and his adamant on baking his own cake. Much to the dismay of his partner Aizen Sosuke.

CW: Aizen/Adult!Ichigo, modern au, established relationship, horrible cakes, euphemisms, implied nsfw.

Word count: 1003

Author's note: fun idea that poked around about Aizen enjoying food play combined with @aitheria discussing Aiichi cake shenanigans. There isn't actual food play in it.

Dark chocolate icing coated Ichigo’s fingers as he struggled to crumb coat the cake infront of him. He followed Orihime’s recipe to a tee, but there was still something off.

Well, maybe he didn’t follow her instructions… he increased the heat of his oven to a higher temperature, thinking it would bake the cake faster, and he opted to make his own frosting, when Orihime suggested buying premade frosting, or even giving him some of her own.

Instead, Ichigo stubbornly refused, and wanted to make the entire cake from scratch… which proved more difficult than it was worth. He took a swipe at the frosting and licked his finger.

He spat out the frosting, “it’s too damn salty.” He grimaced and frowned at the cake, then glanced at the clock ahead… he only had 30 minutes before Sosuke would come home.

Ichigo pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration as he tried to come up with a plan. Today was his birthday, why was he making a cake? Because he insisted on trying his hand at making a cake. Orihime offered to make him one, Renji and Rukia offered to make him one, Yuzu and Karin offered to make him one, even Sosuke did, but instead…

He was faced with an incredibly salty chocolate cake that looked as bad as it tasted. The two-tier cake was lopsided, the icing looked like it was melting off the cake (Ichigo forgot to let the cake cool down), and the icing was horrendous.

“I think I have enough time to head to the store,” Ichigo grumbled, looking at his phone. Resigning himself into a slight defeat, Ichigo sprinted to buy icing.

“You gotta be kidding me.” Ichigo mumbled as he saw Sosuke’s shoes at the entryway.

The man always kept Ichigo on his toes and was full of surprises. He came home early. Ichigo trudged his way down to the kitchen to see Sosuke taste the cake.

“Spit it out! It tastes like shit.” Ichigo fumed. Embarrassed to see Sosuke eating the cake so neatly.

“Is this the recipe Orihime-san gave you?” Sosuke asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Yeah… kind of.” Ichigo grumbled, “ok, maybe I changed up some of the instructions.”

Sosuke smirked, amused at Ichigo getting flustered. “Why the change?”

“I didn’t think a cake needed that much time to make.” Ichigo’s cheeks grew red as he tried to explain himself, “Orihime makes it look easy ya know, and Renji’s been up my ass about my cooking skills.”

“So you thought you found a shortcut to baking a cake.” Sosuke continued, poking at the slice of cake he didn’t finish.

“It didn’t seem that hard!” Ichigo snapped, “and it’s not so bad.”

Sosuke chuckled, “then why don’t you have a slice for yourself?”

Ichigo felt that his face couldn’t get any redder, but he was adamant on proving Sosuke wrong. He cut himself a piece of cake and took a forkful of it. He winced at the immediate taste of salt and bitterness of the cocoa swirling in his mouth. He wanted to spit it out, but immediately swallowed it.

“See, it’s not bad.” Ichigo said through gritted teeth.

Sosuke gave an amused look as Ichigo began to take another piece, before grabbing his wrist.

“While it’s entertaining to watch you humiliate yourself like this, the cake isn’t worth consuming.” Forcing Ichigo to let go of his fork.

Sosuke got up and went to the fridge, taking out a simple, classic, chocolate cake adorned with white chocolate frosting and mixed berries.

“I knew you would be impatient with the cake, so I asked Orihime to teach me how to make one.” Sosuke explained, as Ichigo saw the neat “Happy birthday Ichigo!” written cleanly on the top.

“You made this?”

“Yes.” Sosuke continued, “she was originally going to make you a strawberry shortcake, but I suggested this idea instead.”

Ichigo hesitantly took a berry off the cake, seeing a light coating of sugar and thyme on them. Popping it into his mouth, Ichigo’s eyes widened at the taste.

“Judging by your reaction,” Sosuke chuckled, “it must taste good.”

Ichigo nodded, licking his lips for any remaining sugar.

“Why don’t I cut you a piece then?” Sosuke asked, already grabbing Ichigo’s plate and the cake knife. Ichigo could never get tired of watching Sosuke’s hands. His confidence just rolled off him in waves as he cut Ichigo a clean slice of cake, placing it delicately on to his plate.

“Wow, you even made a filling for it too.” Ichigo remarked, inspecting the layers of the cake. There was a berry compote, then a chocolate ganache with, as Ichigo scrapped a bit of the filling, hazelnut?

“I knew you didn’t follow her instructions,” Sosuke explained, “since you forgot to include the filling in your own cake.”

Ichigo scoffed, “I didn’t forget, I just…” he mumbled, “didn’t make enough of it.” Ichigo’s cheeks went red again as he avoided Sosuke’s eyes. He put another forkful of cake into his mouth, his eyes sparkling at the meld of flavours coming together.

He finished his plate off clean, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Thank you, Sosuke.” Ichigo beamed, “but I wish I saw you make this cake.” He laughed, “how many times did it take you?”

“Two, including this one.” Sosuke said, “and I must say, Orihime’s instructions are clear.” Giving Ichigo a pointed look.

Ichigo glared, “well if it’s so easy, maybe you should teach me then!”

Oh fuck Ichigo realizing what he just said, watching Sosuke’s smirk grow into a grin.

“If you insist.” Sosuke chuckled, “but I won’t take mistakes lightly.” He drawled, cupping Ichigo’s chin, watching the man glare as his cheeks reddened. Sosuke ran his thumb over Ichigo’s lips, before placing his own against his. The hint of chocolate and berries danced through as Ichigo gripped Sosuke’s shirt.

“Let us continue your lesson elsewhere,” Sosuke murmured, pulling Ichigo towards the bedroom. A sense of foreboding, but also excitement, filled his body.

First Aiichi drabble-esque thing! This was fun to experiment and challenge myself with 🫡

#aiichi #bleach #aizen sousuke #kurosaki ichigo #aizen sosuke #ichigo kurosaki #aizen x ichigo #ichigo x aizen #a writes #bleach fanfiction #bleach aizen #bleach ichigo

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avastrasposts · 1 year ago

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A Baker's Dozen - Twelve

A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.

Series Master List

The final Pedro boy is coming to the bakery. Twelve weeks, twelve Pedro Pascal characters and one very lucky baker girl!

Thank you all so much for your comments, reblogs and love for this slightly unusual series of short stories. I've loved writing them and I've loved reading all your comments on the chapters. The love you've shown these boys, especially some of the ones that don't always get that much attention (I'm looking at you Pero...) is heart warming and really makes me as mushy as Marcus's chocolate fondant.

So...I think you can guess who the twelfth and final boy is 🥰🥰🥰

Your Sunday morning rush is just dying down as you see Mrs Levinson come through the door. As you watch, she turns and waves someone into the shop, and you catch a glimpse of a tall man in a baseball cap and aviators, before your next customer steps up and you turn to greet them.

You glance over at Mrs Levinson at intervals, she’s chatting to the man while waiting her turn and he’s got his back to you. As you watch, he shrugs, making an apologetic gesture with his hands and starts walking towards the front door. You can’t help but giggle under your breath as Mrs Levinson’s frail old lady hand comes out at viper speed and grabs his arm, making him stop in his tracks. Even though he looks big enough to just shake her off with another shrug, he stops and turns back to her. She gives him a smug smile, and even from behind the counter, you can see the sigh that escapes him, his shoulders lifting and dropping as his hand comes up and scratches at the back of his neck.

