#next batch is in the oven!

[jollymalt]

the saga continues

[roses-and-elixir]

.

[collophora]

Fic of the week Is the ongoing Return From Darkness,

I've never illustrated Tech Lives AUs, so I was really hyped when @lightspringrain contacted me, thanks again for trusting me with your designs and your OC <3

This art is thanks to the SUPER TALENTED @collophora . They are pieces for chapter 1 and chapter 2 of my CX-2 Tech fanfic "Return From Darkness". She did an absolutely fantastic job. If you want to see more amazing storyboard art, go check her out!

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men find themselves stuck in ridiculously tight spaces with you—too close for comfort. Tension is high, tempers flare, and maybe, just maybe, something else lingers in the air. 

What happens when there's nowhere to run?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

As a writer who absolutely adores her dearest readers—and remembers almost everything—I suppose it’s finally time to give the people what they want.  

Yeah… it’s really come to this.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The kitchen smelled like sugar, vanilla, and the faintest hint of burning from the last batch of muffins Crowe pulled out. He hadn’t said anything, but you knew he was silently judging himself for not taking them out sooner. 

Not that it mattered—you were still determined to get one before they cooled completely.

You leaned on the broom in your hand, watching him move around like he owned the place. Well, he kinda did. As much as he loved you, he didn’t trust you near an oven anymore after the incident (which, in your defense, was totally not your fault. Mostly). 

That’s why he’d handed you the broom and kept you at a safe distance, probably so he could supervise while you did something harmless.

“Hey, grab the flour,” he said, focused on lining up the muffin tin for the next batch.

You sighed, abandoning your post as Official Kitchen Sweeper and heading to the pantry. Reaching for the sugar on the highest shelf was another story. You stretched up, fingertips barely brushing the bottom of the bag. Seriously, who put it this high? Oh, right—Crowe, who probably didn’t consider your not-tall-enough height when he stored it away.

“Crowe,�� you called, still reaching. “Can you—”

Before you could finish, he was already there. And way too close.

You hadn’t even heard him move, but suddenly, his chest was inches from your back, arm reaching effortlessly over your head. He grabbed the sugar with zero struggle, like he hadn’t just waited for you to fail first.

“…Did you just let me struggle on purpose?” you asked, turning your head slightly.

Crowe didn’t answer immediately, but you knew he was smirking. “Maybe.”

You were this close to elbowing him when the broom in your hand, which you’d forgotten about in your mild irritation, slipped from your grip. There was an ominous clatter, then a soft thump—and then, the unmistakable sound of wood against wood.

You blinked. Turned your head.

The pantry door was shut.

And when you tried to push it open, it didn’t budge.

Crowe exhaled through his nose, sounding way too amused.

“Great job,” he said.

“Oh, shut up, this is your fault,” you shot back, jiggling the doorknob. Nothing. The broom must have fallen just right to wedge itself against the door.

Crowe knocked once on the wooden panel like he was testing its durability. “You locked us in a pantry.”

“Technically, you locked us in the pantry.”

“Technically, you dropped the broom.”

You turned, glaring up at him. “You let me struggle for the flour.”

Crowe lifted the bag slightly, gaze unreadable but definitely smug. “And I’d do it again.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Okay, genius. How do we get out?”

He considered the question like he wasn’t already aware that brute force was an option. Eventually, he sighed, shifting to lean against the nearest shelf.

“I’m not fully sure. Could call Geo, he has the spare key,”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You wanna be stuck here for hours?”

“Geo would get us out in five minutes.”

You groaned, debating your options. You could call someone. Or, more realistically, you could let Crowe deal with it while you sat back and did nothing.

…But then again.

You eyed the bag of flour in his hand.

Crowe caught the look immediately. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Too late.

You lunged, swiping for the bag, but he yanked it away with zero effort, holding it out of reach like you were some kind of misbehaving child. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. But still.

“Give me that,” you said, reaching again.

Crowe tilted his head, considering. Then, with the smuggest expression you’d ever seen, he lifted it higher.

You knew what had to be done.

With zero hesitation, you smacked the bottom of the flour bag.

A cloud of white exploded between you.

Crowe inhaled sharply, taking a full breath of flour straight to the face. You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying so hard not to laugh as he coughed, shaking the powder from his braided brown hair.

“…You little—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he lunged.

You yelped, dodging to the side, but he was faster. In a single movement, he snatched the flour bag back and retaliated, dumping half of it over your head.

You gasped. “You ass!”

Crowe only smirked, but you could see the challenge in his eyes—like he was daring you to try something else.

Oh, it was on.

You grabbed a handful of flour straight from the bag and flung it at him, coating his shirt. He retaliated by smearing it across your cheek with his thumb, and before you knew it, you were both full-on brawling in the tiny pantry, shoving, dodging, laughing—until, in one swift motion, Crowe grabbed your wrists, spun you, and pinned you against the wall.

The breath left your lungs.

You barely had time to register the shift before he lifted you, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. Instinct, mostly. His grip was strong, hands firm against your thighs as he leaned in, his breath warm despite the ridiculous amount of flour covering you both.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Crowe tilted his head, looking up at you with a lazy smirk. “You good?”

You huffed. “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned. “And yet, here we are.”

You rolled your eyes, still catching your breath. “Y’know, if we ever get out of here, you’re cleaning this up.”

Crowe hummed like he was actually considering it. “Mmm. Nah.”

You squinted at him. “Nah?”

Flour clung to both of you like snowfall, dusting your clothes, your skin, even the strands of Crowe’s hair—but neither of you cared.  

Because before you could get another word out, he leaned in and stole a kiss.  

It was quick—at first. Just enough to catch you off guard, just enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair out of pure instinct. But when he felt you kiss him back, he grinned against your lips, wasting no time in deepening it.  

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as the pantry shelves dug into your back. The scent of sugar and flour mixed with something distinctly him, something warm and addictive. He kissed like he did everything else—with confidence, with a teasing edge that made you want to smack him and pull him closer all at once.  

“You—” You barely managed to exhale when he finally pulled back, your face burning hotter than the oven outside.  

Crowe only smirked, looking way too pleased with himself. “Figured if I was gonna be stuck in here, I might as well get something out of it.”  

You smacked his arm, sending a puff of flour into the air. He just laughed, shaking some from his hair before grabbing your wrist and tugging you right back into another kiss.

Yeah. You were never gonna live this down.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol was pissed.

You could feel it in the way he stomped beside you, in the sharp inhale through his nose, in the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was aching to throw a punch.

And honestly? You wouldn’t blame him. The guy totally deserved it—hitting on you like that, all cocky smirk and stupid one-liners, right in front of Sol. If it were anyone else, maybe he would’ve let it slide. But you? Sol wasn’t the type to stand by and let someone act like you were up for grabs.

Which is why you were currently dragging him down the hallway, ignoring his half-hearted protests, his muttered curses, and the death glare he was sending over his shoulder toward the guy still standing near the lockers.

“Let me go,” he growled, low and tense.

“Nope.”

“I’m not gonna let him get away with that—”

You rounded a corner, yanking him into the nearest door. Sol barely had a second to register what was happening before you shoved him inside and locked the stall door behind you.

A pause.

Then—

“…Did you just pull me into a bathroom stall?”

You leaned against the wall, exhaling. “Yes.”

Sol stared at you. Then at the stall walls. Then back at you.

“…Why?”

“Because,” you said, voice slow and pointed, “I’m not letting you fight a guy just because he shot his shot. It’s not worth it.”

Sol scoffed, crossing his arms. “Not worth it? He was—”

“Flirting.” You raised a brow. “That’s all.”

Sol’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, and that’s enough.”

You sighed. There was no reasoning with him when he was like this—fists clenching, shoulders tense, barely restraining himself from storming right back out.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

“And you’re insane for thinking I’m gonna let that slide.”

“Well, guess what? You don’t have a choice.”

Sol huffed out a frustrated breath, raking a hand through his hair. He looked like a caged animal, shifting his weight, practically vibrating with pent-up aggression. It would’ve been funny—his broad frame stuffed into the cramped stall, visibly suffering—if not for the fact that he genuinely looked like he was debating whether or not to climb over the door and bolt.

“…You really think I’d lose?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You pulled me in here like I’d lose,” he muttered, eyes narrowed. “Like I couldn’t take him.”

“Oh my god.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Sol, I know you could take him. That’s the problem.”

His scowl deepened. “Then why—”

“Because it’s stupid!” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “It’s a waste of time, you’d get in trouble, and for what? My honor? Please.” You rolled your eyes. “Like I can’t handle a guy flirting with me.”

Sol was quiet for a second. He looked away, flexing his fingers before stuffing them into his pockets.

“…Still,” he muttered.

You glanced at him. “Still what?”

His jaw clenched. “Still don’t like it.”

Something in his voice was different—lower, rougher. He wasn’t just pissed anymore. There was something else beneath it, something raw and unreadable.

For once, you softened.

You exhaled, somewhat over his shit, “I know.” before turning around to look though the gaps of the stall.

Sol didn’t move for a moment. But then, finally, he sighed, letting his head fall back against the stall like he was exhausted—more like he was embarrassed.

You see—you pressed yourself against the stall door, carefully peeking through the small gap to see if the guy had followed.

Sol, still leaning against the back wall, let out a slow, controlled breath, finally starting to relax—until you shifted back against him.

He stiffened.

You didn’t notice. Too focused on scanning the hallway, you pressed in closer, unknowingly making the situation worse. Sol’s hands twitched at his sides, jaw locking as he tried so hard to think about literally anything else besides the fact that—

“Oh, good, I think he’s gone,” you muttered.

