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oneforthemunny · 5 months

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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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veala2 · 11 months

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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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literaila · 1 year

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still here

tasm!peter x reader

summary: there’s an ache in me, put there by the ache in you

(for @elysian-chaos)

warnings: angst, fluff, feeling unworthy, feeling useless, you know, seperation

a/n: ‘tis the damn season is the best song ever. dont argue

there's this little thing called stress baking.

typically, stress baking is referred to as coping by making something delicious to scavenge on, instead of dwelling on the feelings scavenging you. and typically, it's done with a certain type of elegance--one that is made up of chaos. completely insane, yet completely in control. it's a messy dance, but perfectly choreographed.

stress baking is a very reviving task. filling up the house with muffins and pies is not only good for distracting yourself, but also for making friends when you run out of room. or smiling at the cashier every time you have to go to the store for ingredients.

it's something you've practiced for years. something you've become somewhat addicted to.

but then there's baking while stressed. which, you swear, hadn't been your intention.

brownies from a box were supposed to be easy. they were notoriously easy. a couple of eggs, some oil, and some water. the hardest part of your job was mixing, but you'd done it so many times that you zoned out while doing all of it.

box brownies were supposed to be non-stress and quick. but when you burn the brownies and batter rises over the top of your glass pan, and the oven is dirty, and the apartment smells like burnt batter and oven cleaner--well, you have to reread the directions.

you're a good baker. you've been making cookies and cakes for parties for years. you pride yourself on not needing measuring cups because you can eye a recipe by the gram.

not that these brownies would agree.

and it's already five-forty-five. peter is going to be home in the next fifteen minutes and this was supposed to be a treat. something good.

"surprise! i ruined our oven, and now we're going to have to spend the next few nights at your aunt's house in your twin-sized bed until the smell of death goes away!" doesn't typically bring out any smiles.

and peter's been stressed lately, and you've been stressed about him.

and now you're making brownies from scratch without butter--because you used it all on the last batch, oops--and the number of candles you've lit is a sure fire hazard.

but if peter would just smile at you, pull you in by your waist and laugh while he kissed you with a chocolate mouth, it would all be fine.

if there wasn't so much riding on this one (two) pan(s) of brownies. like being able to sleep comfortably tonight.

you turned the oven down, found a new pan--threw the other one out because it was nothing but a source of disappointment--and cleaned the oven just enough to not draw any suspicions. but you could still feel the failure lurking.

peter was going to come home to a chaotic house, and it was your fault.

so you scrubbed at the counters. fixed the stack of bills on the table so that you couldn't see any of the stamps, folded the blankets, and even swept the kitchen floor.

still, you knew peter would know. because he always knows. and maybe that was why he was acting so weird lately--maybe that's why you were acting so weird.

the door opened when the timer on the oven went off.

you'd wanted to watch peter walk through the door--so you could gauge how tired he was, how miserable--but maybe it was better not to know. to let him put on a mask while your back was still turned.

"hey, baby," he said, as you were pulling the brownies out of the oven, setting his house keys on the counter and sighing. "i'm home."

you peeked over your shoulder, giving him a hint of a smile--the same type he was giving you. "hey, honey," you said back, "you're home."

peter walked around the island to stand right behind you, kissing the back of your head and stealing a look over to the stovetop. he clears his throat. "brownies?"

you shrug. "thought you might like something sweet when you got home."

you take off the oven mitt, not really wanting to look at him--maybe because you're scared of what you'll see, or maybe just because you can already feel his eyes tearing down your skin.

but you can feel his breath on your neck as he chuckles. his exhaustion as he leans into your back.

"i've already got you, though," he whispers one peck at the edge of your jaw, another by your ear.

you snort and pull away, turning so you can look at him. and then you pretend to throw up.

he laughs and pokes your forehead.

you're not looking at him and he's not looking at you.

you turn back to the brownies.

"did you drop something in the oven?" peter asks, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

"no," you answer, a bit too defensive.

"sure?"

"am i sure that i didn't burn something in the oven, peter? yes."

there's a beat. "...cause it smells like it."

you headbutt him. "you smell like it. go shower. you can't eat these yet."

"yes, ma'am," peter takes a step back, and you look at him again. you can see the question in his eyes, and see your own reflecting the same question.

what are you hiding?

"we have some ice cream, too."

peter moans, his head back. you roll your eyes at him.

and you start cutting the brownies, worries, and chocolate chips sticking to the knife, listening to peter's footsteps, feeling his presence sticking to you like sugar, sticky and rich, his eyes keeping you on edge.

you know you shouldn't feel stupid--peter doesn't actually know what happened, or care--but you do. because he knows, and because even from the split second you looked at him, you could see the strain on his skin, the pressure weighing him down, dragging his feet across the floor.

you feel stupid just because you don't know what to do. so before he can close the door, you turn around. choosing reaction instead of pretending.

"peter?"

he pauses, his head whipping towards you. his eyes are as soft and loving as they always are--his attention remains the same, even when his energy doesn't. like he's wasting himself away just to take care of you.

he swallows. "yeah?"

"are you--" you blink, look away, try not to taste burnt brownies. "are you okay? you seem tired. was work… alright?

peter smiles, shaking his head. "just the usual, bub. work and... work. i think i'll go to bed early tonight?"

you raise a brow.

peter clears his throat. "i mean, i think i'll take a nap tonight before i go out."

you nod. "okay."

you both stare at each other for a moment. he's far enough away that it's easier. you don't have to feel his emotions as he processes them. don't have to see them from up close.

you hate yourself for being afraid of him. for being afraid for him.

“d’ya want to join me?” peter asks, whisper slipping from his mouth, smile taunting from his lips. “we can cuddle and eat brownies.”

you lick your lips, shaky smile enough. “you sure? i’ve heard i can be a bit distracting…”

peter’s laugh makes his shoulders shake. “you heard correctly,” he says eyes crinkled, “but i don’t mind.”

you nod. you’re grateful for his ease. the careful reveal of his true face, the peeling of a mask. the admittance that not everything is perfect, no matter how small.

“go shower. i’ll get the sugar.”

peter kisses you on the cheek before he goes.

and at least you got a couple of smiles out of him. at least you can feel his kiss lingering on your skin.

it's not that serious. honestly.

you hardly even think about it. you're not thinking about it.

you're not dwelling on the smell of soft skin and the feeling of calloused hands running up and down your back, the tickle of a breath against your neck.

you're not thinking about it at all.

and if it's been a week--or a week and a half, or two, or three--since you last spoke, or shared the same space with peter, then it's fine.

this is something you've grown used to. something you're supposed to be used to.

peter has obligations.

he has things he needs to fulfill--not just for himself, but for others, for the guilt that you can see rocking his bones all of the time, the shame in his eyes when he comes home a bit too early. he has places that he needs to be, if only because he won't be able to live with himself if he's not there.

but then again, you're not sure how to live when he's not here. especially when the sink breaks.

still, as long as you can feel him pull you into his chest every night, imagine him kissing your forehead before falling asleep, then it's fine.

you're not thinking about any of it because it's fine.

but you miss him. if only momentarily.