You’re intrigued when it’s finally their turn, Mrs Levinson stepping up to the counter and giving you a delighted smile. The man with her follows just behind and glances up at you from under the peak of his cap. He looks uncomfortable to say the least, and you can see his fingers twitching by his side, nervously tapping his thigh.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mrs Levinson coos, her smile bright enough to rival the sun, mischief in her eyes, “I’m so glad we caught you in the shop today.”

“Hi, Mrs Levinson, what can I get you?” you smile back at her with slight apprehension, there is something decidedly unusual in her manner today. Plus, she was in yesterday for her weekly order, you didn’t expect to see her for at least another few days.

“Oh, I think it’s about what I can get you, my dear,” she twinkles, turning and ushering forward the man behind her, the neck visible above his gray t-shirt a deep shade of pink, “This is the boy I was telling you about, Mrs Morales’s son, Francisco.”

“Frankie”, the man says immediately, quickly pulling the aviators from his eyes and looking as if he’s just waiting for you to put him out of his misery at being coerced into this by an old lady about a third of his size.

“She works too much, Francisco,” Mrs Levinson says, “I thought maybe you could do something about that,” she smiles at Frankie, who briefly closes his eyes and seems to send up silent a prayer.

Mrs Levinson pats his arm, “There now, dear boy, buy something nice for your mother. This girl really bakes the most delicious cakes, I’ll let you two get acquainted.”

With that she gives you another beaming smile, and leaves the shop, leaving you and Frankie staring at each other. You crack first, a nervous giggle erupting from inside as you realize the ridiculousness of the situation. Frankie’s eyes widen for a moment, before he cracks too, a deep wheezing laugh making his shoulders shake as he grabs hold of the counter for support.

“I’m really sorry about that,” he finally says, drawing a deep breath as you both fight back the bubbling laughter, “She’s been talking about you for weeks and when I ran into her down the block, she wouldn’t let me leave.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to her meddling, I swear she’s tried to set me up with everyone of her friend’s sons,” you smile. The man across the counter, in the thankfully empty shop, gives you a nervous smile back. He really is cute, you realize, as you look closer at him. A deep dimple in his cheek as he smiles, smile lines around his eyes and wild curls escaping the ball cap to wrap around his neck and ears.

“Well, I’ll buy something and then leave, I hope this wasn’t too weird,” he says, still looking a little nervous as he rubs the back of his neck again.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it, she’s a menace,” you say, rolling your eyes and smiling at him, “And you seem like a perfectly nice man, I was expecting much worse from her to be honest.”

Frankie chuckles at that, a pleasant sound, and his dark brown eyes are warm as he tugs at his cap, the pink creeping back up his neck.

“I’m glad I've exceeded your expectations,” he says, shifting his weight on his feet, crossing his arms before he uncrosses them again and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets, glancing up at you, one side of his mouth pulled in a crooked smile, “And to be honest, I wasn’t expecting much either, but I’m…uuh…you’re even prettier than she said.”

Your cheeks feel like someone lit a furnace as Frankie tilts his head, his smile widening as he sees you nervously swallow, your tongue suddenly feels too thick.

“Thanks,” you squeak, “that’s…really sweet of you to say,” a shy smile creeping across your face as you hastily rearrange the order forms on the counter before you look up at Frankie again. He’s still looking at you, a bit more confidence in his smile now, and for what feels like several minutes, but is probably only a few heartbeats, you look at each other across the counter, something starting to bubble under the surface.

Eventually Frankie clears his throat, “I should probably buy something now right? Before you think I’m even weirder than getting dragged in here by a little old lady.”

It makes you laugh, and Frankie smiles back at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling again as he looks at you with something that loosens a delighted little flutter in your belly.

“She’s a very convincing little old lady,” you chuckle, “but what can I get you?”

“Uuh…I have no idea,” he fumbles, glancing across the display case and then looking up at you with a slightly desperate look, “What would you recommend?”

“For your mother?” you ask and he nods.

“Yeah, I think I should get her something, she always saying how good your place is,” he replies, giving you another smile, “She loves your lemon meringue pie.”

“I don't have any left today I’m afraid,” you say, “I sold them all, but I made canelés this morning. She probably hasn’t had them before, I only just started making them,” you point to the small golden brown cakes and Frankie bends his tall frame to look closer at them.

“What’s in them?” he asks, glancing up at you again and you grab one from the tray, handing it over to him.

“Vanilla and rum, try it, see if you think she’ll like it.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking the cake from your tongs and you can’t help but notice how his large hand seems to dwarf it before he takes a bite.

“Oh yeah…” he hums, nodding as his eyes widen, “these are amazing, I think she’d love ‘em, they’re really good,” he puts the other half in his mouth and chews with a smile. The pink tip of his tongue comes out and licks his lips as he swallows the last bite down.

“Sold,” he says with a grin, “give me eight of those, four for her, four for me.”

“Thanks, I’m so glad you like them,” you beam as you start packing his order, “they’re my new favorite and if people like them I’ll keep making them.”

“I hope you do, they’re really good,” Frankie replies, discreetly wiping his thumb over his bottom lip, catching some crumbs that have fallen into his scruffy beard, as he watches you.

“Alright, there you go,” you say and Frankie pulls his wallet from the pocket of his tan jacket, and taps his card on the machine, “And…I hope you come back, Frankie,” you give him a shy smile, “If Mrs Levinson didn’t scare you off.”

“No chance,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your skin tingle, “I’m happy she made me come.”

“You’re welcome back any day,” you reply, your cheeks burning under his soft eyes. You’re both caught staring at each other for a few seconds again, Frankie swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing as he seems to search for a reason to stay, and you’re quietly hoping he’ll find one.

“I…I should maybe get going,” he stutters eventually, taking a tentative step towards the front door, glancing down at boots, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. You’re quickly starting to love the small gesture, especially when he looks back up again from under the peak of his cap and gives you another small smile, the dimple deepening in his cheek as he sees you smile in return.

“Bye, then,” he raises his hand in a wave, reaching the door and pulling it open, still smiling at you.

“Bye, Frankie,” you smile, mentally trying to stop yourself from twirling, “See you soon.”

You don’t expect him to turn up as soon as he does, but on Tuesday afternoon, when you’re busy kneading dough for cinnamon rolls, you hear the doorbell jingle. Stepping out of the kitchen you can’t help the smile that creeps up when you see him standing by the door, looking around the shop. He’s foregone the cap today, his dark chocolate curls a bit tidier around the ears but still fighting to escape whatever he’s attempted to do to contain them.

He smiles when he spots you by the kitchen door, his hand flying up to tug at his cap, forgetting it’s not there as he grabs at nothing. Fumbling he pushes his hand through his hair instead, the curls immediately escaping and creating a halo around his head.

“Hi,” he says, walking over as you take in his long legs in dark jeans, the untucked blue shirt crinkled as if he’s just tugged it out of his pants.

“Hi Frankie,” you smile back at him, wiping your hands on your apron, wondering how much of a mess you are, the kitchen is hot and the dough has been fighting you for the past ten minutes. He comes to a stop just in front of you and you can smell his cologne, the warm scent mixing with the cinnamon from behind you.

“Whatever you’re baking, it smells really good,” he says, looking over your shoulder and then back at you.

“Thanks, cinnamon rolls, the ultimate ‘good for business’ scent,” you grin, “people always buy extra when I bake them.”

“Sneaky marketing,” he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles and shifts his weight, “You’ve got something on your cheek, can I?” he asks, lifting his hand and you nod, wondering what the hell you managed to smear on yourself this time, “You’ve got flour right…here,” he says, his thumb gently swiping across your cheek, dusting away the smudge and leaving a warm imprint on your skin.

“Thanks, I’m always getting stuff on my face or in my hair,” you say, attempting to wipe off your apron, covered in more flour to hide your nerves at his close proximity, “I’m a messy baker.”

“It’s cute,” he replies, swiping his thumb over the spot again, slower this time, “I think I got it all.”