Sol said nothing.

You frowned, turning your head slightly. “You good?”

Still, nothing.

…Weird.

Shrugging, you went back to peeking out, oblivious as you unknowingly rocked back against him again.

Sol flinched. His hands immediately shot out, grabbing your hips to stop you before this got any worse.

You finally noticed that. “Hey, what are you—”

“I need you to move.” His voice was strained, almost a growl.

You blinked, glancing over your shoulder. “Move where? There’s no—”

Then you felt it.

Oh.

Oh.

Realization slammed into you like a brick. You went completely still, processing. Sol looked like he wanted to die.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, finally—

“…You’re kidding.”

Sol exhaled sharply. “Help me.”

You choked on a laugh, smacking a hand over your mouth. “Oh my God.”

“This isn’t funny!” he hissed, keeping his grip on your hips firmly so you wouldn’t make things worse.

“It’s hilarious!”

“I’m suffering!”

You were fully cackling at this point, bracing yourself against the stall door as Sol groaned behind you, deeply regretting every decision that led to this moment.

“…So, uh,” you teased, grinning. “Still mad about that guy flirting with me?”

“Shut up.”

He glanced at you, then shook his head, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. “We’re literally hiding in a bathroom stall.”

“Yeah, and?” You questioned.

Sol rolled his eyes, but his posture relaxed, tension slowly easing out of his shoulders.

Sol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before dragging it down his face. His other hand curled into a fist at his side, like he was trying to keep himself in check.  

“…Can we—” He stopped, rolling his shoulders back as if that would somehow fix his problem.  

You smirked, arms crossed, enjoying this way too much. “Can we what, Sol?”  

His jaw tensed. He looked at you, then away, then back again—like he was debating whether he actually had the guts to say it. His fingers flexed at his sides before he finally gave up, resting his head back against the stall wall with a quiet groan.  

“…Help me out here?” His voice was strained, low enough that it barely carried over the hum of the bathroom fan.  

You blinked. “Oh?”  

Sol shot you a glare, but there was a hint of desperation beneath it, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.  

“Don’t make me say it,” he muttered.

You grinned, absolutely reveling in this. “Help you out?” you repeated, feigning innocence. “Sol, I’m not sure what you mean.”  

His glare sharpened, but the way his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides betrayed him. He shifted, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to force some kind of patience into himself.  

“You know exactly what I mean,” he ground out, his voice thick with frustration.  

You tilted your head, tapping a finger against your chin. “Hmmm… I dunno. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”  

Sol let out a low, irritated growl, leaning in just enough to close the already small space between you. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.  

“…You’re really gonna make me say it?” His voice had dipped lower, a quiet challenge woven into it.  

Your pulse skipped, but you kept up the act, arching a brow. “I mean, if you’re asking for my help, you should at least use your words, Sol.”  

He dragged a hand down his face again before gripping the edge of the stall, his knuckles white. “I hate you.”  

“You love me.”  

He scoffed but didn’t argue, which only made your grin widen.  

You had another teasing remark locked and loaded, ready to fire—but then your breath hitched. Just for a second.  

Because he stepped closer.  

Too close.  

The air in the stall shifted, heat radiating from him as he loomed over you, his expression unreadable. Your back pressed against the stall door instinctively, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the weight of his stare.  

Your throat went dry as you swallowed.  

Fuck.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

The hotel was busy with the usual chaos that came with a trip involving your friend group—Crowe’s over-the-top plans, Sol’s constant complaints, and Brittany’s never-ending search for the perfect selfie lighting. You and Geo had just been about to head downstairs to meet up with the others when you suddenly groaned, realization hitting you like a brick.

“My sunglasses,” you muttered, already turning back toward the shared room. Geo sighed beside you, hands tucked into his pockets. “Seriously? You couldn’t have remembered before we left?”

You shot him a look as you grabbed the door handle. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Perfect Memory. I’ll be sure to consult you next time before I breathe.”

He half smirked, unimpressed, as you pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Rolling your eyes, you made your way to the nightstand where you were pretty sure you’d left them. 

Geo trailed in behind you, muttering something about how he should’ve just left you behind. But before he could make good on that threat, he paused, watching as you tossed your phone onto the bed.  

“You forgot sunscreen,” he pointed out.  

You groaned again, already annoyed. “It’s cloudy outside, I’ll be fine.”  

Geo folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Uh-huh. And when Crowe roasts you for looking ‘crispy’ in the group photos, I don’t want to hear it.”  

Sighing, you grabbed your sunglasses off the dresser. “I know, I know.” You huffed and reached for the sunscreen bottle on the counter. “But it’s fine. I’ll just do it real quick.”  

Begrudgingly, you squeezed some into your palm and started rubbing it onto your face. Geo made a noise of approval—until he actually saw what you were doing. His expression immediately shifted to disapproval, and he shook his head.  

“You’re doing it wrong,” he muttered, his usual calm demeanor just a little off. “You missed a spot.”  

You frowned. “Excuse me?”  

Before you could protest, Geo walked over and plucked the bottle from your hands. “Here. Let me—”  

Rolling your eyes, you lifted your chin to make sure you didn’t get a weird streak across your neck. “You’re supposed to just let me do it. I’ve got it.”  

Geo raised an eyebrow. “Let me help. You’ll burn otherwise.”  

You gave him a look. “Oh, please, I’ll be fine.”  

“You’re doing it wrong.”  

“Yeah, yeah, you said that.”

Geo sighed dramatically, stepping closer—the kind of sigh that meant he had no intention of letting it go. You barely managed to suppress a grin before he was right next to you, his hands gently but firmly adjusting your arms so he could rub the sunscreen in properly.  

“You’re gonna burn,” he muttered, his voice a little more intense than usual. You could hear the concern creeping through it, and despite yourself, you softened at the way he touched your shoulders with care, making sure every spot was covered.  

You stared up at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan at how overly concerned he was. “It’s just sunscreen, Geo. I can do it myself.”  

“No, you can’t,” he replied matter-of-factly, unscrewing the cap. “You always miss spots.”  

You shot him a playfully offended look. “I do not.”  

He glanced at you with an unimpressed eyebrow raise. “Really?”  

“…Fine, whatever.” You sighed, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing over sunscreen of all things. Besides, if there was anyone who knew skincare, it was Geo.  

He stepped closer, rubbing the sunscreen onto your shoulders. The cool lotion made you shiver slightly, but his touch was strangely gentle, careful not to be too rough. His hands moved with ease—practiced, almost—as if he’d done this before, and you let out a slow breath, focusing on the task at hand while he worked on your neck, your face, everywhere you’d missed.  

“Better?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper as he adjusted the way you were standing.  

You nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”  

“About time.” He smirked, stepping back to assess his work.  

Then, you heard it.  

The door handle clicked.  

Both of you froze, the room instantly turning too quiet.  

“…No.” You whispered, dread creeping in.  

It was Brittany.

“Why is she back so early?” you hissed, panic rising in your chest. 

Geo glanced at the door, then at the closet. Then at you. “You need to hide.”  

“What?”  

Before you could blink, he grabbed your arm, yanking you toward the closet. You barely had time to react before he practically shoved you inside, following right after and pulling the door shut just as Brittany entered the room.  

“Geo—”  

“I’m not dealing with this right now,” he whispered sharply.  

You barely managed to swallow back a retort before you heard Brittany moving around, shuffling through her things. You froze, pressing yourself against the closet wall, trying not to make a sound.  

Unfortunately, Geo had the same idea—only there wasn’t much space to work with.  

You were practically nose-to-nose, his chest lightly pressed against yours, every breath shared in the cramped darkness. It was suffocating, but not just because of the lack of space.  

You weren’t supposed to be here.  

You weren’t supposed to be with him like this.  

And yet, here you were, pressed close in a way that made every nerve in your body hyperaware.  

Geo shifted slightly, but the movement only made things worse, his hand brushing your waist as he adjusted his stance. His breath was warm against your cheek as he leaned in—so close that if Brittany weren’t in the room, you might’ve accused him of doing it on purpose.  

You swallowed. “Geo—”  

“Shhh.” His voice was barely more than a breath, the word a soft command that vibrated against the air between you. But there was something dangerously amused in the way he spoke, like he knew exactly what kind of mess he’d dragged you both into.  

“I told you, you need to be more careful.” Geo’s words were a low murmur as he leaned back against the closet wall, crossing his arms. His proximity was almost suffocating. You could feel the warmth of his body pressing into the space you barely had, his breath quickening just enough for you to catch it.  

“Oh, shut up.” You whispered back, unable to hold in a nervous laugh. The tension was palpable, a strange cocktail of adrenaline and something else that made your heart skip a beat. “You’re the one who shoved me in here.”  

“Yeah, well, I’m not trying to deal with Brittany walking in on us,” Geo’s voice dropped an octave, the irritation thick in his words. “Remember? No one knows we’re together yet.”  

You froze at his words, heart thudding a little faster. That was true—no one in the group knew. No one had ever seen you and Geo alone, and with him being the usually aloof and distant guy, everyone would be suspicious if they saw him helping you with sunscreen.  

The realization made your skin flush, and your stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and nervousness. How would Brittany react if she saw you two like this?  

You could hear Brittany moving around the room, rummaging through your things, her steps growing closer to the closet.  

And then, Geo was even closer, if that was even possible. You could practically feel the heat radiating from him, his body a mere inch away from yours. His presence filled the space, making everything feel suffocatingly intimate.  