he'll come back--you repeat this like a promise, like it's his voice whispering it to you--because he always does.

space is good for the heart, some part of you swears. though you don't think you could think of peter any fonder than you already do.

he comes in too late at night and is already gone when you wake up. he texts you updates--because you've talked about communication before--and tells you that he loves you through sweet little notes he sends during the day.

if the thing he wishes to share about his life is the worm he found in his apple, then you're perfectly happy to listen (read).

it's normal to miss the person you love most in the world.

and it's normal for your boyfriend to disappear for fourteen hours each day, just barely cuddling with you for three hours before he's gone again.

it's normal for you, at least

he’ll come back.

and so, instead of thinking about peter, and wondering when he might notice the frayed edges of your relationship, you make sure that he doesn't have to worry about anything.

you clean up after the two of you, running the dishwasher and cleaning the bathroom, and packing him lunch on days you know he'll be gone for the office. making sure there's always something he can eat in the fridge when he gets home late at night, and texting him to know what he wants from the store.

you make the bed and wash his clothes and hope that maybe it'll keep him from burning out.

you hope that maybe it will keep you distracted enough to not ask him for anything. like love or support or a five-minute conversation.

if taking care of him is the only way to keep him going--the only way to keep yourself going--then you'll do it. peter takes care of you enough.

but even if you're not thinking about it, it's there.

because you've just fallen asleep--which is extremely rare recently, mostly because you like to wait until you hear the window and then slow your breathing until you feel peter crawl into bed with you--and just woke up.

woke up with sweaty skin and a headache. it's night ten and you're getting nightmares again.

it's ridiculous that you can't even last two weeks without peter there. without him kissing you to sleep.

and when you burst out of bed, you almost fall into him--almost scream because you're sharing the bed with someone else.

tears are running down your face. your heart feels split open--like your dreams have revealed something inside it.

but you look over to peter and he's there; he's still here.

so you take a deep breath--chest caving in, body following--and you rest your head in your hands.

if there's anything you want right now, it's for peter to wake up.

it's for him to know all of this.

you want him to appear next to you, leaning over your back like he's going to shelter from the world if that's what you need. rubbing your back and whispering in your ear. you want him in your house and laughing when you break the shower rod again.

you want him to cuddle with you before he leaves, and cross his heart when you scold him while he crawls out the window.

you want him in more than just your memory.

but peter is snoring next to you, and so you sit there in silence until the tears begin to ease.

peter's not supposed to be home.

he works until five, and then takes the subway home--and you're not expecting to see him anyway. he's been shoving his suit into the bottom of his backpack right as you pull it out of the hamper.

so it's not that unusual for you to be laying in bed, shoes and socks kicked across the floor, hands gripping for some stability, and eyes puffy and red.

and it's not that unusual for you to squeak when the window opens, and spider-man's head peeks into your room.

you can feel peter's wide eyes behind the mask.

you're quick to wipe your face, throw on a clumsy smile. "peter," you say, exhaling. "what're you doing here?"

a body crawls into the window, dirt and grime on clothes finger-tips reaching out to you. "what's wrong?" he asks, voice only slightly muffled.

but you take a step back, moving away from him when he lands on the floor, leaving spots for you to vacuum up later.

"what're you doing here?" you repeat, voice a bit harsher, a bit faded.

"i need--" he reaches his hand out toward you again, retreating when you do. "i needed some more web fluid. i don't--" he shakes his head. "what happened?"

"i, um," you wipe traitorous tears away again. "i think there's some more in the closet. i keep moving it when i'm cleaning, sorry."

"you're crying," peter scolds. like you're being ridiculous. like you're not trying to save him the effort it's going to take to fix this irrational piece of you, these lonely broken bits.

you bite your lip and look away.

because although you can't even see his eyes--they are still scolding. they are quick and cruel reminders that you haven't talked to peter in two weeks.

you turn towards your bedside table, pretending to organize the contents on top.

you can hear peter moving.

"what's going on, bub?" he says, soft enough for the words to crawl under your skin. he's taken the mask off. his voice is clear.

"oh, nothing, you know," you pause, shrugging. "just the usual sad movie type of cry..." peter's hand reaches your back and you flip around, almost knocking over your lamp.

"c'mon," he whispers to you, far closer than you'd been expecting.

you try and take a step back, only meeting a dead-end. he's cornered you. "you should go, peter. you were just--"

"this is more important."

you laugh. "some silly tears are more important than a collapsing building?"

"you're more important," peter swears, his eyes so focused on yours, "to me."

you blink and shake your head. gesture back towards the window. "go and save some people. you don't have to help me too."

peter swallows, brows furrowed. "will you tell me what's wrong?"

"i can take care of myself, peter. you don't need to worry about it."

"well, i'm going to."

you roll your eyes. and then you break free of his hold, moving away from the table, from the cage he's built around you. "move along, spider-man."

peter doesn't move any closer, but his limbs are tense. his face is concerned and hurt--you try and shield that out.

"i'm not leaving you when you're crying."

"i'm not crying anymore."

peter scowls. "stop deflecting."

you take a deep breath, throat dry and aching. "i'm not--" you clear your throat, shaking your head and looking away from him. "i'm fine, peter. but some people actually need you. go and save the day," you tell him. "i'll still be here when you come back."

and you are.

you're sitting on the couch, staring at photos peter took on the wall, wondering how to explain any of it.

how to explain yourself without digging the two of you any further in this hole.

you've been trying to prove just how little you need peter--just how useful you could be--and by doing so, you've put yourself in this situation.

because you do need him. you just hadn't wanted peter to know that.

so you're sitting on the couch, trying not to flinch every time the air conditioning comes on, or there's a footstep from the apartment above you. you're waiting for peter to climb in through the window, waiting to see how exhausted he is before he has to deal with you.

and you've bitten your lip raw. completely eliminated any evidence of fingernails you once had.

your heart stutters with every minute that comes by.

and when you finally hear peter hop in from the fire escape, your heart stops completely.

you wonder if he's going to change before he comes and finds you. before the inevitable happens, and you give him another reason to work so late.

your restlessness must be audible because it only takes peter forty seconds before walking into the living room. he's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

he's wearing a frown like a well-tailored suit. known and made for him.

you're trying not to frown back.

"hey," you say, putting on a smile, voice flighty and an octave too high. "everything okay?"

"no one got hurt," peter says, the antonym to your tone.

"good."

apparently, your tight-lipped smile isn't enough to ease the tension in the room.

"are you ready to talk?" peter asks, slowly stepping toward you, just barely meeting your eyes.

you'd scrubbed your face after he left. sobbed in the shower as you washed away any of the shame you hadn't meant for him to see. you'd made sure that your eyes weren't puffy, and your eyelashes were dry before he'd got home.

so when peter scans your face--as he's doing now--he shouldn't notice anything unusual.

besides the facade you're putting on.

you clear your throat, eyebrows lifted like you're unconcerned. "there's not much to talk about."

peter's sullen face doesn't move an inch. "why were you crying?"

"i already told you. i watched a sad movie," you wave a hand, "you just came in at the wrong time."

peter sighs. he sits down on the couch next to you, keeping his distance. "don't lie."

you frown. "i'm not lying."