The oven timer beeps in the kitchen, interrupting the moment, “First batch,” you say, thumbing behind you, “I need to get them out.”

Frankie nods and leans on the door frame as you hurry back into the kitchen. The warm smell of cinnamon hits you both as you open the door and you hear Frankie inhale deeply.

“That smells incredible,” he sighs, inhaling again, “you’re clever to use that as marketing.”

You laugh and set the trays down on one of the stainless steel counters, “I need to get a fan with an exhaust out onto the street, spread this scent across the block.”

“You’d sell out in a heartbeat,” he chuckles as you go back to the dough and start rolling it out on the workbench.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he asks as he watches you, “I just wanted to stop by and say that my mom loved those little cakes and wanted me to ask what they’re called. I totally forgot…” he gives you an embarrassed grin as you glance over at him with a smile.

“Canelés. And I’m glad she loved them, I’ve only got a few left but I’m making more tomorrow.”

“Canelés, I’ll try to remember that,” Frankie says, “And I’ll tell her you’ve got a fresh batch tomorrow.”

“You seem close with your mom,” you say, still working on the dough and Frankie smiles fondly.

“Yeah, we’re close. Wasn’t always like that though, I had some messy years after I got out of the army, I tried keeping everyone away. But she didn’t give up on me, hauled me back to town, helped me out a lot more than she should’ve needed too. I’m trying to pay her back for saving my life.”

You look over at him, he’s leaned his head on the door frame and gives you a little embarrassed shrug, “I’m a mama’s boy.”

“As you should be, Francisco,” you tease him, “She’s a very nice lady and one of my best customers.”

“Even before I moved back here she was telling me about your bakery,” Frankie grins, “can’t believe it took me so long to visit,” He pushes himself off from the door frame and comes over to the workbench, “Can I help out with anything, feels weird standing there doing nothing while you’re working.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Frankie, you’re just nice company,” you smile at him and he smiles back as the tips of his ears go slightly pink, his hand drifting down to the small of your back as he stands next to you. The warmth of his large hand radiates through the thin cotton of your t-shirt and sends a tingling up and down your spine.

“Come on, put me to work,” he says and your mind goes blank as he slowly moves his hand up and down your back while he waits for your reply. The small motion is so unremarkable, so ordinary, but it feels like all you need to do is turn to him and let him lead, let the comfort of his solid frame standing next to you, wrap around you like the warmth from his hand. You look up at him, letting go of the rolling pin and turning into his arms, his hand on your back sliding around your waist, curling gently to hold you.

He smiles again, tilting his head to the side as if he’s getting ready to say something, but the doorbell jingles out in the shop. Frankie leans back and peaks out, whipping his head right back in with a low curse.

“It’s my mom!” he whispers, his eyes widening as he tries to stifle his giggles, “if she sees me back here I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“Fridge,” you whisper back, matching his giggle under your breath, “stay close to the wall and she can’t see you.”

Frankie nods, his grin wide and mischievous as he hugs the wall, sliding towards the fridge as quietly as he can. You wipe your hands on the apron as you make your way out to the shop, smiling at Mrs Morales.

“Hello, Mrs Morales,” you say a bit too loudly, to hide the sound of her son opening the walk-in fridge in the kitchen, “How are things?”

“Just fine, thank you,” the gray haired lady smiles at you and you’re hit by how much Frankie looks like her, the same warm smile and deep dimple in her cheeks. “How are you, busy as ever?”

“I’m good, thanks. Business is a bit quieter after the holidays but I’m keeping busy, preparing for Valentine’s Day and then Easter,” you reply, strategically leaning on the counter so that she can’t see straight into the kitchen.

“Oh, of course, Valentine’s Day is coming up soon,” she says, giving you a sly smile, “Anyone special to take you out?”

“No, no one special,” you say, trying to keep the giggle that’s bubbling up inside contained at the thought of her son hiding just a few feet away, “I’m too busy for that, especially coming up to Valentine’s Day.”

“Well…” she says, an air of false indifference to her tone, “if I run into any handsome single men, I’ll send them your way.”

“That’s really nice, Mrs Morales, but you don’t need to,” you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the grin that wants to split your face, “I’m sure someone will come by the shop and ask me out.” You hope Frankie heard that, you’re sure he’s eavesdropping with the fridge door cracked open.

“I’ll make sure they do,” his mother replies, a mischievous smile on her face so reminiscent of the one her son just gave you, before she schools her features.

“So what can I get you today?” you ask, steering the conversation away from potential dates and she scans the selection on display.

“My son Francisco brought me the most delicious little cakes on Sunday,” she smiles innocently, glancing up at you, “he said you sold them to him, he got some for himself too.”

“I remember,” you say, “I have four left but I’m making fresh ones tomorrow if you want to come by then instead?”

“Oh, you know what, that’s a great idea,” Mrs Morales beams, “I’ll send Francisco to pick them up, can I reserve ten? I’m having some friends over that I know will love them.”

You grab your order pad and nod, not trusting yourself to not giggle madly, and write down her order, carefully folding it up and placing it next to the till before you dare look up at her again.

“I’ll make sure to put aside ten canelés for you, Mrs Morales,” you smile, biting the inside of your cheek, “Tell Francisco I look forward to seeing him again.”

A metallic clunk is heard from the kitchen and you quickly clear your throat, “Sorry about the noise, I’ve got a repair man taking care of the fridge.”

“Such a talented girl,” Mrs Morales smiles brightly at you, “you bake all these lovely things and run your own business,” she gives you a wave and opens the front door, “I’ll be sure to send Francisco tomorrow.”

“Bye, Mrs Morales,” you wave, turning back to the kitchen as soon as the door closes behind her.

Frankie is just closing the fridge door behind himself as you come in and he looks up at you. His neck is flushed beet red, his ears the most violent shade of pink and he’s pointing an accusing finger at you as he tries to stop the grin that’s splitting his rosy face.

“She…she is bad enough,” he says, “but you, egging her on!”

“What, I was just being polite to one of my regulars,” you grin at him as he shakes his head, the same bright smile as his mom’s.

“‘Tell Francisco I look forward to seeing him again,’“ he says, mimicking your cheerful customer service voice as you giggle, “You know, she’ll call me the second she’s in the car, I’ll never hear the end of this until I marr- “ he coughs, cutting himself off and impossibly turning an even deeper shade of beet.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried, Frankie, I was only telling the truth,” you smile at him and go back to the workbench and the cinnamon roll dough, “I am looking forward to you coming by tomorrow.”

Frankie lets a low chuckle escape as he scuffs his boots on the floor, coming to lean his back against the workbench.

“That’s so?” His ears are still a beautiful shade of pink, and his small smile while he looks at you with those deep brown eyes, makes your insides fill with excited little bubbles.

“That’s so,” you tell him as his phone starts to ring and he pulls it out of his back pocket.

“Told you she’d call me,” he laughs, showing you his phone, “I’ll sneak out the back if that’s ok?”

“Sure, avoid your mom, Francisco,” you tease him, but he just steps closer, drops a soft kiss to your cheek, and steps back with a smile.

“See you tomorrow, cariño.”

Before you can compose yourself, he’s out through the back door, giving you a final wave.

The canelés spread their vanilla and rum scent throughout the bakery the next evening, and you’ve packed up a box of ten for Mrs Morales. The only thing missing is her handsome son to pick them up. If you had to, you’d admit to yourself that you’re really, really looking forward to him coming by. As it draws near to closing time you keep checking yourself in the small mirror, glancing out at the street. Slowly you clear out the display cases and bring things into the dishwasher, and then you hear the front door bell jingle out in the shop.

You attempt a casual stroll out from the kitchen, and Frankie is by the door, giving you a warm smile. He’s just swiped the ball cap off his head, running his fingers through the unruly curls with one hand as he stuffs the cap into his back pocket with the other.