“Geo…”  

His eyes flicked over to you, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch. He muttered under his breath, his lips brushing your ear just barely. “Shut up,” he snapped, the irritation in his voice mixed with something more—something that made your heart race even faster. “We need to stay quiet.”  

You bit your lip to hold back the laugh that threatened to spill out, but the way he was so close, the way you could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, had your stomach doing somersaults. You shifted slightly, trying not to make a sound, but the cramped space left you with no room to escape the warmth of his body pressing into yours.

Brittany’s voice drifted through the room. “Where is my damn bag…”  

Your stomach twisted as Brittany’s footsteps drew closer—too close for comfort. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, the air growing thick with tension. Every movement felt like it might give you away, but Geo was quick to react.  

Without a moment's hesitation, Geo’s hand shot out, pressing firmly against the closet door. His fingers gripped the edge, holding it in place, the door threatening to creak from the pressure. His body tensed, muscles coiling under his shirt like a predator ready to spring into action at any moment.  

The space between you, already nonexistent, seemed to shrink even more, his arm hovering above your head, blocking the door. The way he positioned himself so close to you, his chest almost touching your back, only made the situation more intense. The faintest brush of his breath against your skin sent a shiver down your spine.  

Brittany’s hand gripped the door handle, turning it with a soft click. Geo’s body shifted subtly, every inch of his being still, but you could feel the power in his frame—he wasn’t going to let her open it.  

Your heart pounded in your chest, the silence so thick you could almost hear it. If she pushed harder, you would both be caught, and everything would fall apart. You could feel Geo's pulse quicken as he held the door steady, his arm a firm barrier above you, ensuring that nothing moved.  

The heat from his body, the tension in the air—it all felt like a warning. But you could only stand there, frozen, hoping that Brittany would just leave.

Brittany's hand tightened on the door handle, twisting it again, but Geo didn’t budge. His arm remained above your head, a solid barrier, his body blocking any possible movement. You could feel the gentle pressure of his chest against your back, steady and unyielding, as he silently willed the door to stay shut.  

Her hand tugged harder at the handle, and you could almost feel her frustration radiating through the wood. You held your breath, praying she wouldn’t push too hard, or worse, get suspicious. The seconds felt like hours.  

"Ugh, this door's stuck," Brittany muttered under her breath, sounding more annoyed than worried. “Guess I’ll have to ask one of the guys to open it for me later."  

Your heart skipped a beat. You could practically hear her disappointment, and you were certain she was none the wiser to the fact that she was so close to catching you both.  

Geo’s body slowly relaxed, his grip loosening just a fraction as she finally stepped away from the door, the soft thud of her footsteps retreating making the air feel a little less suffocating.  

You let out a quiet breath you didn't realize you were holding, the tension melting away for just a moment. Geo, however, didn’t move immediately. He stayed close, his hand still braced against the door, and his voice dropped to a low murmur, almost too soft to hear.  

"That was too close," he whispered, his words laced with the same urgency that had gripped you both moments before. 

"Yeah," you agreed softly, your voice barely audible. "Too close."  

Then, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. His voice was barely above a whisper, low and edged with something unreadable. “We’re not supposed to be like this right now, you know?”  

You swallowed. “I know.”  

“And yet,” he murmured, almost amused.  

You barely resisted the urge to shove him. “We don’t have a choice.”  

Brittany’s footsteps halted just outside the closet, and your breath caught in your throat.  

“Is this my bag?” she muttered, rummaging through the room.  

Then, a sound that made your stomach drop—your ringtone.  

Geo tensed beside you, fingers pressing harder against the door to keep it shut. His body was practically caging you in, his heat radiating off him in the already suffocating space.  

Your pulse hammered in your ears. “You didn’t have to do this,” you whispered, barely moving your lips. “We could’ve just told her.”  

Geo let out a sharp breath, jaw tight. “Not now.”  

His tone was firm—final. No room for argument.  

You glanced up at him, catching the flicker of tension in his expression, but his gaze remained locked on Brittany, who now held up your phone with a triumphant look.  

“Found it! And I guess they left their phone under my bag,” she said, her voice growing fainter as she hurried toward the door.  

She turned, heading for the door.  

Only when you heard it click shut did Geo finally exhale, the tension in his body loosening—but his expression didn’t ease. Instead, his brows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.  

You frowned. “What’s wrong?”  

Geo pulled his phone from his pocket, tilting the screen toward you.  

A single missed call. From him.  

Realization crashed into you like a wave. Your heart skipped a beat.  

“…Geo.”  

He’d called your phone. On purpose. To make sure it rang loud enough for Brittany to find her bag before she even thought about checking the closet.  

Geo exhaled heavily, glancing back at his phone. “I’m really not in the mood to tell them about us right now.”  

You shook your head, but before you could respond, the door creaked open just a fraction. Geo had already managed to free himself, and you didn’t even have time to protest. He wasn’t about to let this moment drag on any longer.  

Smart. Calculated. Unbelievably risky.  

And, worst of all, it worked.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜 [ 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝒹𝒹𝑒𝒹 ]

It had started with something innocent enough—Sol was sick. Too stubborn to admit it, of course, but sick nonetheless. He’d skipped class for the first time in forever, and when neither you nor Hyugo received your usual sarcastic texts from him throughout the day, it was clear something was wrong.  

Hyugo, ever the opportunist, had immediately latched onto the idea of sneaking into Sol’s place. “We can’t just let him rot in there alone,” he’d said, dramatically clutching his chest like this was some grand mission. “And besides, if he’s too weak to fight back, this might be our only shot at pulling off the perfect prank.”  

You had agreed—not for the prank, but because, despite Sol’s grumpy exterior, you actually cared. Hyugo did too, even if he’d never admit it outright.  

So, naturally, sneaking in was the next step.  

Getting inside was ridiculously easy. Sol had forgotten to lock his window, a mistake that would haunt him soon enough. Hyugo had hoisted himself up first, barely containing his laughter as he reached down to pull you through. You had landed in a crouch, both of you moving like trained professionals—except for the part where Hyugo knocked over a stack of books.  

You both froze.  

Silence.  

No yelling. No threats of immediate violence. Just the distant sound of Sol’s snoring from his living room. 

Hyugo had grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. “He’s dead asleep. Perfect.”  

And that’s how you ended up crouched beside him, hidden in Sol’s bedroom like two criminals, your mission shifting from simple food delivery to pure chaos.

You nudged Hyugo with your elbow, whispering, “Alright, we dropped off the food. Let’s go before he wakes up.”  

But Hyugo wasn’t even listening. His eyes were locked onto the narrow space beneath Sol’s bed, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.  

“You know what would make this even better?” he muttered, barely able to contain his grin.  

You sighed, already regretting whatever he was about to say. “I swear, if you—”  

“Hiding under his bed.”  

You stared at him. “You’re insane.”  

“And you love it,” he shot back, already lowering himself onto the floor. “C’mon, this is once-in-a-lifetime stuff. Imagine his face when we grab his ankles.”  

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the thought of Sol’s reaction, that brief moment of pure, unfiltered terror before rage inevitably set in? It was too good to pass up.  

“Fine,” you grumbled, sliding down next to him.  

Hyugo barely stifled his laughter as you both squeezed under the bed, pressed close in the cramped space. The scent of detergent mixed with Sol’s cologne, clinging to the air, but all you could really focus on was the warmth of Hyugo’s body against yours.  

He shifted slightly, his thigh brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin.  

“Stop moving,” you whispered, trying to ignore the way your bodies were practically molded together.  

“I have to move,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement. “I’m not built for these conditions. Tell me, do all peasants live like this?”  

You scoffed, nudging him with your elbow—except the space was so tight, it ended up feeling more like a lingering touch.  

Hyugo let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly so his lips were close to your ear. “Careful,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “If you keep touching me like that, I might start thinking you like being pressed up against me.”  

Your breath caught for just a second, and that was all he needed to smirk.  

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but the way your body tensed against his didn’t go unnoticed.  

Hyugo only grinned, voice a playful whisper. “And yet, here you are, trapped with me. So close.”

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine. The space under the bed was suffocatingly small, but it wasn’t the lack of air that was making your heart pound—it was him.

Hyugo shifted again, deliberately this time, his body pressing just a little firmer against yours. His hand found your hip, fingers barely brushing over the fabric of your shirt. “You know,” he mused, voice slow and teasing, “I think I could get used to this.”  

You narrowed your eyes at him in the dim lighting. “Hyugo.”  

“Yes, sweetie?” He grinned, using that damn pet name that always made your stomach do flips.  

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your composure. “Focus. We’re supposed to be scaring Sol, not—”  

“Not what?” he interrupted, leaning in slightly. “Not making things… interesting?” His voice dipped, low and smooth as if he was daring you to react.  

Your fingers twitched against the cold floor. “You’re unbelievable.”  

“And yet, you still let yourself get stuck here with me,” he murmured, thumb grazing over your hip before he pulled away just enough to let the tension settle in.  

You were about to retort when footsteps sounded from the hallway—Sol’s, unmistakable and approaching fast.  

Hyugo smirked, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Showtime.”  

The sound of the door opening made both of you freeze. Footsteps—heavy, familiar. Sol’s voice grumbled something under his breath as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

Hyugo inhaled sharply beside you. You could feel his excitement radiating off him.

Sol let out a long sigh before muttering, “Finally.” There was a shuffle, a soft thud as he tossed something onto his bed. More footsteps, pacing. You could barely make out his silhouette through the slats of the bed frame.

Hyugo gave you a silent count with his fingers. Three… two…

One.

Without hesitation, both of you reached out and grabbed his ankles.

Sol let out a noise that was not human.