"you've got some pretty obvious tells, you know," peter whispers, giving you a hint of a bittersweet smile. "you don't have to talk to me. but i'd like it if you did. i just want to make sure that you're... okay."

"i'm fine, peter."

he looks away. "and if you're not then we'll figure it out. i just want to know."

"well, you do."

peter opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head.

he's sitting three feet away from you, but his hands are clasped together, his legs are opposite of yours, and he can't even look at you.

you can feel it, as you push him away. as you try so desperately to hold him close without touching him.

"okay," peter says, eyes meeting yours again. "i don't want to push you."

no, but he should pull you off of this ledge. should keep you from falling any further than you already have.

you shake your head, laughing. it's not funny.

"what?"

you close your eyes. count to ten. forget how to breathe, or how to speak to the person you love most in this world.

"what?" peter repeats, but softer.

you open your eyes.

and then it all crumbles.

you scoff. "can you stop looking at me like that?" you plead, breaking away, physically distancing yourself from him.

"like what?"

it's his fault, really, for coming home so early in the day.

"like you can't deal with this. like this is exhausting."

the tears sneak up on you, knocking you out before you even notice that they're there.

peter's eyes are wide as he stares at you. "you're not--" he swallows, frantically reaching towards you. "this isn't exhausting--i'm not--" a moment, tears beginning to fall. "what do you--"

you sigh, shaking your head. "you're always gone, and you come home exhausted every night after you think i've fallen asleep, and you only talk to me through text, and even now you just--" you stop, voice breaking. "if you can't do this," you say, softly, "then you should just tell me."

peter is closer than he was a moment ago. "what?"

"i know this is a lot of work, okay? and i know that you're already pushing yourself, so it's fine if i'm too much. if--if loving me is too much."

there's a moment of silence, and you're almost sure that peter has already left.

but then there's a thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. you can't open your eyes, can't face the reality you've been desperately holding off.

"you're not too much."

peter moves closer to you, his leg touching yours, his hands moving so that he can hold you closer.

you couldn't push him away if you tried.

"you're not too much," he repeats, the words sinking into your skin, his breath meeting yours. "i can't believe you would think that."

you half laugh, half sob. peter wipes away those tears too.

"you're the only thing keeping me going," he tells you, kissing your forehead. "i'm sorry i haven't been there. i didn't realize..." he shakes his head.

"you shouldn't have to take care of me as much as you do," you whisper.

peter nudges his head against yours. "hey. you take care of me way more than i take care of you. you clean up after me and stay up with me when i can't sleep. you help fix my suits, and do all of the laundry. and you never complain. you're practically my guardian angel."

"that's all easy."

"not for me," peter says, voice lighter than before.

you shrug.

"but you do all of that cause you love me," he adds, kissing your forehead again. "or, i hope that's why."

"it's the sex."

peter laughs, nuzzling his head into you. "well, at least you're honest. but, it's the same reason that i take care of you. you shouldn't feel... guilty because of that. you're no burden on me."

"no?"

"absolutely not."

you bite your lip. try and believe peter. but honestly, you're most lovesick from how close he's holding you. how you can feel his skin and listen to him speak somewhere that isn't your bed. you're not quite sure that this isn't a dream.

"hey," peter moves his head so you're looking at him. "we suck."

you laugh, leaning your forehead against his.

"i'm sorry it's been so long since we've... anything. it's been a rough couple of weeks."

"for me too. it's not your fault."

"you have to tell me if it's not enough, okay? i don't want you to suffer through it by yourself. if you need to talk to me--even for ten minutes--then you have to let me know."

"okay."

"do you promise?"

you nod against him, nose brushing his cheek. "i promise, peter."

peter smiles, satisfied. he groans, pulling you even closer to him. "i love you, bug. so much."

you can barely hear him because of how tight he's hugging you. it sort of hurts, but mostly heals.

"i know," you say back. but peter probably can't hear you, because you say it right into his shirt.

my masterlist here.

tags:@moonlarking-blog @v1ci0us @preciousbabypeter @alexxavicry @directioner5life @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @localrockstargf @thestudiouswanderer @take-my-hand-time-boy @thoughtsofagodlovingsunflower @nyomjoon @moo-b1tch @raindropstearsandtea @rqmanoff @hollandweather @wetcoldnoodle @urlocalavenderhazestan @valvlry @imthatcoolmom @spideysimpossiblegirl invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @sharkswaters @rowniebow @anaislfbv @take-my-hand-time-boy @mileyc111 @starsval @ratsys

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afewproblems · 1 year

Text

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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avastrasposts · 7 months

Text

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

187 notes · View notes

rookthorne · 11 months

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐅𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐅𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

It was always a rocky road, establishing new traditions within a family. Naturally, the two men wouldn’t make it that hard, but they wouldn’t make it so easy, either — it did not mean that it would be any less fun, or any less messy, that was for sure.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ༄ Fireman!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader x Fireman!Steve Rogers

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ༄ 2.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ༄ Fluff, crack, food fight

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ༄ I must admit, this was some of the most fun I have had writing. I couldn't stop laughing.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ༄ Almost (Sweet Music) by Hozier

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ༄ @rookthorne's Fright Night — Masterlist

𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Navigating the household that belonged to the two men that lay slumbering was no easy feat – not when there were two puppies hellbent on disrupting the peace of the early morning with their yips and demands for attention.

“Babies, babies- Come on, quiet now,” you hissed, petting their heads hastily. The loungewear you had thrown on when you clambered out of bed was being attacked by paws, claws, and tongues as the two puppies jumped from their crates. “Hush, shh!”

Cap and Cleo just stared at you from the floor, heads tilted. “Inside voices, alright?” you pleaded, scratching their chins. “They’re asleep–don’t wanna wake them up now, do you?” They huffed and grumbled low in their throats, then sat back on the floor. “Exactly. Let’s get you some breakfast and then you can go outside and play.”

The two puppies inhaled their breakfast with as little as a tail wag, and then they stormed outside onto the dewy grass that was covered in fallen leaves. You sighed and closed the sliding door behind them, chuckling as they tumbled through the leaves and chased one another.

Fall had arrived faster than you could anticipate, and with it, you were itching to get started for Halloween – carving pumpkins, drinking hot chocolate (which Bucky and Steve splashed a bit of whiskey in, ignorant of your displeasure), and heading into town for the Fall Markets.

Today, however, you had warned them that you were breaking out the flour and sugar; it was bake day, a tradition you had come up with on the spot when you had searched the web for Halloween cakes.

Bucky and Steve were both still asleep. When you had shuffled down the mattress to throw on some clothes, Bucky was the only one to stir, and he pulled Steve close in place of you. The sight warmed your heart.

It didn’t stop you from walking to the kitchen and mentally preparing for what was to come, though.

With Cap and Cleo fed and outside, you turned the coffee maker on with a whirl and you grabbed three mugs from the cabinet. “This should wake them up,” you mumbled as you placed the mugs in a line in front of the machine that hissed and gurgled as it worked.