“Hey,” he says, coming over as you reach the counter, “you look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you smile back at him, glancing down at your new blouse that’s really far too nice to wear in the kitchen, “you look good too.”

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up into his curly hairline and then he glances down at himself like he has to check what he’s wearing.

“I do?” he asks and the disbelief in his voice makes you laugh. The faded denim shirt hugs his shoulders and he’s folded the sleeves up over his forearms, a smattering of freckles visible under the shop’s overhead lights. As he runs his palms over his chest, smoothing out the fabric you smile at him.

“Yeah, you do, that’s a really nice color on you.”

“Thanks,” he gives you a crooked smile, his ears turning pink. Watching Frankie blush is quickly becoming one of your favorite things and you’re glad to see that even the slightest compliment will get him there. His nervous little shuffle and the way the tip of his tongue comes out to lick at his lips before he glances up at you again, makes you feel giddy as you feign a need to wipe the tables and step out from behind the counter.

“I just need to finish up so that I can close, but I’ve got your mom’s order ready to go,” you say and walk around him to the first table.

“No rush,” he says, “can I help you with anything?”

“Thanks, Frankie, do you think you could bring in the sign from the street?,” you reply, pointing to the chalkboard sign, “it’s so heavy, I always hit my shins on the damn thing.”

“I could probably put some wheels on it for you.” Frankie says, pushing open the door, holding it open with one hand as he grabs the heavy sign with the other, effortlessly picking it up and moving it into the shop while you look at his casual display of strength with raised eyebrows.

“What?” he says, his forehead furrowing with worry, “Did I do it wrong?”

“It takes me two hands and a lot of grunting trying to get that thing inside without scratching the floor, and you’re acting like it weighs nothing,” you give him a mock scowl as his worried look disappears. He’s chuckling as he leans the heavy sign against the wall.

“Sorry, I’ve handled a lot of heavy backpacks in my days, this really wasn’t that much in comparison.”

“Show off,” you grumble and he dusts off his hands, still chuckling.

“You’ve got other skills, like being an incredibly talented baker,” he smiles, “I bet you can make anything, no limits.”

“As long as I’ve got a recipe, I guess,” you admit, “it’s just chemistry in the end.”

“Have you ever made alfajores?” he asks, leaning his back against the counter and crossing his arms as you start wiping down the last table, “They’re my favorites.”

“No, I’ve never made them, but I’ve tried them once, they’re really good.”

“My mom doesn’t really bake, but I know she’s got my abuela’s recipe,” he says, “if you wanna try something new. The recipe is in Spanish so you know it’s authentic,” he gives you a quick grin.

“I don’t speak Spanish, I wouldn’t be able to read it,” you say, twisting the kitchen towel in your hands as Frankie smiles at you. You’ve wiped down the last table and now you’re leaned against it, mimicking Frankie’s stance across the room.

“Didn’t you take Spanish in high school?” he asks, his dimpled cheek making your heart flutter for a few seconds before you find your voice again.

“Yeah, sure, but I remember like three or four things,” you can’t help but smile back at him, especially when you recall what phrases you remember. You can feel your cheeks heat up and he definitely picks up on it.

“You only remember the dirty words?” he winks, and you have to turn away and busy yourself with wiping down the table again as you giggle.

“No, they’re not dirty words,” you laugh, shaking out the cloth and tossing it in the back.

“So tell me then,” he grins, “I wanna hear your Spanish!”

You feel the smile on your face, threatening to take over as your cheeks heat up even more, and he looks at you expectantly, eyebrows raised up towards his unruly brown curls.

“Fine…” you say finally, drawing a deep breath and recalling your high school Spanish and the lines you’d learnt from a cute exchange student in college.

“Cállate,” you say and his eyebrows shoot up even more, before he mimics zipping his lips shut and throwing away an imaginary key.

“Ven aqui,” you continue with a smile at him and he smiles back, immediately stepping across the floor and standing obediently right in front of you.

You pause and exhale slowly, he’s so close now, you can see the rich dark brown color of his eyes so clear, the woodsy smell of his body wash, or maybe it’s his aftershave, lingering in your nose, and his lips quirk up in a smile. He knows the effect he’s having on you, and he loves it.

You smile back at him, working up the courage to say the next phrase.

“Bésame.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile widens. He steps a little bit closer, leaning into you, and you feel the tickle of his scruffy beard as he softly touches his lips to your cheek. He lingers for a few seconds, and you dare hardly move, you can feel his warm breath on your skin. And then he pulls back, his smile softer now, his eyes darker.

“Any more phrases?” he asks, his voice low, and you nod slowly.

“Un beso más.”

“Un beso más?” he whispers, his lips already so close, and you nod again as they brush against yours.

His kiss is gentle and soft, his hands carefully coming up to curl around your waist as he bends his head to yours. The short scruff of the mustache tickles delicately against your skin as he deepens the kiss, and when you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your hands finding the silky soft curls at his neck, he hums into your mouth. His hands, so warm and large, tighten their grip and pull you a little bit closer, making you curve yourself into him. He’s solid, firm, under your arms, but his mouth is soft, warm and wet when he gently nips on your bottom lip, making you open up for him. With a small moan you let him lick into your mouth, making him groan in response and pull you tight against his chest. His hand slides up from your waist, cupping your cheek, his large hand easily spanning around your neck as his thumb caresses your skin.

Minutes pass, the only sounds your combined breaths mingling, soft moans and wet lips pressed together.

After what feels like an eternity, but also not long enough by far, Frankie pulls back a little, his thumb gently brushing over your kiss swollen lips, letting you chase the pad of his thumb with a small chuckle.

“Better than I even dreamed of,” he mumbles, removing his thumb and pressing one more kiss to your lips. You hum in agreement as his tongue tangles with yours again, the need to feel more of him rising, making you curl your fingers tighter into his hair, standing on your tiptoes.

Suddenly Frankie bends his knees, dropping his hands and grabbing the back of your thighs, picking you up. You quickly wrap your legs around his narrow waist and giggle. He continues to press kisses to your lips between the bouts of laughter that bubbles up between you as he walks back to the kitchen with you hanging on like a koala.

“To many people walking past outside,” he mumbles as he puts you down on the counter, kissing you again, “with my luck Mrs Levinson will come into the shop.”

“I’d say she’d be scandalized,” you giggle, “but something tells me she was a menace when she was younger.”

“Definitely, I’d say she’s done her fair share of making out,” Frankie chuckles, taking your chin between his thumb and finger, capturing your bottom lip between his own, his nose bumping against yours as he gently nibbles on your lip, making you pull him closer with a moan.

Frankie’s hand slides up and down your back and you tangle your fingers in his hair again while he cups your cheek with the other. Several more minutes disappear as he explores every way he can pull soft moans from you with his lips close to yours.

Eventually you pull back a little and Frankie opens his eyes. His pupils are blown wide but he’s smiling as he sneaks a final kiss from you.

“You make me lose track of time, Francisco Morales,” you mumble as he tries to pull you in closer, making you giggle when he pouts, his plush bottom lip pink and shiny from the past few minutes.

“Your kisses are distracting,” he smiles, “I guess I’m keeping you from important baking chores?”

“I just need to order some things for later in the week,” you say as he steps back and pulls you off the counter.

“Don’t let me distract you any more then,” he replies, his hands sliding down over your hips, lightly grabbing at the softness, “just let me come back soon.”

“Come back anytime you want and I’ll make those alfajores for you,” you tell him, “just bring the recipe.”

He smiles at that, his hands never seizing their movements up and down your curves, “I’ll bring it and we can make it together if you want,” he replies, “My abuela used to let me help her make them.”

“I’d love that, Frankie,” you beam, “just tell me what to order,” you make him walk backwards, pushing at his wide shoulders as he chuckles, glancing behind him as you walk him towards the small office set up and your laptop.