It was somewhere between a grunt and a strangled shout, followed by a blur of motion as he leaped onto his bed like it was a lifeboat and the floor was shark-infested waters.

“The fuck—?!”

Hyugo was already wheezing beside you, gripping his stomach as he tried to contain his laughter. You were barely holding it together yourself.

Sol, meanwhile, was not amused.

His head poked over the side of the bed, eyes dark with fury. “Are you two out of your damn minds?!”

Hyugo finally lost it, bursting into a fit of laughter as he rolled out from under the bed. “That scream!” he gasped between laughs. “Oh my god, I think I ascended.”

You crawled out after him, grinning as you dusted yourself off. “Totally worth it.”

Sol narrowed his eyes. “You put him up to this, didn’t you?”

Hyugo draped an arm around your shoulder, still grinning. “Actually, it was my idea. But they were an excellent accomplice.”

Sol exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Both of you are insufferable.”

“Aw, don’t be mad, Sol,” Hyugo teased, poking him in the arm. “We only traumatized you a little.”

“You’re lucky I don’t throw both of you out that window,” Sol muttered, flopping back on his bed with an exhausted sigh.

Hyugo leaned in a little closer, his usual mischievous grin softening just a touch, as if the playful moment had shifted to something more genuine. With a sudden, almost teasing move, he placed a quick, unexpected kiss on your cheek. The touch was brief but warm, and as he pulled back, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction, clearly enjoying the chaos he had caused. “Mission: success,” he whispered, the tone laced with a quiet, victorious amusement.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by the surprise, your heart doing a little flip before a smirk tugged at your lips. “What was that for?” you asked, trying to mask the flutter in your chest with feigned indifference.

Hyugo simply shrugged, the playful spark never leaving his eyes. “For being an accomplice, of course,” he said, his voice light, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And despite the teasing, despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. 

God, you loved his silly ass.

[gf2bellamy]

part one: alert synchronicity

— ★ spencer spends a day surrounded by small reminders of you—and finally understands that he's already lost his heart to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist. - part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Something shifted.

It wasn’t just a minor change, a fleeting blip in the rhythm of his day—no, this was something bigger. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a deeper instinct trying to get Spencer's attention, he didn’t know.

He woke that morning with an odd heaviness in his limbs, the kind that made the simple act of opening his eyes feel like a monumental effort.

The space beside him was empty. Cold.

And for a long, disorienting moment, he stared at the undisturbed sheets, his mind caught between sleep and wakefulness, reality and the lingering traces of a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

You weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t. You had left hours ago, after the movie credits rolled and the apartment had settled into silence.

You had laughed at something he said, before gathering your things and slipping out with a quiet "Bye Spencer."

That had been the plan. That’s how it always went.

Yet, for twenty minutes, he lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the vacant space beside him as if expecting it to offer answers. His mind was a paradox—simultaneously blank and overcrowded, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a gust of wind, too fast to grasp, too numerous to ignore. It was as though a hundred thoughts were scrambling for attention at once, but none of them quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t grab onto anything.

All he knew was that something didn’t sit right.

Was it just exhaustion? The residual effects of too many late nights and too many cases blurring together?

Because the truth was, he had felt it before. That eerie, inexplicable tug of fate, the universe nudging him toward something he couldn’t yet name. And today, it was stronger.

Today, it refused to be ignored.

The sensation clung to him like static, prickling beneath his skin even as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked tired—more than usual.

His eyes landed on the toothbrush—the one that wasn’t technically yours, but might as well have been. A soft pink handle, sitting next to his own.

He’d bought it months ago, after the third time you’d stayed over and sheepishly admitted you’d forgotten yours. It had been a practical decision at the time—a small, logical accommodation for someone who kept ending up in his space, in his life, for longer and longer stretches.

His fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, as if it might burn him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, fluttering and restless, but beneath it was something hollow, something aching.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to understand it.

Shaking his head slightly, Spencer wandered into the kitchen. The fridge door groaned as he pulled it open, half-hoping for inspiration, half-hoping to distract himself.

He frowned at the nearly empty shelves. A few containers. Half a bottle of almond milk. Some leftover takeout he wasn’t entirely sure was still safe.

He pouted, just a little. That soft, childlike disappointment that slipped out before he could mask it.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked:

Your cookies. The chocolate chip ones.

The kind you never used to bake until you learned he liked them more than your usual vanilla batches .

The first ones you made had been slightly burnt on the edges, the chips off balance, but you kept trying. Adjusting the recipe, tweaking it each time like it was a science experiment. The way you’d squint at the oven timer and mutter about ratios—it made him smile more than he ever let on.

Over time, they’d gotten better. Perfect, even. To the point where Spencer had started associating the smell of melted chocolate and brown sugar with you—with the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, with the flour dusting your sleeves, with the way you’d always leave a few extra in his freezer "just in case."

Now, the absence of them felt like a physical thing.

He closed the fridge door slowly and let out a long sigh, his back pressing against the cool metal as he leaned there for a moment.

But then his eyes caught something on the counter and his breath caught.

There, on the counter—your box of cookies. The very ones he’d just been craving.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor sometimes, dangling the answer to a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. A coincidence? Maybe. But the way his pulse jumped at the sight made it feel like something more.

A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the box, his fingers brushing over the familiar creases in the cardboard—the same way you always folded the edges to keep them fresh.

On top, a note in your unmistakable handwriting:

“For my favorite genius. I know you probably don’t have anything to eat for breakfast. And you need to stop living off coffee.”

Next to it, a lopsided smiley face, the kind you always drew when you were teasing him.

And beneath it, another slip of paper—this one with a quote:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.” —The Importance of Being Earnest.

His book. The one he’d lent you months ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with his cramped scribbles. You’d not only read it, you’d remembered it. Enough to pluck this line, this line, the one he’d laughed at when he reread it next to you.

Something warm and unnameable curled in his chest.

He gently traced the smiley face with his index finger before carefully peeling the note off the box and walking to the fridge. He smoothed the edges against the metal and stuck it there. Right in the center, right beside the magnet he never used. The quote followed, aligned just so.

Two little pieces of you.

He fully enjoyed the cookies—more than he wanted to admit. One turned into two, two into five, and before he knew it, he was staring at the bottom of the box, only two left. He hesitated, tempted to finish them off, but something made him stop. Maybe he wanted to save them. Maybe it felt symbolic somehow—leaving just a little behind.

He set the box aside with a quiet sigh, realizing it was probably time to face reality. If his breakfast consisted of cookies and the last splash of coffee from yesterday’s pot, then yeah—he needed groceries.

The thought alone was exhausting.

Reluctantly, Spencer went to get dressed. As he rummaged through his dresser for a sweater, his fingers brushed against something soft in the corner of the drawer. He paused, then slowly pulled it out.

The scarf.

The one you’d given him last winter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, a little handwritten tag that simply said “For when the cold gets into your bones.”

He hadn’t worn it much. Not because he didn’t love it. He did. Too much, maybe. He was worried he’d ruin it, spill something on it, or catch it on a subway door or lose it in a moment of distraction.

So instead, it became a part of his quiet morning rituals—he’d look at it while choosing what to wear, smile to himself, then fold it back gently, like preserving something sacred.

It became a small, secret reminder of you that never failed to make his lips twitch upward.

But today, something tugged at him. Wear it.

He paused, hesitating. There was no case today. No flights, no crime scenes, no risk of ruining it in some chaotic whirlwind of work. It was just grocery shopping. A quick errand. No danger. No reason not to.

Before he could overthink it, he looped the scarf around his neck. The wool was warmer than he expected, carrying the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla—your perfume, maybe, or just the ghost of memory.

He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold hit him immediately —but the scarf helped.

You helped.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel quite so alone.

The drive to the grocery store should have been routine—just another mundane task.

Spencer flipped on the radio out of habit, his fingers automatically tuning to his usual station: the one that dissected quantum physics and debated the ethics of emerging technologies in monotone, academic voices. It was comforting, familiar. He usually looked forward to it. Even if he already knew most of the facts being discussed, there was something soothing about hearing others speak his language.

There was comfort in the predictability of it.

But today, the voices grated.

He listened for maybe a minute, maybe less. The words blurred together, sounding hollow in a way they usually didn’t.

He stared ahead at the red light, fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. Restless. Unsettled.

His gaze drifted to the radio display. Without really thinking, he pressed the button to change the station.

Click. Static. Then a beat.

And then—your favorite song.

It took him a second to register it, but once he did, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a popular song, not one that played often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard it on the radio.

But here it was. Blasting softly through his speakers like the universe had handpicked the moment.

The same song you’d hum under your breath while baking, the one you’d insisted on playing three times in a row that one rainy afternoon when he’d pretended to complain but secretly memorized every lyric.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if the universe had reached into his chest and plucked out a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. Behind him, a horn blared—sharp, impatient—jolting him back to reality.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, flushing as he hit the gas, the car lurching forward a second too late.

He didn’t change the station.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze, the music wrapping around him like an echo of your voice.

By the time he pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the song had faded into something else, but the melody lingered, tangled up in the wool of your scarf and the ghost of flour on your hands.

Once he stepped out of the car, Spencer paused and looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, dark and swollen with the promise of rain.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered to himself, “Alright. Just in and out. Quick.”

October weather was unpredictable. He quickened his pace toward the store, shoulders hunched against the cold. The last thing he needed was to get caught in another downpour.

Like last night.