The smell of fresh brew filled the kitchen, and you turned to the pantry, determined to set out the ingredients for what was needed.

“Flour.” A large white bag hit the counter with a dull thud. “Sugar.” The small container of raw sugar and the larger tub of granulated sugar thumped onto the counter. “What about- Hmm.” You stopped and stared at the shelves of spices, eyeing off the cinnamon amongst many others. “Fuck it.” The cinnamon moved to the counter as well as the salt and baking powder.

All of the other ingredients you needed lined the counter after a few more twirls, and you stopped to consider just how you were going to pull this off. The recipe, one you had found during your hunt for the perfect cake, promised that this was ‘The most faboolous Halloween treat’, and while the photo certainly made that impression, you were not the most successful baker – average at best, you hoped.

You hummed and looked towards the bedroom door where Bucky and Steve slept. They would have their work cut out for them, you decided – you needed their help.

The coffee machine beeped and steam flew from the now full jug of coffee. “Perfect timing.”

Just as you started to pour the dark, smooth, god-send of a liquid, you heard footsteps down the hall. Arms wrapped around your middle and you were pulled into a warm, strong chest. A chin rested on your shoulder and the person huffed.

“Good mornin’, Cherry, baby,” Bucky rasped, and he kissed you on the cheek. “Whatcha makin’? Smells good.”

“Hey, Buck,” you replied, smiling at him. “Coffee–I need yours and Stevie’s help today. Do you think you could go wake him up?”

He sighed. “Do we gotta, sweetheart? That bastard is grumpy in the mornin’s.”

“Yes, we do. And we're baking today, remember,” you reminded him, pointing a spoon at his nose. It dripped coffee as he pouted. “Please go wake your husband up.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, and he let go of you to pad back towards the bedroom. You turned then to look at him – grey sweats hung low on his hips and he shuffled his feet while he rubbed his eyes. His hair was in a messy bun that had more strands loose than tied back. “I can feel you starin’.”

“And?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder and winked before he disappeared behind the door of the bedroom. There was a squeak from the mattress, then a whooping call. “Wake up, husband!”

A loud groan answered Bucky’s shout and you chuckled. The springs of the mattress creaked and another grunt of surprise. “Get off’a me, you bastard,” Steve barked.

“Nope,” Bucky replied, and there was laughter in his voice. “Cherry said you had t’a get up, so you are gettin’ up, you lazy son of a bitch.”

“Boys!” you yelled over the arguing, and they fell silent. “I have coffee. Get your butts out here.”

There were rapid footsteps hurrying down the hall after your words, and you giggled. “I got ‘im!” Bucky said proudly, puffing up his chest. “See, it worked.”

You rolled your eyes and looked at Steve, who was blinking and smiling sleepily at you. “Hey, darlin’.” His body was warm as he pulled you into a hug, and you sighed happily. “Now that you sent this oaf after me, what are we doing?”

“We are baking a cake–I made sure to have everything ready.” You pointed at the ingredients lined on the counter, and Bucky reached over to grab his and Steve’s cup of coffee. “And you know I need my two best helpers to make this work. So, Buck,” you said, looking at him.

He stared back at you with wide eyes over his coffee mug, and he hastily swallowed before standing to attention. “Ma’am?”

You snorted. “You are on mixing duty. The bowls are there, and I need these amounts,” you explained, handing him a slip of paper with measurements for both the dry and wet ingredients. “Don’t forget, different bowls for the wet and dry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said seriously with a salute. He marched to the counter, straight-backed and with perfect military precision.

“Drama queen,” Steve muttered.

“And you,” you piped in before Bucky could snipe back. “I will get you to help me with the oven and pouring the mixture into the trays.”

“Got it.” Steve walked over to the cupboard that held the baking trays and pulled out a few to prepare them. You couldn’t help but stare at his navy sweats as they clung to his ass, and the tight, white tank top that was far too tight over his chest. “You stare any longer, honey, and we’ll be baking this cake on our own.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, averting your eyes as both Bucky and Steve chortled. “Anyway, I will get the things needed for icing–I want to make it purple and orange. What do you two think?” They hummed an ascension and you walked to the fridge to get the cream, having already organised the dye earlier.

The three of you worked together to start the cake off, somewhat successfully. Bucky was covered in flour after a much too enthusiastic moment of mixing, and Steve, the smug bastard, had thrown a handful of it at his husband and it landed on target – the side of Bucky’s head, turning his brown locks into white.

“You motherfu-”

“Language!” you laughed, arching a brow. “Or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Since the fuck when!” Bucky argued, his mouth falling slack at the incredulity. “I’ve been swearin’ like a sailor this whole damn time and only now you have a problem wi-”

A cloud of flour exploded over his chest and neck, forcing him to clamp his mouth shut so he wouldn’t inhale the powdered mess. You lowered your hand, now covered in the incriminating evidence, as Bucky blinked and coughed; clouds of white exploding around him.

“Cherry, run!” Steve warned, but you couldn’t move – you were rooted to the spot as your heart hammered and you fought the urge to laugh hysterically.

Bucky put the bowl in his hands down on the counter, shaking his head from the worst of the mess. His eyes found yours, and he stared – a flash of playful anger danced in his eyes before they darkened, that mischievous glint you were oh so used to there to stay. “Yeah, Cherry,” he said slowly, deeply. “You better fuckin’ run, ‘cause if I catch you…”

You hightailed it from the kitchen with a squeal of laughter, your feet slapping on the tile as you bolted towards the dining room. “Oh, shit!”

All you could hear over the pounding of blood in your ears and Bucky’s feet on the floor as he chased you was Steve’s laughter in the kitchen – you could see him bent double by the oven, barely able to stay upright in his mirth. “Steven Grant! Help me!”

“You’re on your own,” Steve called, finally sinking to his knees in the kitchen, unable to stand any longer.

“You bastard!” you hollered back, dodging Bucky’s hands as he rounded the table. “Help me!”

“No one can, Cherry! I’ll get you!” Bucky sang, and he launched himself at you.

You shrieked and dodged to the side before running off again, this time straight back to the kitchen and directly towards Steve, whose bed head was all of what you could see of the blond, his head bowed in hysterics while his shoulders shook from laughter.

“Think fast!” you said quickly, and you jumped behind him, crouching behind his bulk as Bucky skidded to a halt. Steve straightened and held his arms out, placing himself firmly between the fuming brunette and you. “Thank you, finally you’re useful.”

“Excuse me?” Steve huffed. “For that, you can deal with ‘im on your own.” He put his arms down just as Bucky grinned wickedly.

You watched, transfixed with fear, as Bucky’s hand dug into the bag of flour. “Barnes, no, don’t- Don’t do it.”

“Or what?” he challenged, stilling his hand. “What will you do?”

“I will forbid you from having any cake, or cookies, that I bake!” The threat didn’t dissuade him, however.

Flour flew through the air and landed square on your middle while the residue fell to your thighs, and then onto the floor. Bucky cheered and fist pumped. “Bullseye!”

You looked down at your body, then back up at Bucky with a smirk. “Oh, it’s on now.” Launching yourself forward, you hugged Bucky tightly and spread the loose flour on his own shirt. As he groaned and squirmed to get out of your grip, you pushed him back so you could dig your own hand into the bag of flour.