“Well, you need manjar, that’s what she calls dulce de leche,” he says, letting go of you as you sit down. He stands next to you, one large hand splayed on the desk for support as he leans in to look at the screen, “Fuck, I’m getting old, I need reading glasses,” he grumbles, making you giggle as you stroke your finger over the gray in his beard.

“I bet you look really good in glasses, Frankie,” you smile up at him and he chuckles.

“Thanks, I need to hear that often or I’ll never wear them,” he replies and you shake your head.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” you laugh, turning back to the laptop, “So, dulce de leche, anything else I might not have?”

“Corn flour?” he says, “That’s the only ingredient my abuela would have to buy specially for them, the rest is normal baking stuff.”

“Good to know,” you say, adding the extras to your order, “We’re all set.”

“When can I come by,” Frankie asks as you stand up, following you back out to the shop.

“I’ll have the order tomorrow, so any day after closing this week works for me,” you grab Mrs Morales’s canelés and give them to Frankie.

“Does Friday work?” he asks, looking a bit shy all of a sudden, especially for a man who’s just spent the past half an hour kissing you breathless, “Only, I’d like to, I mean if you want to, I’d like to take you out for dinner afterwards. On a date, I mean, if you want too?” His ears go pink as he fumbles through the question and you take a step forward, putting both your hands on his cheeks and pulling his face down to yours, kissing the tip of his nose as he begins to smile.

“I’ll love to, Frankie, dinner on Friday sounds perfect.”

Halfway through closing on Friday afternoon you hear a knock on your backdoor. You’re already serving a customer so you ignore it, you’ve left the door unlocked for the delivery guy and he knows what to do. Mrs Levinson is next in line, ready to pick up her usual weekend order, and she’s looking very eager and chipper as she steps up to the counter.

“Hello, dear!” she exclaims, a bright smile on her face as she winks at you, “How’s Francisco? His mother told me she sent him here the other day for a special order.” She winks at the last word, making you blush as you try to keep your composure.

“He picked it up just fine, thanks, Mrs Levinson”, you say, praying your voice is neutral. Internally you’re picturing how the little old lady’s head would likely pop with excitement if she knew how his last visit had gone.

“Such a good looking boy, don’t you think?” she asks, and it’s very much a rhetorical question, but you nod along anyway, “Those brown eyes,” she sighs, “I tell you, if I was forty years younger….” She titters, delighted at her own joke, and you can’t help but laugh with her.

“He does have very nice eyes, Mrs Levinson,” you smile, “I’ve got your order in the back, I’ll just get it for you.”

You step into the kitchen, expecting to see the delivery guy, but instead you’re met by Frankie’s pink cheeks and big grin. He’s leaning on the doorway into your small back storage that leads to the backdoor, having clearly heard Mrs Levinson’s comments. He mouths a silent “Hi,” to you and you smile back at him, trying to stop the giggles that are threatening to bubble up. You have to pass him to get to where the orders are kept, and he quickly snakes an arm around your waist as you step into the storage room. His red plaid shirt is soft against your skin and the t-shirt underneath smells like him when you wrap your arm around him and return his hug.

“Hi,” he whispers again, his mouth close to your ear, his ever present cap bumping against your cheek, as you reach up and caress his curls at his neck quickly, before grabbing the order.

“Hi,” you whisper back, “I’ll be right back, let me just get rid of Mrs Levinson.”

He nods and presses a warm kiss to your cheek before he lets you go.

“Here you are, Mrs Levinson, your usual order,” you say as you step back into the shop, leaving Frankie hiding in the back room, “Anything else today?”

“Four canelés, dear,” she smiles sweetly, “Mrs Morales was praising them, said her son just loved them.”

“They are very nice, I’m sure you’ll love them too,” you reply, boxing four of the small cakes and ringing up her total, “There you go then, have a nice weekend now, Mrs Levinson.”

“Speaking of Mrs Morales,” the old lady continues, ignoring your attempt to wrap up the conversation, “She said you don’t have a date for Valentine’s Day, I’m sure Francisco would love to take you out, you’d make such a handsome couple.”

“I won’t have time for a date, really, it’s one of our busiest days,” you say, starting to wipe down the counter, praying she’ll get the hint, but no such luck.

“Oh, nonsense, dear, you need to have some fun. I’ll tell Francisco to ask you out the next time I see him.”

“Really, Mrs Levinson, please don’t do that, I’m sure- “

You’re interrupted by the beeping of the oven timer, which is odd, the oven shouldn’t be on, but right now you’re very grateful for the beeping.

“I’d better get that, Mrs Levinson,” you rush out, giving her a quick wave as you turn towards the kitchen, “Have a nice weekend!”

“Always so busy, dear,” she smiles, waving back at you and leaves the bakery. With a deep sigh of relief you go back into the kitchen. Frankie is standing by the oven, fiddling with the knobs and you walk over and push the right one to turn off the alarm.

“So I guess that was you,” you smile at him as he grins.

“Yeah, it was either that or knock something over. Mrs Levinson was getting a bit too meddlesome,” he chuckles, glancing out through the kitchen door to make sure that she’s gone before he wraps both arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, “Is it true you’re too busy for a date on Valentine’s Day?” he asks, “Because if you are, I’d like to ask you out for the fifteenth instead.”

“I’m busy during the day, in the evening I’m free,” you smile up at him, “But any evening works for a date with you, Frankie.”

The tips of his ears go pink at that, and he gives you a wide, dimpled smile, bending his head to yours, his nose brushing over your cheek before he lets his lips capture yours in a soft kiss.

“Good,” he mumbles, “because I want to take you out every night.”

“I don’t want to go out every night,” you smile between his kisses, “Some nights I’d like to stay on the couch with pizza and a tub of ice cream.”

“Sounds like a nice night too, is there room for me on that couch?” he asks and you nod.

“There might be, it’s not a very big couch, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in.”

“Sounds even better,” Frankie mumbles and you can feel him smile against your lips, “How about we do some baking and then I take you out on that date I promised for tonight?”

“Let me just lock up the shop,” you kiss his warm lips one more time, before pulling away, “and we’ll get right to it.”

“Let me grab the street sign for you, cariño,” he says, following you into the shop.

With everything locked up and the lights off in the shop, you set up in the kitchen and Frankie pulls out an envelope from his pocket. Inside is an old handwritten note in Spanish with the alfajores recipe from his grandmother. He gently smooths it out on the bench and joins you in the fridge where you’re getting the butter and eggs.

You hear him come in and stand behind you, taking the butter from your hand as you balance three eggs in the other.

“Anything else we need from here?” you ask and he shakes his head.

“No, just the eggs and butter, we need three egg yolks.”

“Ok, let's get the rest in the pantry then.”

“Lead the way,” Frankie replies, smiling as you turn to face him, and you can’t help stepping closer and reaching up so that you can kiss him. He comes willingly, bending his head to your lips, and parting them for your tongue.

“I really like kissing you,” you mumble against his lips and you hear the low rumble of his chuckle.

“Good,” he mutters, “because I don’t want to stop kissing you.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as you look up at him, his smile making you feel liquid inside, like jelly legs and too much fizzy drinks, bubbling over as you smile back at him.

“Alfajores,” you finally say, after he’s kissed you a few extra times, and he chuckles again.

“We keep getting distracted.”

“I blame you, Francisco.”

“I’m innocent, your lips are too kissable,” he grins and you giggle, cheeks heating up and it makes him laugh, taking your free hand in his own, “C’mon, baker girl, at this rate I’ll never get to take you out to dinner.”

He leads you over to the pantry, listing the ingredients you need and letting you pile them high in his arms. Back at the workbench you weigh them out while Frankie translates his grandmother’s handwriting on the note.