The memory surfaced unbidden: you, standing in his doorway, drenched and shivering, your hair plastered to your forehead while rainwater pooled at your feet. He’d panicked—of course he had—fussing over the cold you’d surely catch, the inconvenience, the unnecessary risk you’d taken just to watch some movie with him.

And then you’d grinned, wide and unrepentant, before launching yourself at him.

The hug was instantaneous, your arms locking around him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. He’d stiffened—“You’re getting me all wet!”—but you’d just buried your face in his shoulder and mumbled, “We’ll be sick together, Spencer.”

He hadn’t stood a chance.

You’d spent the rest of the evening wrapped in mismatched towels, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your laughter warmer than any blanket. And if a cozy evening like this with you made him get sick? Who was he to care? If anything, he had used the rain and the cold to scoot even closer to you on the couch, mumbling a small "My apartment is cold" as an excuse to press his thighs closer to yours.

Now, standing in the grocery store parking lot with the wind gnawing at his scarf—your scarf—he realized something with startling clarity:

He missed you.

Not in the abstract, distant way he missed people when they were gone. But viscerally, like a pit in his stomach, that couldn't be filled with anything but the sight of you standing infront of him with a smile.

The clouds overhead rumbled softly, like the sky missed you too.

Spencer turned toward the store, tugging his scarf a little tighter, and stepped forward, but something caught his eye.

Next to the grocery store, nestled between a laundromat and a pharmacy, was a new coffee shop. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the name?

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he read the sign above the door.

Drip Drop Brew.

His eyes widened. He blinked, like maybe he had read it wrong. But no—those words stared right back at him, painted in playful script across the front window in soft red and black.

His breath stuttered.

“Drip drop drip drop,” you had murmured just last night as he made you tea, still damp from the rain.

You had stood beside him in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing useful, your hair still curling with leftover stormwater. You never offered to help—and he never minded. You just liked being near him while he moved around the kitchen.

“Drip drop?” he’d repeated back, bemused, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves.

“The rain,” you’d said, as if it were obvious, tilting your head toward the sound. “Listen.”

And he had. Not to the weather, but to you—the way your voice softened around mundane things, how you found rhythm in the ordinary. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was such a you thing to do, finding magic in something as ordinary as the sound of water hitting glass.

Now, standing frozen on the sidewalk, the memory wrapped around him like the scarf still knotted at his throat.

A coincidence. It had to be.

But the way his pulse jumped said otherwise.

He took a slow breath, torn between stepping inside and continuing to the grocery store. He didn’t need coffee.

Groceries were forgotten the moment he pushed open the coffee shop door.

The place was you—cozy and vibrant, with mismatched armchairs in deep red and black , shelves lined with well-loved books, and the scent of freshly ground coffee.

He could already picture you here, curled up in that corner nook by the window, a half-finished report abandoned in favor of people-watching.

You both had a habit of doing reports in cafés—something that started as convenience and turned into tradition. A small ritual between the chaos of the job. He could still remember the first time you'd convinced Hotch to let it happen.

It had been on a slow day, paperwork piling up, everyone dragging. You'd walked into the bullpen and said, “What if we were… slightly more productive in a cozy public setting with caffeine and pastries?”

Complete with your best “convince-Hotch” smile.

Somehow, it worked.Honestly, most of the team had a hard time saying no to you. Even Hotch, who wasn’t exactly known for bending rules.

But Spencer? Spencer never stood a chance. He wasn’t even sure the word no existed in his vocabulary when it came to you.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly said no to you. The word dissolved in his throat whenever you smiled at him.

He ordered a coffee—black, simple, but he let the barista add a drizzle of cinnamon syrup, just because it reminded him of the way you'd order his drinks when you thought he needed “spicing up.”

Then he settled down in the corner seat, back against the wall, giving him a view of the whole shop. It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead, the absence beside him was deafening.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in. The handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Cute drawings of animals, such as ladybugs. The tiny potted succulents lining the windowsill. A basket of dog treats by the door. A stack of used books by the counter with a handwritten sign that read: “Take one, leave one, love always.” C

Time slipped through his fingers like sand.

What should have been a thirty-minute grocery run had stretched into nearly two hours—first the coffee shop, then the quiet absorption of his book (of course he’d brought one; he’d sooner leave the house without pants than without reading material).

Eventually he forced himself to leave.

With a full bag of groceries and a head full of thoughts, he made it home. The sky had darkened even more, a low rumble of thunder in the distance echoing through the streets. Rain hadn’t started yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He unpacked everything robotically, stacking the pantry and fridge, then tossed his coat aside and curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around him.

He traced the spine of the book in his lap, his thumb brushing over the slight crease near the top.

Your book.

The one you’d pressed into his hands last week with theatrical solemnity, your brows furrowed in mock severity. “This one is my favorite,” you’d said, voice low, as if entrusting him with state secrets. When you’d jabbed a warning finger in his face, he’d barely suppressed a grin. “If anything happens to it—”

He’d waited, eyes bright with amusement, until you’d leaned in close, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper: “You will know my rage in ways you’ve never known before.”

The threat was absurd—he’d seen you genuinely angry exactly once, and even then, you’d mostly just frowned harder—but he’d played along, snatching the book from your grip with exaggerated defiance.

“Terrifying,” he’d deadpanned, already flipping to the first page.

That was another one of your rituals: swapping books every week, your version of a love language. You’d once called it “literary matchmaking.” Every Friday, without fail, a book would be passed between you—sometimes annotated, sometimes dog-eared, always loved.

This book had been your favorite.

Now, tracing the dog-eared corner of page 111—your favorite passage—he realized with a quiet ache that he could almost hear your voice between the lines.

He’d read three chapters today, but the words blurred together, his focus frayed by the day’s odd synchronicities—the cookies, the scarf, the song, the café.

And now this: your favorite book in his hands, your phantom laughter between the lines.

Spencer exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of you.

Thirty minutes later, he turned the final page.

The book was finished, and God, he understood now why you loved it so much—the way the prose curled around his ribs like smoke, the underlined passages that felt like secrets shared between just the two of you.

Your notes in the margins had been his favorite part: little exclamation marks beside plot twists, sarcastic commentary in the corners, the occasional doodle when you’d clearly gotten distracted.

With a quiet sigh, he set the book on his lap, but the spine—well-loved and cracked from years of your hands holding it—fell open again of its own accord.

And there it was.

A single line, highlighted in soft yellow, framed by a constellation of pink hearts you’d drawn with the same care you reserved for frosting cookies or arranging flowers in his too-empty apartment:

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It hit him with the force of a bullet train—no warning, no gradual buildup, just the devastating certainty of it.

The cookies. The scarf. The radio station. The coffee shop. The way his chest ached when you laughed. The way he’d memorized the cadence of your voice without meaning to. The way every road, every book, every breath seemed to lead back to you.

Oh.

Spencer Reid was in love with his best friend.

And the terrible, beautiful truth was—he’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

[bitxhy-bookworm]

CinnaVanilla

Farmer!Sevika x Baker Fem! Reader

‘You have got to be kidding meeee’

The agitated thought slips into your mind as you hear the bell to your bakery door ring. Initially, you perked up at the sound, you love your customer base. It’s hard not to, a beautiful small southern town. Everyone’s got sweet, honey-like accents and enough warmth to get you through the longest winters. It’s much different from the city you grew up in, loud, rushing and harsh. It took a while to get used to the southern charm around but you consider yourself pretty well accustomed to it now.

However, even the sweetest orchard has its share of rotten apples (a phrase the pretty cowgirl from next door taught you) and these rotten apples seem to be drawn to your shop for some reason. You watch as a familiar middle-aged couple walks in, plastering on your usual welcoming smile, you turn to them “Welcome in y’all! You back for more samples?” This couple has been planning their “Vow Renewal” for some weeks now and have decided that they simply must have your cakes at the party. Which normally is great, lots of business and cakes are your second favorite pastry to bake (cookies being your favorite). But it’s not great, because for some reason this couple can’t seem to decide on a flavor so they’re in here every Saturday.. taste testing, poking, prodding and taking up valuable time that can be spent on actual paying customers. Even worse, Saturdays are one of your busiest days, half the town is off work and the other half takes their lunch break right around the time the Smiths (your new favorite couple) decide to come in for their tastings.

This leads to you bouncing around all over your cafe, from constantly checking on the smiths, to taking orders at the counter, to preparing and serving orders, to checking on others sitting around to.. well it’s safe to say that Saturdays are your busiest days. Days that end with you cuddling with Apollo (your adorable, emotional support pitbull) and watching a corny rom-com. But here’s a secret that stays just between you and Apollo…deep down you love Saturdays. Not because of the rush of business that you get although that certainly doesn't hurt. Not because you close early on Weekends. Not even because the kind old Bartender, Vander, next door invites you to dinner with his family each Saturday evening (but it’s very close). It’s because once the Smiths leave, and you wipe the counter off for the last time, and you begin to turn off all the ovens and lights, you hear your door ring one last time…and in walks a tall, broad-shouldered, sweaty, cowgirl with a grin on features.

Sevika…

Sevika who came to this town a few years before you. Sevika who all but refuses to talk about her hometown. Sevika who may seem stand-offish at first glance but after a batch of your homemade chocolate chunk cookies opened right up. Sevika who always brings Apollo treats when she stops by for your late-night gossip sessions and early-morning strolls. Sevika who, despite her aloof exterior, cares so much...almost too a fault. Sevika, who insists on walking you home on weekdays when you close later in the evening. Sevika who always nags you for not hiring more help for the shop. Sevika is the hypocrite who works herself to death on that farm by herself. Sevika who you’ve caught knocked out in the stables not once but twice. Sevika who you can’t help but smile at as you drag her tired ass back home and tuck her in. Sevika who you’ve been in love with for a year and will never tell because you’d never risk the bond you two have built. More than friends but not quite lovers.