“Cher-” Bucky warned, but he was cut off by a fistful of flour hitting him dead in the face. He sneezed continually and shook his head while you laughed. White powder covered his face and caked his stubble. The entirety of his front was covered and he looked like your very own Casper the Ghost. “Goddammit!”

Before you knew what was happening, another ball of the ammunition of choice landed on the back of your neck. You whirled around to see Steve’s hand covered in the powder. “That’s it!” you hollered. “All bets are off now.”

Flour flew through the air, landing on every surface of the kitchen and turning it white, much like your clothes, skin, and hair. You could hear laughter and curses as projectiles hit their targets, and the more you threw, the worse the cloud of white became until you could barely see where you were aiming.

“Uncle! Uncle–oh my god,” Steve coughed, and through the haze, you saw him bent double and panting for breath. He was as white as a sheet, and his eyes, the ocean blue you had fallen for, popped in the contrast of the flour that caked his face.

Bucky huffed and landed one final hit to finish off – right on top of Steve’s head. “Serves you right, fucker,” he said.

You panted and looked around the kitchen as the clouds of white settled. It was a mess – flour covered every surface, and the cake that you had put so much thought into sat abandoned on the counter with far too much flour to be worth saving.

“We made a right mess,” you sighed. “Look at it, and the cake can’t be saved.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Bucky petulantly stated, crossing his arms. The action made another cascade of flour fall to the floor. “You two started it.”

“Did not,” Steve grumbled, frowning at Bucky. “Bastard.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk!”

“Boys!” They both looked at you, brows furrowed. “Let’s get cleaned up and then we can clean the kitchen, okay? We have a cake to bake, and this time, actually bake.”

“We look like ghosts,” Steve said suddenly, and he pointed at Bucky and you. “Look.”

“Oh my god, we do!” you giggled, while Bucky stared, unimpressed, between the two of you. “Fine. Come on.”

They followed you to the bathroom, and after over an hour of cleaning the flour from one another’s hair, you ventured back into the kitchen, hands on your hips. Bucky grumbled and pouted while he wiped down counters, and Steve huffed while he vacuumed and mopped the floor.

By the end of the afternoon, you stood proudly between the two men as you looked at the final product of all of the combined hard work – a triple layered cake, covered in white icing with small orange pumpkins decorating the bottom ring. Cutouts of purple bats and black cats covered the top. “It’s so pretty,” you whispered.

“We did good,” Bucky replied, kissing Steve and then you on the cheek. “But I think I know how to make it better.”

“How?”

“We eat it.”

Steve sighed and shook his head. “You’re impossible, babe.”

“What?” Bucky asked, looking at Steve. You turned and put your hands on Bucky’s chest, forcing him to walk backwards and away from the cake. He put his arms out with his palms up in a shrug, and he dug his heels in. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“After all I went through to make the damn thing?” you asked, arching a brow at him, and you pushed harder, making him stumble. “You won’t touch a single dollop of icing.”

Bucky sighed and hung his head. “Fine, whatever.”

“Drama queen!” Steve called from the kitchen, and Bucky flipped him off while you shook your head.

“You both are,” you said with an air of finality. “And I love you both for it.”

“We love you, too,” they both said at the same time, and then they devolved into an argument over who loved you more.

“No, punk–that’s a fuckin’ lie-”

“How would you know; all you love is her fucking baking.”

“I do! And the rest of her!”

You sighed and stared at the cake behind Steve’s back, happy that you had at least maintained the new tradition – not without causing havoc, but you would choose to have that flour fight as part of it, ‘till the end of time.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #steve rogers x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #steve rogers x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #stucky x female reader #stucky x f!reader #stucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #stucky fanfiction #stucky fluff #rookthorne's works

327 notes · View notes

babydollmarauders · 11 months

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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fullcravings · 1 year

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Best Chocolate Cake Recipe – Homemade From Scratch

#chocolate #homemade #layer #cake #birthday #food #kids #frosting #dessert #recipe #joyfoodsunshine

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rorywritesjunk · 1 month

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(Day 14. Baker. This was the fic I meant to post on Buggy's birthday as a gift for @hey-august . Happy very late birthday! 🧡 There was a reason I asked you so much about your cake preferences)

The captain had been avoiding you since you first greeted him with "good morning". He locked himself in the kitchen with a sign that said "keep out!!!" with little skulls around it. Fine, okay, you could kind of deal with that. He had a crew and ship to worry about so it was acceptable for him to ignore you, even if it was your birthday.

The crew wished you happy birthday, even Richie yowled and gave you a lick on the cheek as what you assumed was his way of joining the crew in their well wishes. You appreciated it, thanking them and giving Richie ear scritches.

The day was fine. You kept busy doing your chores, though every time you passed the kitchen you paused in front of it to put your ear to the door, wondering if you'd be able to hear what was happening on the other side. All you were able to hear each time was Buggy talking to himself and swearing. What was he even doing in there?

Evening rolled around and Buggy made a brief appearance. You tried to make your way to him just to say hello but the second he saw you he disappeared back into the kitchen and slammed the door. That... Was odd. You started to wonder if you did something to upset him.

Another hour past. The crew had decided to throw you a party to celebrate your birthday. You helped yourself to a few drinks, enjoying the atmosphere and energy that came from the crew. They sang songs for you and for their own enjoyment, drinks sloshing around as food fell to the floor. Richie was amidst the chaos, helping himself to whatever he could swipe off the tables and into his mouth.

The only thing... The captain was nowhere to be found.

You decided to check the kitchen since he seemed to be hiding in there. It was odd for him to lock himself away like this when there was a party going on. Was he okay? It wasn't like him to not be in the middle of the party, shoulder to shoulder with his crew as he laughed and drank and sang along with their bawdy sailing songs.

You didn't dwell too long on his absence because as you approached the kitchen door it suddenly burst open, Buggy's leg detached from his body as his hands held a platter with... A lopsided and melty looking cake sitting upon it. He froze when saw you, clearly not expecting to see you, but once his leg snapped back to his body and he straightened up, he tried to play off the surprise.

"Why aren't you at the party?" He demanded as he tried to move the cake from view, going so far as letting his arms lift it above your head. "Shouldn't you be drunk right now?"

"I came to check on you, Captain." You said, eyeing the platter as it moved upwards. "What is that?"

"Nothing." Buggy said. "Turn around and go back to the party!"

"Did you bake a cake?"

He stared at you before letting out a snort, bringing the tray back down so you could get a better look at it. It... Was a mess. No crumb coat, the frosting had been applied when the cake was still too warm, causing it to slowly melt away. A strong smell of peanuts and chocolate came from the cake and the more you studied it, seeing the texture of the frosting, you saw chunks.

"What kind of cake is this?" You asked, eyeing him as your finger took a swipe of frosting to taste. It....was a taste. The chunks were chopped up peanuts and you could taste the butter and sugar. "It's... Good."