The ingredients come together to a loose dough and Frankie takes over, showing you how his grandmother would push the dough together without kneading. He’s shrugged out of his red plaid flannel shirt, the gray t-shirt stretching tight over his biceps as you watch his large hands gently push the dough around the bench, transfixed by how they move.

“She always told me not to knead the dough,” he says, pressing a few more bits of dough into the circular mound taking shape, “Just push it together so that it holds its shape and then wrap it in cling film and chill in the fridge.”

He pats the dough a few more times while you tear off a piece of plastic wrap and lay it down on the bench.

“There,” Frankie says, gently lifting the dough onto it and wrapping it up, “thirty minutes in the fridge, then we can bake them.”

You open the fridge door and he puts it on a shelf before coming back out and closing the door again.

“Now how do we spend thirty minutes in a kitchen?” you ask, tilting your head with a smile, “waiting for the dough to chill?”

Frankie raises one eyebrow, leaning back against the fridge door, giving you an amused look.

“What did you have in mind, hermosa?” he replies as he reaches out and takes hold of your hand, pulling you towards him.

“I was thinking…deep cleaning the oven,” you grin up at him as he wrinkles his nose, lips curling down in disappointment, “Maybe wiping out the shelves in the fridge? Or you can help me fix the blockage in the drain under the sink?”

Frankie rolls his eyes so far back you think they’ll get stuck, but he’s grinning at the same time.

“Not really what I had in mind,” he says, both his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his body and you bring your own arms up, cupping his cheeks and letting your thumbs caress his scruffy beard.

“I love the little patches in your beard,” you say and lean closer, smelling the warm cotton of his t-shirt and a faint whiff of his body wash, “I especially like this one under your chin.” You make him tilt his head up as he chuckles, showing the smooth underside of his neck, freckles dotting the pebbled skin. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I’m glad you like ‘em,” he smiles, a small shiver running through him when you press your lips to the bare patch under his chin, “Because that’s as much beard as you’ll get from me.”

It makes you giggle against the soft skin, the longer parts of his beard tickling your nose as you press more kisses along the underside of his jaw, keeping his head tilted back. His hands around your waist are starting to wander, slowly caressing up your back and down over your hips. A small, low sigh escapes him as you stand on your tiptoes, your mouth reaching the spot under his ear where you can feel his pulse beat.

“Is this what you had in mind?” you ask, your voice low against the shell of his ear, his hands tightening around you. He gives you a small nod in response, lowering his head so that he can meet your eyes. He’s not smiling anymore, instead his look makes you wobble, curling your fingers around his shoulders for support. The peak of his cap nudges your forehead, closing both of you in under it, and as he moves closer, he reaches up and pulls it off. You hear it land softly on the floor next to you somewhere, but you’ve already closed your eyes as Frankie’s warm lips find yours.

When you break apart your lips are hot to the touch, the soft scratches of Frankie’s beard tickling your skin, and the evidence of his growing need impossible to hide between your bodies. You can’t help but press closer against him, feel him jerk as your hip moves, a stifled groan caught in the back of his throat.

“Fuck…” he mumbles, “let’s make those damn cookies so we can get out of here,” he’s tangled his fingers in your hair, holding you close to his mouth, his breath warm against your skin when he speaks, “Can we make it through dinner?”

“I’m really not that hungry for food,” you whisper back, his lips trailing over your jaw as you speak, nibbling a wet path down your throat as his fingers gently pull at your hair, giving him more room to taste your skin.

Another chunk of time is lost to his kisses. Every time he nips and licks at your throat, a moan escapes your open mouth, breathing heavily while you curl your fingers into his shoulders, moving down to his thick arms.

“Frankie…” you mumble as his hands begin to slide up under your shirt, leaving warm trails across your torso, his kisses starting to move down over your clavicles as he pushes your collar to the side, “don’t start something you can’t finish here…” you warn him, but you do nothing to stop him. His rough palms grab at your flesh, pulling you closer, one last hot kiss, a mark on your skin, before lifting his head, his hands slipping down to your hips again.

“You’re right, I don’t want to do this here,” he says, looking up at you with dark eyes, his lips rosy and pink, “Grab the dough, we making these fucking cookies now and then I’m taking you home.”

You nod and reluctantly pull away from him as he moves to the side, letting you open the fridge door and retrieve the dough while Frankie gets a rolling pin. You watch him as he begins to roll out the dough, the muscles of his arm flexing as he presses down on the firm dough, forcing it to flatten onto the workbench. He’s focused as he works to roll it out to an even thickness, the tip of his tongue coming out in concentration as he gauges the dough with this hand.

“That’s enough, not too thin,” he says when he’s satisfied, “or the dough will break.”

Together you use a cookie cutter on the dough and soon two trays of cookies slide into the oven under Frankie’s watchful eye.

“We don’t want them to overbake, they should still be a pale color,” he says, closing the oven door and setting a timer on his phone.

“Much as I’d like to get back to kissing you,” you smile at Frankie as he winks, “we should clean up so that we can leave once they’re done.”

“I’ll clean up, cariño,” he smiles back, “get the manjar and a piping bag and get us set up for the cookies.”

You nod and do as he says, watching him as he efficiently wipes down the workbench and the counters, removing the leftover dough and putting away the ingredients. You fill the piping bag with the soft manjar and lean on the workbench while Frankie rinses the cloth and hangs it to dry.

“Do you need a job, Frankie?” you ask, “I’d hire you in a heartbeat with those cleaning skills.”

“One of the few good habits I picked up in the military,” he gives you a crooked smile as the timer goes off on his phone and he pulls out the cookies, “That and making beds with sharp corners. Nothing else good came out of those years.”

A brief shadow passes his eyes as he puts the tray down, turning back to hand the oven mitts on their hook without meeting your eyes. When he comes back to the bench you put your arm around his waist and pull him into your side, pressing your lips to his cheek. He leans into it, his eyes briefly closing with a small contented sigh.

“I’ll tell you about it someday,” he says, “I don’t want to ruin this moment.”

“Ok, Frankie,” you reply, your lips still close to his cheek, another kiss to his small bare patch there, and you see his smile return, his warm brown eyes finding yours again.

“You’re on manjar duty, I don’t trust my piping skills. I’ll sandwich the cookies.”

“Did your granny say anything about how much manjar each cookie should have?” you ask, picking up the piping bag.

“About the same thickness as the cookie,” he replies, holding the first cookie steady for you, “There you go, perfect!” He grabs the cookie you’ve just piped the filling on and presses a second down on top before rolling it in desiccated coconut and holding it up proudly.

“Our first alfajores cookie,” he chuckles, “I’m so proud of us.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you or your grandmother, Frankie” you smile at him, getting to work on the rest of the cookies. Frankie puts down the first one and starts assembling the rest.

“We make a good team,” he says, “and I can’t wait for you to try these, her’s are the best ones I’ve ever had.”

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to put the rest of the cookies together, with a flourish Frankie rolls the edges of the last cookie in the coconut and holds it out to you.

“Go on, try it,” he says with a smile, picking up a second one for himself. The light and airy cookie crumbles as you bite into it, the manjar coating your mouth as you hum around the flavors. The hint of lemon in the cookie blends with the filling and it makes your mouth water.

“So good, Frankie,” you mumble, your mouth still full and he chuckles, biting into his own a bit too eagerly. Manjar squeezes out around the sides and he quickly catches a blob with his tongue, his fingers coated in the sticky filling.

“Damn, I should’ve remembered, I always make a mess eating these,” he laughs, tilting his head back to stop the cookie from falling out of his hand as he stuffs the whole thing into his mouth. With puffed out cheeks he grins down at you, chewing the cookie with a happy face.

“As good as you remember?” you ask and he nods.

“Even better,” he says, his voice garbled from the mouthful of alfajores and it makes you giggle as he swallows the whole thing down. His fingers are covered in manjar and he tries to lick it off, the sight of his pink tongue sliding over his index finger temporarily shutting down your brain as you stare at his mouth. Frankie’s eyes flick up to your face, seeing your expression, and slowly pulls his finger from his mouth. Holding it out to you, he gives you a mischievous smirk.