(When you told Vander that part, he let out a hearty laugh and said “Sounds more like your own personal hell but to each their own, I guess.” Curse him and his old gay man wisdom)

“You about ready to go?” Sevika asks, settling into a chair closest to the counter as you continue cleaning. You and she walked over to Vander and Silco’s house every night to enjoy their family dinner and game nights. Sevika says she only does it so that she doesn’t have to bring a gift (she takes credit for the pastries you bring to dinner every time) but everyone but you knows it’s because she’s completely whipped for and can’t help but follow you around like a lost puppy.

“I’m almost finished, I just gotta pack the cookies for tonight and I’ll be ready,” you say eyes searching for a box, you pretend not to notice the way Sevika lights up. Your cookies have always been her favorite but she pretends to be indifferent to all your baking. “Yeah? What kind?” She says, trying to sound unbothered but you know how eager she is. You slide her one of your “Cinnamon Vanilla” cookies on a napkin and put the rest of them in a to-go box.

By the time you reach the door, Sevika has devoured the cookie and throws the crumpled napkin away into the trash. Neither you nor Sevika are particularly chatty people but that changes the minute you two get around each other, your walks are spent chatting and joking sometimes complaining. Today, however, they’re spent bickering. “I don't see why you won't just hire some help, you're running yourself ragged doing this all by yourself, doll” Sevika drags her hand through her short hair, you don't see why she’s stressing herself out over your problems..So what if you don't want some inexperienced rando running around the shop you worked so hard to create? “You just don’t get it, Sev. You don't let anyone work on your farm and I’ve caught you passed out and exhausted more times than I can count” The truth is it was only twice but no one needs to know that.

As you approach the door to Vander and Silco’s house, you can hear the chaos from the inside of the house, Vander’s godchildren, Powder and Violet. The two girls are always getting into some kind of trouble, either with each other or with the rest of town. You’ve lost count of how many times they’ve come running into your shop to hide from some bar owner or god forbid a cop they’ve pissed off. Before you can knock, Sevika grabs your hand softly and turns you toward her. You hadn’t realized how close your bodies were until then, your eyes slowly dragged over her figure. From her chiseled biceps to her strong, broad shoulders (slightly scarred from carrying stacks of wood on them all day) to her beautiful face, the face you see when you close your eyes at night. And oh god her eyes… it’s like there's a whole other world in them, they’re your favorite thing about her. She’s so expressive with them, she thinks she can mask her emotions well but anyone who knows her knows her eyes can never keep a secret. You feel your whole body freeze as you stare into them, a look of sincerity on her face. “Listen” her voice is low, her grip has moved from your hand to your upper arm “I don’t want to tell you what to do or how to run your business. But I hate seeing you so tired, and lately, that’s all you’ve been, sugar. I just figured if you got some help around the shop, then maybe I’d see that bubbly little baker girl that I miss so much.” The last part comes out more like a confession, and you feel your heartbeat pick up. No one’s ever cared that much, and suddenly you feel your body throw caution to the wind.

You press a soft kiss to Sevika’s lips before you have a chance to realize what you’re doing. Sevika makes a surprised sound against your lips before relaxing and wrapping another hand around your waist, pulling you into her more as the kiss becomes more passionate. “OH GOD YUCK!” You hear a squeaky voice shout, you and Sevika immediately pull apart to see a disgusted powder at the door…you must not have heard it open. “Oh, shit-“ you curse yourself “Sorry pow-pow, I brought cookies!” You say trying to lighten the mood and erase the embarrassment from tonight, reaching in your bag you pull out the box and give it to the young girl.

Powder glares at you both before taking the cookies and walking inside, as you’re about to follow her Sevika grabs your hand one last time and whispers in your ear

“You’re not off the hook yet, Pumpkin..let’s talk after dinner”

(this is my first time writing but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head)

[daydreamgoddess14]

Lunch

Did someone say accidental mini series? 🙈

You all liked Breakfast so much, I thought I'd make you some Lunch too. Hope you're hungry!

The Menu Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Word Count: about 1.5k

Thunderbolts* (platonic for now) x F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader if you squint. It's still brewing.

They were never really around for lunch. It was your prep time, organising. Quiet. You couldn't decide if you liked it better that way. You made meals to reheat and they helped themselves. It was getting to the stage where, with a fully stocked kitchen and batch cooking, you had more and more downtime. Valentina had requested your exclusivity, so taking on other clients was out of the question. You peered through the glass door of the oven and willed yourself to wait a little longer. Not quite yet.

“What's cooking?”

“Pie.”

“Smells done.”

“Uhuh, not yet it's not.”

“Sure? I think I can smell burning -”

“It's not burning.”

“What's burning?”

“The pie.”

“Nothing is burning, John. Bucky just thinks he's the next Top Chef.”

The timer dinged and you checked through the glass again.

“You gonna take that out?”

“Patience, Barnes.” You counted to 20 and opened the oven, pulling out a beautiful, golden topped pie.

“That looks…”

“Perfect.” You smiled happily.

“Amazing,” John grinned. After everyone’s initial trepidation, it became very clear that the way to a Thunderbolt’s heart was very much through their stomach. You’d been given limited information on their backgrounds - some were more infamous than others - but you could tell immediately that hot, homemade meals had been in very short supply for all of them.

They all seemed to have their favourite times of day to pay you a visit. Bob was usually up first and watching you make stacks of pancakes for breakfast, Ava came hunting for snacks mid-morning. By lunchtime, John was always starving and vocal about it. Yelena liked something sweet in the afternoons, and Alexei began hovering anytime after 5pm, heavily anticipating what was on the menu for dinner.

Bucky seemed to have no specific time.

Some days he wandered through just as you were packing things away. Other times he showed up before anything had even made it into the oven. He never asked for anything, not like the others - just leaned against the counter and observed. Quiet. Watchful. Not unfriendly, but unreadable.

At first, you thought he was just keeping an eye on things. Habit. Distrust. You didn’t blame him - it was clear none of them were used to softness.

But then you started noticing the patterns. How he always lingered just a little longer than he needed to. How his eyes flicked toward your hands when you were kneading dough or slicing fruit, like he was cataloguing the motion.

How, every once in a while, he’d pass you a fresh towel without being asked. Or wordlessly refill your water glass. Or sit with a cup of coffee, hours old and probably cold - just to stay in the kitchen a little longer while you worked.

You hadn’t expected that.

You weren’t sure what to do with it.

“You, uhh, cutting that now?” John asked hopefully.

“Don't you want lunch first?” You asked, looking at the pile of bagels you'd already prepared.

“Oh yeah. Didn't see those,” he said sheepishly, “what's in the pie?”

“Plums,” you told him, holding up your purple stained fingers.

Bucky looked up at you, at the deep purple that had seeped into your skin, then back at the pie.

“Tell you what,” you continued talking to John. “Have lunch while this cools a little and I'll whip up some cream and a sauce.”

Like a kid, he fist pumped the air and darted off to find the others.

You could feel that Bucky wanted to say something, but he didn't. Instead, he watched you take out the tupperware of chopped plums from the fridge and tip them into a pan. You poured sugar over them and stirred the sticky, sweet mixture. Across the counter, he inhaled. The scent of sugar cooking and plums filled the kitchen.

The others started wandering in, taking plates and arguing over bagel fillings. Yelena came around to you at the stovetop and wrapped her arms around you.

“Thank you,” she murmured, squeezing so hard you thought she was trying to practice her heimlich manoeuvre. She peered into the pan. “Plums?”

“To go with the pie.”

“Bucky's favourite, again,” she grumbled.

“And I'll make your favourite next.”

“The cake? With the -”

“Chocolate in the middle. Yep, I know.”

She nudged you gently with her shoulder.

“Favouritism,” she warned, shooting a glance at Bucky.

“Not from me there isn't.” You challenged.

“Sure, sure,” she smirked and rolled her eyes, moving around to where Bucky was sitting. “Cookies, that pizza with the really thin crust… Not your favourites at all, right, Barnes?”

“Pretty sure everyone likes those, Lena.” He shrugged.

She looked at you, then back at him.

“Hmm. I'm watching you.” She warned. Then, “Alexei, no! That one's mine!”

“Snooze you lose!” He laughed loudly, leaving Yelena chasing after him for the last Swiss cheese bagel.

Bucky put the last two on plates, and pushed one in your direction.

Like vultures, they started circling. Bringing their plates to the dishwasher and hovering while you whipped cream in a glass bowl. Bucky came around the counter, reloaded the dishwasher correctly, and then took the bowl and whisk from your hands.

“I can do that,” you insisted. He flexed his hand, the dark vibranium catching the light.

“I can do it faster.”

“I'm quickly discovering that patience is a virtue you don't possess,” you laughed, taking out a huge knife from the drawer.

“Watch what you're doing with that thing.”

“You watch what you're doing. Don't over whip that.”

“Yes ma'am,” he grinned.

“I watch this show all day,” Alexei beamed, looking between you both.

You tore your eyes from Bucky and focused on the pie, cutting neatly through the centre, then turning the stand and cutting again, and again, into equal slices. Ava passed you the first plate and you used the flat of the knife to lift the slice from the rest of the pie.

It was glorious. Deep purple, filled to the brim and covered with golden sponge and surrounded by rich, crumbly pastry. You placed it gently on the plate.

John sighed, “goddamn that looks -”

“So good. Shotgun first slice!”