"Well of course it's good! I made it all by scratch!" He said proudly as his hand nudged the cake to steady it. It looked as though it was a layered cake with one layer slipping off. "Homemade peanut butter frosting, just for you! And the chocolate cake is my famous recipe!"

You wondered what he meant by "famous".

"Here, let's go ahead and cut you a piece." He said as he turned back to the kitchen. "It's for your birthday anyway."

Well that was just as sweet as the frosting he made for you. You followed after him as he set the cake down to find a knife and plate. You took a seat and watched him move about the kitchen, trying not to notice the mess he made. Why did this take him all day?

"I didn't have actual peanut butter, so I made it from scratch." He told you as he brought a plate over. "Peanuts, butter, and sugar. Tastes like the crap we can get at the shops."

"Thank you, Captain." You said, smiling at him as he cut the cake in half. He looked as if he was about to put one half of it on the plate for you. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

He paused and looked at you. "Well, maybe I wanted to! Ever think of that? Maybe I wanted to bake a cake for you!"

His tone was a little defensive and you felt bad saying that, so before he had any regrets over his kindness you took the plate from him, ignoring the weight of it with half a cake on it, and held your hand out for a fork. He huffed softly and grabbed one for you.

"I appreciate it, really." You said, taking the fork and taking off a piece of the cake, making sure to get some frosting on the bites. You looked at him as you stuck the fork in your mouth, trying to ignore the creamy yet chunky frosting, but... The actual chocolate cake was good. The crumb texture was perfect, it was moist, and instead of complimenting Buggy you finished what was in your mouth before helping yourself to another bite.

"Well?"

"I's goo', Cap'n." You managed to say through the third mouthful. You didn't hesitate in sharing a forkful with him, holding it out for him to take. He could just get his own piece, but if you were willing to share yours...

He took it, wiping his mouth with the bake of his hand to get rid of any frosting to crumbs. It was good. He made it afterall, following the recipe from the box precisely.

"Thank you for the cake, Captain Buggy." You said with a smile. "It's delicious."

Buggy cleared his throat and took another bite of the cake, trying to ignore his cheeks turning pink. "Yea, well, happy birthday! Don't get too drunk, tomorrow you got work to do and everything! Got it?"

You nodded, still.smiling at him as you held another forkful out for him. You decided to share the half with him, alternating bites of it with him, glad you were able to finish up your birthday with him.

#bugust fic #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x you #buggy x you

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cadavercowboy · 2 years

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I'll Paint You Mornings Of Gold

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: You’re the most special thing Eddie has in his life, he just wants to make sure you know it.

Word Count: 4k+

Warnings: I’m soft.

The air makes his eyes burn and itch the moment he peels them open, and he does so with a long, low groan. Eddie is never up before the sun; in fact, he’s typically just easing his tired body into bed right around the time that it begins to peek up over the horizon to welcome the day. But today is different. Today is special.

He’s had a fitful night of rest; so worried that he’d accidentally oversleep and ruin the surprise he has planned, but he’s up now and he smiles with excitement and relief. Rolling to his side, he peers down at you with pure adoration in his sleep-swollen eyes. Your face is pressed deep into his pillow, mouth pushed into a cute little pout that he simply can’t resist. He leans in, dropping a whisper of a kiss on your dry lips before pressing another to your temple. As much as he would love to lay here soaking up your warmth and admiring how precious you are while you sleep, he has much to do.

Dressed only in his boxers, Eddie carefully extracts himself from beneath your shared blanket and shivers slightly at the chill in the room. His rings catch on a tangle in his long hair as he scratches lazily at his scalp. He pads barefoot to the tiny kitchen, stretching his long arms over his head before flipping on the overhead light.

The fluorescent light within the fridge is blinding and Eddie squints one eye against the offensive glow as he reaches in for the orange juice. He twists the cap off and tips his head back to chug the sweet juice straight from the carton — the way Uncle Wayne has always told him not to — until he quenches his thirst.

Effectively satisfied, he haphazardly returns the container to its rightful shelf and pulls open a drawer to grab a few eggs, then the carton of milk. He makes sure to check the milk’s expiration date, a habit borne of a late-night lesson he once had to learn the hard way. Dropping the items on the counter next to the stove, he tries to remember the rest of the ingredients he needs, but fails to do so off the top of his head. Instead, he rummages through the messy countertop in search of the small wooden box containing all of the recipes Wayne had inherited from his mother.

Bending at the waist, Eddie leans in close to read the tiny, cursive writing labeling the stack of creased and stained cards. Some of them are so intricately scrawled that he’s positive they aren’t even in English. Eventually, he locates the recipe for his grandma’s famous chocolate cake and he plucks the card out, holding it up to read it better in the low light of the kitchen.

Eddie fumbles about the small space; gathering various ingredients, tools, and bowls as he gets to work. He makes sure to read every instruction and step at least three times because he knows the risk of mistake is high, seeing as he’s never baked anything besides himself. He wants to get this exactly right for you, though.

The kitchen fills up with more and more bowls and dirty utensils as Eddie whips up the cake batter. Admittedly, he makes twice the mess because he keeps tossing mixing spoons and measuring cups into the sink before he realizes that he still needs them for the rest of the recipe. Plus, there’s the bowl he initially started off using, which ended up being way too small if the puddle of spilled chocolate goo from when he tried stirring is anything to go by.

He’s been trying very hard to keep quiet so as not to wake you up, but still manages to drop a large steel bowl and knock his head off of an open cabinet door. Thankfully, he’d left a fan running in his bedroom which seems to have drowned out at least some of the noise, though that doesn’t make him feel much better about his throbbing skull.

By the time Eddie slides the messy pans into the hot oven, his hands are a gluey mess, layers of flour seem to blanket the whole room, and chocolate stains the corners of his wide mouth from when he’d tested his batter. More times than strictly necessary, probably. He reads the cracked clock above the stove and makes a mental note to check on his creation in about 20 minutes.

In the meantime, Eddie sneaks back to his room and gently opens the door to peek in on you. To his relief, he finds you still very much asleep. A small smile curls his lips and nervous excitement churns in his stomach. His growling stomach.

Back to the kitchen he heads, although he’s too tired — or rather, lazy — to make much of an effort for breakfast. The half-open package of chocolate chip cookies will do just fine. He grabs a small stack, shoving two into his mouth and crunching away happily as he creaks the oven door open to check on the cakes. They’ve risen a bit and seem to be cooking nicely — as far as he can tell — which Eddie can’t help being just a little proud of. He closes the door with more force than he intends, shoving yet another dry cookie between his lips.

Brushing crumbs off of his hands, Eddie lights up with an idea. He strides purposefully to the front door and slips out of the trailer. The air outside is crisp and fresh with the unfamiliar scent of early morning and Eddie breathes it in deeply. He plods barefoot down the wooden stairs and steps into the dewy grass before crossing the yard.

At the edge of the property sits a clump of tiny, pink wildflowers that Eddie knows you’ll love. He plucks one little bunch, pinching the delicate blossoms between his fingers as he sniffs their light, perfumed aroma. A chill hangs in the air and the encroaching sunlight makes the yard sparkle as if it’s full of diamonds. Eddie has to admit he kind of enjoys being up this early and he spends a few minutes taking it all in.