“Here, try it.”

There’s a challenge to his tone, daring you to step up to him and cross a very weak line in where this new relationship is. The sight of his thick fingers, smudges of manjar stil clinging to them, and his brown eyes going dark as they lock on to you, makes it an easy step to take.

Your own hand wraps around his wrist as you pull his fingers towards your lips, Frankie’s jaw falling open of its own accord and his eyes drop to your mouth. His thumb has a dark streak of caramelized filling near the top and as you take it between your lips, your tongue tasting sugar and salt, he groans, louder than he intended in the quiet kitchen. From the corner of your eye you can see the hand hanging idly by his side twitching, the fingers opening and closing as another, lower, groan slips from him. Your tongue is wrapping around his thumb, closing your lips around it and sucking it deeper into your mouth. Frankie’s eyelids are heavy, threatening to close, but he fights to keep them open, starting at the way your mouth takes his thumb, images of other things disappearing between your lips making arousal thrum through his body.

“Fuck…” he mumbles, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

With a soft pop you pull off his thumb, gently wiping the corner of your mouth with tongue as Frankie inhales sharply.

Three long steps and he’s got you pinned against the fridge, his hands suddenly on your waist and behind your neck. He bends his head, finding you eagerly waiting for his mouth as his tongue pushes past your lips. He’s not hiding the way he’s grinding his hard on against your hips, your moans mixing with his breathy groans as you grab hold of his waist and pull him closer. With a growl he buries his face against your shoulder, his mouth hot against your neck.

“Fuck….” he groans again, “You feel so fucking good, just put the damn alfajores away, we’re leaving now.”

He pulls away a little, you can feel your face flushed as you press your legs together, heat shooting through every nerve ending. He’s caging you in now, his eyes dark under his furrowed brow, pressing a final heated kiss to your lips before he steps back, pulling you with him.

“I’ll get a box for them,” you mumble, reluctantly moving away from him to the work bench. He bends to swipe his cap from the floor and shrugs back into his flannel shirt and watches you fold one of the take away boxes and pack the alfajores.

“Grab leftover manjar too,” he suddenly says, pointing to the piping bag, still half full with the sticky filling, “I know other uses for it.”

You look over your shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow and he winks at you, snaking his arms around your waist from behind before he bends his head to your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin as he nips at your earlobe.

“I’m thinking I’ve got other places that you might need to lick it from.”

Part Thirteen

Series Master List

A/N: I hope you enjoyed Frankie's visit to the bakery, I know I loved going back and writing my favourite Pedro boy.

But this is not the end because, as some of you have pointed out; a baker's dozen is thirteen, not twelve. So as this post goes up, I'll also put up a poll where everyone can vote for what Pedro boy they'd like to see return to the bakery, a second part to their story. Vote for your favourite to return!

The Poll!

In the meanwhile, thank you all for reading, commenting and sharing!

Tag list: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fluff #pedro pascal character fanfic #frankie morales fanfic

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babydollmarauders · 2 years ago

Text

TOLERATE IT — JOHN MARINO

john marino x fem!reader

summary: in which y/n’s love is tolerated at best, and she wonders what ever happened to her loving boyfriend

warnings: not much dialogue in the beginning?, happy or sad ending depending on the way you look at it, not proofread.

notes: i love writing angst but as a john girlie, this hurt me— but i did this to myself

the page turns, John’s fingers skimming it gently.

his head is dipped low, one leg perched on the other. he’s sat on the other end of the sofa, engrossed in his book; whereas i pay no attention to the movie that plays on the tv, rather watching him instead.

his demeanor is peaceful, and i know better than to actually disturb him. this is some of the only time he gets to relax, and i don’t want to take that away from him. so i sit quietly instead, just enjoying the rare company.

but i can’t help but wish he would actually do something with me. watch a movie, cuddle, talk, anything. instead i’m subjected to medium silence and the sound of paper flipping.

i turn the tv off, rising from the couch, and his eyes flicker up at my movement, but he dismisses it quickly, going back to his book.

“i’m going to bed.” i tell him softly, quietly yearning for him to join me, but instead he just hums in acknowledgment. “are you gonna join me?”

his eyes scan the page for a few more seconds as i stand before him, waiting for his response. finally, he looks up at me properly, shaking his head.

“no, i’m good.”

my heart sinks at his reply, but i nod, “okay.”

i spend my entire bedtime routine hoping that he’ll walk into the room. that maybe he’ll change his mind and for once, we’ll go to bed together; like we did early in our relationship. but when i climb into an empty bed and he’s still in the living room, i have to accept the fact that it’s not happening. that those days are apparently over.

i stir in my sleep, shifting under the weight of an arm draped over my waist, and for a second my heart leaps in my chest, thinking John has decided to cuddle me as i slept. but when i turn under his touch, my eyes fluttering open, i find him asleep. the spooning an unconscious movement, and as soon as it’s started, it’s already over, his arm drawing back as he moves in his slumber to lay on his back.

i settle on my side, resting my head in my hand as i watch the steady rise and fall of his chest in the darkness of the room. the silence piercing as i watch him breathe.

what ever happened to the boy who held me as we slept? the same one who comforted me when people criticized our five year age gap. the one who told me he would do anything to keep me happy.

***

my heart races in my chest as i set the dining table.

the usual plastic plates and cups being replaced for fine china and wine glasses. a singular candle is lit in the middle of the table, next to the steaming pasta that waits to be served. homemade french bread sits beside it, a dish of herb infused butter resting atop of the wood as well.

i spent all day in the kitchen, making everything from scratch. the noodles, the sauce, the bread, the butter, all done today by me. as well as John’s favorite chocolate cake, in which i got the recipe from his mother.

it’s officially our two year anniversary, and i took advantage of the fact that John had practice today and then was going to the gym. i figured a slightly early dinner and then dessert would be a good plan before i gave him his present and then hopefully we would make our way to the bedroom.

but now i sit in my seat at the table, awaiting his return. he had told me he would be home by six, but the clock on the dining room wall displays that it’s a quarter past seven and he still isn’t home.

i’ve stuck the food into the oven to keep warm at this point, but the empty chair across from me and the soft music that floats through the house taunts me.

“alexa, stop the music.” the instrumental cuts off abruptly, tears welling in my eyes at my boyfriends absence.

i’m just about ready to eat by myself and call it an early night when i hear the front door open, footsteps echoing through the house, getting closer and closer. they halt when he reaches the dining room, and i look up to find him standing in the doorway.

his brows are threaded together, his gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“you made dinner?” he questions, setting his bag on the ground beside him.

i perk up immediately, disappointing myself with how quickly i’m ready to move past his lateness.

“yeah.” i smile, motioning toward the empty seat. “take a seat, i’ll go grab it out of the oven! i was waiting for you to get home.”

he nods, sitting down as i scurry towards the kitchen. i bring the pasta and bread and butter out one at a time before taking my seat across from him.

i’m on the edge of my seat, eagerly awaiting his praise for my cooking and the setup, or even just a ‘happy anniversary, baby.’ but it never comes. we eat silently as he scrolls on his phone, and when he finishes his food, he quickly stands to dismiss himself.

“wait!” he stops at my shout, furrowing his brows at me. “i made cake.”

my eyes are soft, silently begging him to stay.

despite the fact that he evidently forgot our anniversary, i’m still eager to please him; vying for his attention and love, the best i can.

he nods, settling back down in his seat.

“dinner, cake, wine, and glass plates?” he laughs, “you were feeling fancy tonight.”

my heart shatters in my chest. even though i know he forgot the date, it still hurts to hear him speak like it’s just another day. proving even further that he doesn’t know how special today is.