“Lena! I should get first slice!” Alexei complained.

You leaned over to look at the cream Bucky was still whisking, “you can stop now. Thank you.” You swapped the plate for the bowl and dolloped a spoon of cream on top of the pie, followed by a drizzle of the jammy, sweet sauce.

You looked at the assembled group, at lovely Bob who hadn't once argued over who was first, who was better, and you handed him the plate.

“Thanks!”

“Not fair.”

“He's literally the only one who never argues about food. Except Bucky, I guess, but then that would be favouritism, wouldn't it, Yelena?” You arched your eyebrow.

They stopped complaining once they all had a plate in hand.

“I marry the pie.”

“This is heaven.”

“I can marry you?”

“No thanks, Alexei. I'm taken.”

“I'll convince you. You'll see.”

No one else was listening to Alexei. All eyes had turned to Bucky who didn't look up from his plate.

Yelena clicked her tongue, “s'good pie,” she said slowly, as if waiting for someone, anyone to make eye contact with her. Eventually, Ava did. She tilted her head marginally in your direction and then flicked her eyes to Bucky. Ava shrugged.

They finished the pie and filtered away to enjoy what remained of their day off.

You grabbed your tote bag and keys, calling out, “I’m running to the store - text me if you need anything.”

“You have her number?” Bucky asked no one in particular.

“You don't?” Ava asked, surprised. He didn't answer. Only the low hum of the dishwasher and the quiet clink of dishes settling as they cooled filled the kitchen. The tower felt still, peaceful, for once.

You were gone for over an hour.

The store turned into the producers market turned into the bodega that somehow imported your favourite olives.

When you pushed the door open, he was there. Bucky, fork in one hand, pie plate in the other, standing barefoot in the kitchen like a man caught red-handed. He froze, mouth full, guilty as hell.

You stopped in the doorway, raised an eyebrow. “Second slice?”

He swallowed, slowly. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You walked over, set your bag on the counter. “That was my slice.”

He looked guiltily at the pie. “You didn’t have one?”

“I was waiting.”

He hesitated, then held out the plate like a peace offering. “We could share?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Only if I get the bigger half.”

He sighed. “Deal.”

You leaned side by side at the counter, passing the fork back and forth, the pie disappearing in easy silence.

He cleared his throat, voice low. “What you said to Alexei earlier… was that real?”

“What, when he proposed to me over pie?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Well -” You paused, then shrugged. “Well no, actually. Saying no is still taking some getting used to. It's… recent.”

“Oh.” He looked down. “Sorry.”

You took the plate from his hand and stole the last bite. “I'm not.”

Please note, may contain sugar. Don't forget to tip your hostess with reblogs and ALWAYS ask for second helpings!

Tagging on request: @doilooklikeagiveafrack @althea-tavalas @tellybearryyyy

[jaysng]

sassy — park jongseong

pairing: husband!jay x wife!reader

genre: fluff, crack

synopsis: jay trying to re-gain his dramaqueen daughter’s attention after she got mad at him.

the kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar, mixing perfectly with the soft hum of the oven. you glanced over at your daughter, who stood on a small stool next to you, her tiny hands busy rolling cookie dough into little balls. her brows were furrowed in concentration, but there was no hiding the little pout that had settled on her lips ever since jay had told her she couldn’t help him earlier.

jay stood a few steps behind, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he watched the two of you. “princess,” he started softly, trying to catch her attention, “i’m sorry, okay? daddy just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

she ignored him, huffing dramatically as she placed another cookie on the baking sheet. “mommy says i can help her,” she said, her voice holding that unmistakable sass she’d developed lately.

you stifled a laugh, not wanting to encourage her but also finding the whole situation too adorable. “she’s right, you know,” you said, glancing over at jay with a small smile. “i’m keeping her away from the hot stuff.”

jay sighed, knowing he was going to have to work harder to win back his little girl’s favor. “i know, i know,” he mumbled, stepping closer. “but can daddy at least help now? i miss baking with my favorite girls.”

his daughter finally looked up at him, her big eyes narrowing as if she was considering his request. after a moment, she sighed, crossing her little arms over her chest. “only if you say sorry again,” she demanded, her tiny voice serious.

“i’m really, really sorry,” jay said, kneeling down to her level. “i promise next time i’ll let you help more. deal?”

she seemed to think about it for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “deal,” she agreed, reaching out to pat his cheek like she’d seen you do countless times.

jay couldn’t help but grin, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the forehead before standing up. “thank you, princess,” he said, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

the three of you continued baking, your daughter’s earlier grumpiness completely forgotten as she giggled and chatted with both of you, her mood lifting with each cookie she helped make. jay couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock every now and then, knowing that 8 pm was just around the corner. it was their special time, and he needed it more than anything.

as the last batch of cookies went into the oven, you caught jay looking at the clock again. “don’t worry,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’ll get your cuddle time.”

he smiled sheepishly, feeling a little silly for being so anxious about it. “i just… i don’t want to miss it,” he admitted.

you reached out, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “you won’t,” you promised, your eyes warm and understanding. “and i’m sure she’s looking forward to it just as much as you are.”

sure enough, as the clock struck 8, your daughter was already climbing onto the couch, her small frame getting comfortable among the pillows. jay quickly followed, scooping her up into his arms and settling down beside her. she snuggled up against him, her earlier sass completely replaced by the soft, sleepy demeanor that always appeared around this time.

you watched them with a smile, feeling your heart swell at the sight of the two most important people in your life. jay met your gaze, his eyes full of love and contentment as he wrapped his arm around his little girl. “come join us,” he whispered, patting the spot next to him.

you didn’t need any more convincing, slipping onto the couch and nestling in beside them. your daughter yawned, her eyelids already drooping as she mumbled something about cartoons. jay reached for the remote, putting on her favorite show, but it didn’t take long before her breathing evened out, the steady rise and fall of her chest signaling that she was fast asleep.

jay sighed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “thanks for letting me make it up to her,” he whispered to you, his voice filled with gratitude.

“you’re a great dad,” you whispered back, leaning your head against his shoulder. “she just likes to remind you who’s really in charge sometimes.”

he chuckled softly, knowing you were right. “yeah, she’s definitely got your spirit.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” you teased, closing your eyes as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you like a blanket.

the three of you stayed like that, cuddled up on the couch, the soft glow of the television casting a gentle light over the room. and in that quiet, peaceful moment, jay couldn’t imagine anything better.

do not copy or reblog my work — @/jaysng

[ariestrxsh]

sub!virgin!matt x neighbor!reader

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 content warning: smut, suggestive, innocence corruption, purity kink, sexualization of religious imagery, teasing, masturbation, voyeurism, mentions of sex toys

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 summary: a good little christian boy named matt moves in next door, and once you find out he's a virgin, you test his morals, determined to tease him until he caves

don't read if you're religious. it's going to offend you a lot if you do, and i really don't want to offend anyone.

this fic is a bit of a slow burn with a lot of lead up and sexual tension before they actually do anything. :) i anticipate this storyline to have several parts.

dividers by @/anitalenia

Me & U

chapters: | 1 |

It was a Saturday afternoon in your suburban neighborhood, the summer sun beating down on your face directly overhead. You stood in your front yard in a solid white t-shirt and jean shorts with a hand to your forehead, shading your eyes from the brightness, and your other hand on your hip as you watched a giant uhaul pull into the house next door that had been up for sale for as long as you'd lived there. An old, orange truck followed right behind it.

Were you finally getting new neighbors?

You watched as a handsome brunette with tattoos who looked to be about your age got out of the rust-colored vehicle. He was in a white tank top and faded blue jeans, and he was really cute. An older man, who you presumed was probably his dad, emerged from the driver's side of the uhaul.

The younger boy's blue eyes caught yours as he opened up the back of the truck to get out some boxes, and he shot you a shy smile and a small wave. You had to have him.

Several hours later, as the late afternoon sun was beginning to set in the sky, and after the boy and his father had a chance to unpack some of their belongings, you headed to your kitchen to bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies, so you'd have a reason to go over and talk to him. Maybe find out his name, maybe find out if he was single or not.

You got out milk, eggs, flour, and chocolate chips, and after mixing them all together, you portioned out perfect little dough blobs and stuck the pan into your oven, nearly burning yourself, and set a timer.

Once they were done baking, you beelined it for your new neighbor's house with a plate of fresh, homemade chocolate chips cookies and a glass of milk.

When you stepped onto the lawn, the blue-eyed boy was walking down the steps of his new porch, and he glanced up at you. "Hey. I'm your new neighbor. I saw you guys unpacking your stuff. I figured you could stand to take a break from unloading boxes and have some cookies," you said, offering him the plate.

"Hey, thanks," he said smiling, accepting the plate and the glass from you. He thought you were really pretty, and talking to you really brought out his shy side.

"What's your name?" You asked, studying all his attractive features up close in the golden hour lighting, his perfectly-shaped nose, his pretty teeth, and his luscious, pink lips. You loved the way the sun was hitting his gorgeous blue eyes.

"Matt," he responded timidly. You introduced yourself to himself as well. "You gonna invite me in?" You peeked over his shoulder and in through his doorway, walking past him and letting yourself in. "Uh, sure. There's not much in there yet," Matt replied, following you into his brand new house.

"Uh, sorry about the mess," Matt nervously apologized, gesturing towards the general disarray. "I get it. I've moved before," you responded understandingly. The walls were empty, and so was the rest of the room besides a kitchen table, some kitchen chairs, and several half-unpacked boxes, overflowing with dishes and kitchen appliances.