Panic rips through Eddie’s body and he stands swiftly, nearly sprinting back to the trailer when he remembers about his cakes still cooking in the oven. He enters the kitchen in a rush, frantically searching for something to put your flowers in. The first thing he spots is Wayne’s empty prescription bottle on the top of the pile of trash in the bin. It’s weird and kind of tacky, but he runs to the sink to add a little water and plops the miniature bouquet into the perfectly-sized yellow cylinder.

One problem handled, Eddie wrenches the oven all the way open. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees his cakes are perfectly safe and actually look quite good. With the threadbare oven mitts, he carefully removes the pans from the rack, only burning the tip of one finger in the process. The cakes are gently turned out onto a cooling rack — as per Grandma Munson’s instructions — and Eddie admires the soft, perfectly baked rounds.

While he waits for the cakes to cool, he digs in the pantry for the canister of frosting he knows he bought last weekend. He exclaims victoriously when he locates it, peeling back the plastic lid to dip his finger into the sugary glaze then into his mouth for a taste. It’s then that he has a horrible realization.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, tongue flicking out to lick his sticky lips. “Fucking candles.”

His palm cracks loudly against his forehead when he slaps it and he pushes his bangs up out of his face. He can’t believe he forgot what is arguably the most important part of a birthday cake. There’s got to be something he can do to remedy this.

Eddie spins in a slow circle, eyes scanning the room for a solution. He stops and stares at his uncle’s half-empty pack of Marlboro’s, scratching contemplatively at his chin for a long while. Well, that’s kind of a candle, he thinks to himself before ultimately deciding against that option. He doubts ash and chocolate are your favorite flavor combination and he knows you would never let him live down how white trash it is to use a cigarette as a candle. You deserve better, anyway.

Tabling this issue for later, Eddie presses a wide hand to the bare cakes to determine whether they’re ready to be frosted yet. A small bit of warmth emanates from the spongy surface, but he knows he doesn’t have long before you wake and he wants to make sure he can still surprise you.

He tosses the bottom layer onto a plate, giggling to himself at the way it flops and thuds dully against the ceramic dishware. With a spoon that is much too small for the task, he scoops a blob of frosting onto the first half of the cake. Using the back of the tiny spoon, he spreads it around, cringing when the surface of the cake begins to crumble and peel as he passes the gooey frosting over the top of it. Things seem to be going downhill fast as Eddie frosts with haste before ultimately deciding that he doesn’t have time to be careful and meticulous.

Discarding the dirtied spoon into the sink with a loud clatter, Eddie shoves two long fingers into the container of frosting. It squishes between the digits and he tries not to think too hard about the uncomfortable sensation. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he plops a wad of chocolate down and spreads it messily over every inch of the cake. Working swiftly, he stacks on the second layer of cake, albeit a bit sloppily and lopsided. Digging into the canister again, he smothers the rest of the cake in a thick coating of icing until it looks like something somewhat resembling a decent chocolate cake.

Eddie drags his frosting-coated fingers across his tongue, sucking the sweet confection from his fingers so as not to waste any of it. With a final search of the pantry, he desperately looks for something he can use for candles. Amongst the boxes of rice and instant potatoes, he sees it…the perfect substitution.

He washes his hands quickly and dries them on his boxers before shoving his replacement candles into your cake, then grabs the heavy plate and the little makeshift vase containing the flowers he picked for you earlier.

He can hardly contain himself as he walks down the hallway, pushing his bedroom door open with his foot. The small yellow bottle nearly tips over when he places it down on his dresser, though he catches it before it does. Glancing in your direction, Eddie ensures you’re still asleep as he carefully places the plate of cake near the foot of the bed, being extra careful not to get any chocolate on his blankets as the heat of the cake begins to melt the frosting and allow the top layer to slide and shift.

Perching at the edge of the mattress, Eddie situates himself beside your sleeping form. He leans over you, letting the ends of his hair brush along your arm as he traces a line of kisses across your shoulder and up to your warm cheek. You begin to stir and he kisses you more firmly, his lips skimming the corner of yours as your eyes flutter open.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Eddie whispers through a smile when you turn to kiss him back.

Eddie sits upright when you finally wake and grin tiredly at him. He can’t stay still; hips shifting restlessly and his palms rubbing nervously against his bare thighs. You find his behavior a bit suspicious, even more so when you spot a strange, powdery white substance around his left nostril. Your suspicion is instantly dampened when you also notice what appears to be chocolate smeared across his clean-shaven chin.

“Thanks, Ed,” you respond, your voice still raspy with sleep. “You got some shit on your face.”

You can’t imagine how he could look any more guilty as Eddie scrubs at his mouth with the back of his ringed hand. Though you ask him what it is, he advises you not to be concerned, instead twisting sideways to grab his lighter from the dresser.

“I made ya somethin’,” he chirps giddily as he turns away from you.

The distinct sound of the lighter’s wheel grinding and the flame igniting fills the room and you begin to smell something strange. Eddie’s back muscles bunch and pull taught, though you can’t figure out what he’s doing. You don’t get the chance to ask before Eddie peers over his shoulder at you.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he instructs. “And promise you won’t laugh.”

Unfortunately, Eddie’s request immediately makes you laugh and he’s quick to scold you playfully for it. With a final check to make sure you aren’t looking, Eddie slips one palm under the plate then turns back in your direction and lays his other hand over your eyes just to be certain you can’t see.

“Eddie, what are you doing?” you giggle. “It’s too early for this, just let me see it!”

“Listen, it’s ugly…so you can’t look directly at it okay?” he warns, telling you to open your eyes even though his hand still blocks your vision.

Eventually, Eddie gives you permission to look, but only allows you to do so through the small space he opens between his fingers. Your lashes tickle his hand and he watches your eyes light up when you see what he holds.

“You made me a cake?!” you wonder aloud, not sure why your eyes well with tears.

“‘Course I did, beautiful,” he says, removing his hand from your face. “Now blow these things out and make a wish before we burn my whole room down.”

It’s then that you notice what the cake is decorated with. You can’t believe it at first, but upon closer inspection, the thin yellow objects are undeniable.

“Eddie, is that…is that spaghetti?” you ask in disbelief.

“I forgot to get candles,” he admits sheepishly.

You really laugh then, utterly amused by your boyfriend’s determination to amend his small mishap. It’s things like this that remind you how much you love Eddie and the sheer ridiculousness of him, the soreness in your belly only solidifying how funny he is. Upon his insistence, you do blow out the candles, although you’re not sure what to wish for when you have everything you want right in front of you.

“Thank you for making me a cake,” you remark, your hands pressed against your cheeks as you smile uncontrollably over Eddie’s sweet gesture.

“Sorry it’s not very pretty.”

Eddie begins to pluck the uncooked spaghetti from the cake, laying the burnt bits of pasta along the edge of the cake.

“As long as it tastes good, who cares,” you encourage.

With a mischievous smirk, Eddie digs his fingers into the cake, gouging a chunk out and stuffing it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, beginning to nod slowly as he hums. Licking his lips, he hums even more loudly as if thinking deeply about it.