“well, yeah, it’s-” i’m so close to reminding him, but then i think of how guilty he’ll feel, and i stop. “it’s just been a good day.”

i plaster a smile on my lipstick covered lips, hoping he’ll buy it; and he does. he gives me a small smile back and i excuse myself to the kitchen, taking a moment to blink back tears before i cut into the cake, setting a slice on a plate and hurrying back to him.

i place the dessert in front of him, before sitting back down, just watching him as he eats. i’m no longer in a cake mood, my appetite gone as i push my still only half eaten pasta around my plate.

“Jack said hi, by the way.” he speaks between bites and i hum.

“that’s nice, i’ll have to text him.” i acknowledge. “i talked to your mom today.”

“you did?”

“yeah, i called her for the cake recipe.” i explain. “she said to tell you to call her.”

maybe she can remind him what day it is, seeing as she remembered it as soon as i called her.

“okay, i’ll call her soon.” he tells me, finishing his last bite before he stands once more.

“anything else, or can i take a shower now?” he asks, as though i’ve inconvenienced him somehow.

“you can shower.” i wait until he’s walking away, heading down the hallway to our room before i speak again, lowly whispering. “happy anniversary.”

i know i deserve better; that my love should be celebrated. i know that i deserve someone who will remember our anniversary; maybe even someone who will get me flowers just because and who will spend time with me and appreciate my love rather than tolerate it, but i love him.

***

i sit backwards, on my knees on a chair in the living room, facing the front door. i wait eagerly, checking the time on my phone religiously.

i know John should be home soon. a week long roadie finally ending with his long awaited return.

it’s half past two in the morning, much later than i normally stay up, but i refuse to let him arrive home without a proper welcoming.

my eyes are half lidded, but excitement still courses through my veins, remembering his three goals and seven assists in this past four games.

i perk up at the sound of the front door unlocking, watching with baited breath as it creaks open. John steps through the doorway, looking exhausted, slipping his shoes off and dropping his roadie bag on the floor.

i squeal excitedly, gaining his attention as i hop off my chair and run straight into his arms.

“welcome home, Johnny!” i cheer, snaking my arms around his neck, and jumping up to wrap my legs around his waist.

he stiffens for a split-second, letting out an ‘oomph’ before his hands fly to my butt to hold my weight.

“jesus, y/n, warn a guy, would you?” he huffs out a laugh and i lean back to look at his face, expecting a smile but all i see is a blank expression and tired eyes.

i give a sad smile, unwrapping my legs and letting my body slide down his.

suddenly, i feel incredibly insecure, my happy mood diminishing and quickly being replaced by regret.

“you’re right, i’m sorry.” i breathe out, backing away. “i guess i was overly excited.”

i turn quickly in order to keep him from seeing my now glassy eyes, tears threatening to spill as i retreat down the hall to our bedroom.

i don’t expect for him to accompany me, but suddenly i can hear his footsteps behind me, slowly following.

“what was that?” he questions as we reach the bedroom.

i can feel myself reaching my boiling point, choosing to ignore his words as i walk into the en-suite bathroom. i turn the shower water on, but he follows me into the bathroom too.

“y/n.”

y/n. not ‘babe’ or ‘love’. just y/n.

i swallow the lump in my throat before i turn to face him.

“aren’t you gonna go to bed?” i ask in attempt to avoid his question. “you seem tired.”

“aren’t you?” he raises a brow, and i shake my head.

i jab my thumb towards the shower behind me, “i’m gonna shower first.”

“i see that.” he huffs. “what was that? you just walked away from me.”

i sigh, knowing what’s finally coming, and turn to shut off the shower water before facing him again.

“doesn’t feel good, does it?” i walk around him, back into the bedroom, but he’s hot on my heels.

“what?” his hand grips my wrist, spinning me back around to look at him. “what are you talking about?”

“look, if this is all in my head, tell me now.” i start, only confusing him further by the looks of his expression. “but, you don’t love me anymore.”

tell me i’ve got it wrong.

he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before he opens them again. “what are you even saying? i’m dating you, aren’t i?”

“are you?” i laugh bitterly, taking a couple steps backwards. “or are you tolerating me?”

“y/n,” he sighs, shaking his head. “you’re tired. and i must’ve upset you somehow, but you’re not making any sense.”

“you don’t appreciate me!” i shout, my hands gesturing wildly in the air.

“i cooked a nice dinner for our anniversary and you were late and forgot the date! and while you’re off playing hockey and winning games, where am i? here! i sit here and polish plates until they gleam and glisten. i clean the house and sit and wait for your return, and then when you do get home, you don’t even seem happy to see me! at all!”

John blinks in surprise at my outburst, his lips parting to speak, but i cut him off before he can get a word out.

“i made you my everything and you don’t even seem to care! i’ve been begging for you to love me again but i’m done! what happened to the man that assured me that my past relationships didn’t define me? the you that actually spent time with me?”

my chest heaves as i regain my breath, watching his expression change from confusion to defensiveness.

“i spend time with you!” he huffs and i roll my eyes.

“no, you sit and you read or you watch games or you do something by yourself on the other side of the couch.” i clarify dejectedly, nearly ready to give up. “you don’t do things with me. and if i try, you wave me off.”

“i just- i don’t understand where this is coming from.” he tells me, and i slump on the end of the bed, furiously wiping away tears that have begun to fall.

“that’s just it. you assume i’m fine with this, because i’ve let it go on for too long. i’ve sat here, and i’ve painted you in the best colors, and i’ve put you on this pedestal. i told myself that if i just did more- if i just did anything you could ever hope for- then we would be fine. that eventually you’ll love me again and you’ll treat me how you used to and we would be happy. but instead i watch you live your life and i’m delegated to the sidelines, begging to be even a minor part of your life. you tolerate me living with you. you tolerate my existence. and you tolerate my love.

“but i’m done. i can’t do it anymore.” my face falls in my hands, sobs wracking my chest.

i’ve finally given up.

John is quiet, but i can hear his feet padding against the floor for a moment, moving farther away before he comes back.

his fingers spread across my thigh, and when i drag my hands away from my face, opening my eyes to look at him, he’s kneeled on the floor in front of me.

“i’m sorry that you feel i don’t love you anymore. i never meant to make you feel like you’re just tolerated in my life. but i promise you, i see you. i do appreciate everything you do for me, and the love that you give me.”

his hand leaves my skin, fumbling with something in his grasp before holding it up.

my heart skips a beat, those butterflies returning in my stomach as my lips part in surprise. my eyes lock in on the diamond ring that sits in the little black velvet box in his hands.

“i promise, you’re not just going tolerated. i love you, and i want you in my life forever.” my gaze flickers up to his face, and i already begin nodding my head. “will you marry me?”

i nod even faster, an excited grin spreading over my lips, and he smiles softly, removing the ring from the box and slipping it onto my outstretched finger.

i admire it for a second, appreciating how right it looks to have a ring on my finger.

this is it.

this is what i did it all for.

what i’ve waited my whole life for.

my hands cup his face, pulling him in to press my lips to his.

“i love you.” i whisper, my lips still burning for his, and in response, he pulls me in for another kiss.

when we finally part, we begin to get ready for bed, effectively ignoring the outburst i just had. and once we climb into bed, i kiss him once more, melting into his touch like i used to.

“i’m sorry, you must be tired. i took up so much of your time tonight, you could’ve been asleep by now.” i mumble, listening to his heartbeat under the weight of my head.

“it’s okay. don’t apologize.” his fingers run through my hair and he turns off his bedside lamp, blanketing the room in darkness. “i love you.”

i fully plan on responding, but amongst the comfort, my eyes have already turned heavy, and speaking feels like too much work. my breathing evens out as i bask in the closeness of this moment.

i love him.

#john marino #john marino x reader #john marino imagine #john marino fic #john marino blurb #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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