“Pretty good,” he declares. “Wanna taste?”

You nod in affirmation and reach for the plate, confused when Eddie takes it away from you. He shoves the cake onto his cluttered dresser then crowds your space, his lips puckered expectantly. When you don’t immediately take the hint, he grabs you and pulls you into a deep kiss. His lips are tinged with the rich flavor of the cake and you agree that it tastes delicious when he slips his tongue against yours. Eddie deepens the kiss, shifting his weight to press his pelvis against yours before he pulls away and allows you to take a breath. Your palms glide along the firm planes of his abdomen and you look up at him, eyes burning with both love and lust.

“Is this my gift?” you question, batting your eyes as your fingers journey lower.

Eddie gasps as your inquiry prompts him to hop out of the bed. First, he hands you the little bouquet of pretty flowers in their absurd container, then he yanks open the middle drawer of his dresser, rummaging through the piles of poorly folded clothing in search of something. He produces a small rectangle wrapped in newspaper and sealed tight with a questionable amount of tape.

He offers the compact package to you with a flourish, plopping down next to you and shaking the entire bed in the process. As you turn over the object in your hand, Eddie reaches between the mattress and the boxspring to pull out a large manila envelope that he lays in your lap for you to open next.

You begin to pick away at the tape, looking for a good place to start tearing away the thin paper; however, Eddie has ensconced the entire thing quite thoroughly. He fidgets down by your legs, his fingers now fiddling with his necklace as he drags the pendant back and forth along the chain. The longer it takes you to open your gift, the more worked up Eddie seems to get. Now he’s running the necklace over his mouth and taking it between his lips which he mashes anxiously along the thin piece of jewelry. It’s a quirk you’ve noticed he has when he’s feeling particularly squirrelly.

“What, is this a bomb or something?” you tease, nudging him with your knee. “Why’re you so nervous, kid?”

“Just worried if you’re gonna like it,” he confesses, nodding towards your gifts.

Assuaging his fears, you finally manage to unwrap the first one, inhaling with genuine surprise as the cassette falls into your hand. You recognize Eddie’s somewhat sloppy writing indicating the tracks contained on the tape. It’s a mixture of some of Eddie’s favorite bands — ones that you’ve come to enjoy too, songs you both love, as well as a few songs you’ve never heard of; something Eddie has obviously put a lot of thought into. You cradle the mixtape gently in your hands, running your fingers along the edges as you appreciate the effort Eddie had put into it.

“Some of your favorites and some new stuff I think you’ll like,” Eddie explains, pleased with your joyous smile.

“I’ve always wanted a mixtape. And it’s even more special coming from you,” you assure him with sincerity. “Thank you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie’s smile falls flat the moment you utter the silly moniker.

“That nickname is not staying,” he warns you with a somber shake of his head. “Definitely not.”

“Hmm. I guess we’ll see about that,” you dismiss as you open the flap of the envelope Eddie had given you earlier.

Reaching inside, you pinch the single piece of paper you find within and carefully slide it out. Your eyes fall to the black and white sketch and you have to reach up to swipe at your cheek so that the tear it elicits does not drip onto the delicate paper and ruin the gorgeous illustration.

“Do you hate it that much?” Eddie jokes unsurely when he spies the trickling tears.

“Oh, Eddie,” you sob, hurling yourself into him to wrap your arms around his neck. “It’s beautiful, you idiot.”

He wraps you up in his arms, pulls you close to his bare chest and kisses your shoulder as you sniffle into his hair — which smells suspiciously like chocolate. His wide palm rubs a soothing circle against your spine while he holds you. As you revel in Eddie’s embrace, you hold up the drawing still in your hand and study the unbelievable artwork. Eddie has drawn an illustration of you both, but as characters from your favorite movie. Him holding a pair of magical orbs while dressed in overly tight gray pants with a spikey, fantastical hairdo and you draped in a sparkly white masquerade gown. A goblin king and his queen.

When you pull away, Eddie stops you before you can settle back into the spot you were sitting in before. His hot palms cradle your face and he stares into your eyes with a breathtakingly deep look of affection. You smile in return, allowing your eyes to shut when he daintily kisses your tear-streaked cheeks then wipes the moisture away with his thumbs.

“We have to frame it,” you announce, as Eddie plucks the drawing from you and puts it safely back in the envelope.

He takes the cassette from you as well, overjoyed when you ask him to listen to it with you, practically bouncing up and down as you do. He’s more than happy to fulfill the request and inserts the tape into his stereo system, turning the volume knob to a reasonable level.

Eddie returns, crawling around you to climb back into bed and wiggle his way beneath the blankets. He situates himself, fluffing the pillows and tucking himself in before lifting the comforter to invite you to join him. You do so with pleasure, snuggling into his side and resting your head just below his chest. His warmth bleeds into the skin of your cheek and you sigh happily. As your fingers draw absent-minded patterns over his torso, you notice a streak of chocolate staining just below Eddie’s left ribs and can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes you.

“Hey, Ed?” you wonder, tilting your head to look up at him.

“Hmm?” he hums lowly, eyes already shut.

“Did you eat cake for breakfast?”

Eddie does not immediately respond, although his eyes flash open quite fast. He stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, his lips pinched shut with guilt as yours strain against the laughter you try to hold back.

“No.”

The response is suspiciously succinct for your normally long-winded and talkative boyfriend. He dares to glance down at you and sees your dubious expression.

“Had cookies,” he admits, his voice a teeny, tiny peep as he smirks sleepily.

You lay back down then, your head rising and falling with each steady breath Eddie takes. His strong fingertips drag with blissful tenderness along your scalp as he lightly plays with your hair and lulls you into a sedated state. As the stereo begins to play a familiar tune, you smile and turn to bury your face into Eddie’s side.

“This is the song that played on our first date,” you murmur reminiscently.

The only response you receive is a guttural moan of agreement from above you. Tilting your head once more, you learn the reason why Eddie sounds like a zombie is that he’s nearly asleep; practically melting into his pillows and no longer fighting as he succumbs to slumber.

Between waking up so early and taking on the ever-stressful endeavor of baking his very first cake, Eddie is exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open for more than 10 seconds after laying down. Not to mention that the heat of your body and the all-encompassing peace that accompanies your very presence isn’t helping matters much.

Your fingers drift over Eddie’s side, barely making contact with the flesh. His arm remains wrapped around you, though it falls a bit limp as he drifts away. The sun is just beginning to peek in through the curtain, but you don’t mind staying here a while longer before you start your day. Among the rhythmic sound of the heartbeat you can barely make out through your human pillow, you listen to the remainder of the mixtape on your own; a contented smile on your lips as you bask in the spicy scent of Eddie’s soft skin and realize this might be the best birthday you’ve ever had.

“I love you,” you whisper — your voice so quiet Eddie probably wouldn’t hear you even if he were awake — before adding, “Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Love you too, my little meatball.”

Joseph Quinn Masterlist ✦ Writing Masterpost

#i threw this together last night so if you think it's bad pls don't @ me #let’s be honest i really wrote this for me and mir and our love for labyrinth #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #joseph quinn fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction

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