You admired the dark brown, hardwood flooring, the matching cabinets, and the gorgeous granite countertops. He placed the plate of cookies on the island in the center of the room and took a bite out of one. "Mmm. Still warm," he grinned at you, washing the sugary treat down with the milk you gave him.

"How old are you?" You asked him, your eyes drawn to his strong, veiny hands and his rings on his long, slender fingers. "Twenty-one," he told you. "Same," you responded while you watched him devour another one of your cookies. "These are really good," he complimented your baking, blushing and wiping a few crumbs from his mouth.

"Was that guy who was unloading stuff with you, your dad?" You asked him, and he nodded. "Yeah, he left to go get us some food for tonight," he mumbled in between bites.

"Naughty boy. Spoiling your dinner," you lowered your voice and smirked at him. You noticed his eyes subtly widen, and he stopped chewing for a second.

"You should show me your room," you seductively said, biting your lip. "Uh, sure. Again, there's not much in it," Matt shrugged, completely oblivious to your overt flirting.

You started up his stairs, admiring the sturdy banister, imagining how good it would feel to have him fuck you over it, and once you got to the top of the stairs, you turned around, noticing Matt behind you, his eyes glued to your ass.

You gave him a look that silently asked, like what you see? He pulled his gaze from your bottom to your eyes with a guilty look on his face like a puppy dog that had gone to the bathroom somewhere he shouldn't have.

"Which one's your room?" You asked him. "Third door on the left," he said, clearing his throat and trying to pretend he wasn't just checking you out. You led the way, even though you knew the layout even less than he did.

You turned the knob and pushed open his door. His bed was already set up with flannel sheets and throw pillows, and on the opposite wall, a desk with a laptop and a few books on it. As you peered out the window, you realized you had a direct view of his room from your room.

He had a connected bathroom, and as you wandered into there, you admired the sage green back splash of the shower through the transparent shower door. You imagined how steamy the two of you could make the glass.

Other than that, more scattered boxes decorated the area, some opened, some not.

"What are you gonna do with the place?" You wondered, pacing around his room. "I want to paint it," he said, scanning the room with his eyes. "What color?" You inquired, wandering back over towards the entrance to his room and subtly shutting and locking his door while he was distracted by deliberating your question.

"Still not sure. Wanted to go for something cooler, darker. Maybe a forest green or a stone blue. Something earthy," he mumbled, wondering if he had taken too long to answer your question. You could tell he was nervous and shy, and you found it extremely endearing.

"That sounds awesome. I'm gonna help you paint it," you stated, taking a step closer to him. "Sure, that'd be nice of you," he said agreeably. "What are you doing tomorrow? You should come see the badass treehouse I have in my backyard. It's really private up there. We can do anything you want," you chewed on your lip, looking him up and down.

"We can smoke some weed and just talk. Or smoke some weed and not talk," you said, standing on your tippy toes and whispering into his ear while you took your pointer finger and seductively caressed his chest. You noticed a small tent forming in his pants.

He liked how dominant and direct your demeanor was, but he was worried you may have misread his character. He had never smoked weed and had never had sex. Still, the way you spoke to him and touched him turned him on.

He grabbed a pillow off his bed and held it in front of his erection as if it were less obvious. "You'd better take care of that," you teased him, glancing down at his bulge. "Uh, I don't do that. My dad and I are going to church tomorrow morning," he swallowed anxiously, blushing at your observation.

"You don't what? You don't smoke, or you don't jerk off?" You asked, smirking at him. "Uh, I don't smoke," he nervously smiled. "Isn't it a sin to jerk off? You really are a naughty boy, aren't you?" You maliciously grinned at him. His breath caught in his throat, and he started to look at you in desperation, but he caught himself, immediately shifting his gaze around uncomfortably.

"You could come if you want," he offered, his eyes still darting around the room as if he were afraid to look at you. "I can cum if I want?" You teased him. "To church. You could come with us to church," he clarified, looking down and reaching behind his head with his tattooed arm to nervously rub the back of his neck. You loved making him nervous.

"Why? So you can watch me burst into flames?" You jumped at him, putting your fingers up behind your head, making devil horns while you playfully smiled at him, but he still jumped back, startled by your joke, and he nervously giggled at it once he realized you were probably kidding. A good little Christian boy.

"You know, you're cute enough that I'd consider going to church with you. But it's really hard to beat getting high in my treehouse and touching myself, so I think I'm gonna pass," you told him.

His jaw dropped and a needy expression overcame his face while he imagined you sitting on the floor of a treehouse, one hand holding a joint between your lips, and the other down the front of your unbuttoned denim shorts.

"Maybe I'll still be up there when church lets out," you tempted him. He couldn't believe how comfortable you were saying all that out loud. "You think I'm cute?" He asked, raising his eyebrows, still processing everything you'd just casually admitted in the last few seconds.

"Yeah, and you think I'm cute," you confidently stated, staring at the throw pillow in front of his pants. His cheeks turned a deep shape of red, and he wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead.

Suddenly, you heard the low rumbling of an old truck and a car door shut. "Uh, I think my dad's home. I don't think we should be up here alone with my door shut and locked when he walks in," Matt said, wide-eyed.

He reached into his jeans to tuck his erection into his waistband. You watched in awe, hoping to get a peak, but he was too quick about it. He headed out of his room, and you trailed behind.

When his dad materialized through the front door, you and Matt were descending the stairs into the kitchen again. "Oh. Hi. You already made a friend, Matt?" His dad smiled at you, put the Cane's bag on the counter, and stuck out his hand for you to shake. His hands were rough and calloused. You daintily shook his hand, shot him an innocent smile, and introduced yourself.

"Yeah, she's our neighbor. She brought us over some cookies," Matt motioned towards the nearly empty plate. "I kinda ate most of them," he giggled. "How kind of you," the older man commented. "I'd offer you some food, but I only planned on feeding the two of us," he motioned towards his son.

"Oh, please. Don't worry. You guys moved in like six hours ago. I don't expect you to feed me," you responded. "I just wanted to pop in and introduce myself. Bring you something sweet," you innocently tilted your head at Matt's father.

"I'll give Matt my number in case you guys need any help unpacking or painting or anything," you grinned over at Matt. "Y-Yeah, sure," Matt stumbled over his words, fidgeting with his phone in his pocket, and handing it to you nervously.

You saved your contact in his phone with a peach emoji, a wet water emoji, and a heart beside your name, and when you handed it back to him, his eyes subtly widened, and he cleared his throat. "Thanks," he muttered. "I'll catch you around," you smiled and subtly winked at Matt, and then you saw yourself out to let the men enjoy their food and get a good night's rest after a long day of heavy lifting.

When you stepped out into the night, you got a closer look at their truck. It was a rust-colored Dodge Dakota from the 70's with a cross hanging in the rearview mirror, and there was a bible on the dashboard. You wondered just how strong Matt's morals were, and what you'd have to do to get them to bend - or even break - for you.

After Matt and his dad sat down at their table and ate together, Matt excused himself to go take a shower. It was the first time he'd had a bathroom connected to his room, and he appreciated the convenience. It took him a few minutes to figure out how the temperature and pressure dials worked, and once he did, he stood underneath the hot water, letting it hit his sore back and soothe the aching muscles in his neck.

He washed his hair, and ran his soapy hands all over the rest of his body. He tried to focus on cleaning himself, but he couldn't help that he was having dirty thoughts. He tried to push his impure fantasies about you to the back of his mind, but the more he tried to run away from them, the more they persisted.

He was pretty sure by now that you were flirting with him. He'd felt the sexual tension between the two of you while you guys stood in his locked bedroom together. He wished his dad hadn't come home when he did, because he wanted to know just how bold you were and how far you would have taken it.

He started getting hard again, and no matter how hard he fought the urge, his hand had a mind of its own. It was the one sin Matt was weakest to - lust. His fingers slithered down below his waist, and he started massaging his cock while his mind was flooded with you.

He imagined what it would have been like to see under your clothes, how your lips would have felt against his neck, and how your fingers would have felt wrapped around his dick like he had his now.

He pumped his hand back and forth over his length, caressing every vein and coaxing a few whimpers from his pretty mouth. Matt was saving himself for marriage, but he could still fantasize about you, right?

He pictured you on top of him with your breasts bouncing in his face. He imagined you straddling him, how wet and tight you'd feel enveloping his rod, and how pornographic your moans would sound. He fisted his cock urgently, his eyes rolling back and his jaw hanging open. The neediest sounds poured from Matt's lips as he replayed the way you sounded when you called him a naughty boy.

It didn't take much before ropes of cum were painting the shower floor, and Matt watched breathlessly as his hot, thick fluid mixed with the water and circled the drain. He immediately felt ashamed after, knowing God didn't make your body as beautiful as it was for Matt to fulfill his carnal desires with.

He figured you'd be disgusted with him if you ever knew. Little did he know, if you had any idea what he was doing behind his steamy shower door, you would have found it flattering.

He finished rinsing himself of his sin, and he grabbed a towel, one of the few things he had unpacked in his bathroom, wrapping it around his waist and stepping out of the shower.

It was right at this time that you were laying in your bed in the dark, trying to fall asleep when you rolled over and noticed Matt's bedroom light come on across the way. You caught a glimpse of Matt through your window in his room in just a towel, having just finished up in the shower.

You couldn't pull your eyes away from him. He looked so good with his hair all wet, and you admired his shirtless figure and the 'v' shaped lines that pointed down to his cock that you were dying to see.

You held your breath as he turned and dropped his towel. You couldn't see much, but you caught a glimpse of his bare ass for a few seconds before he slipped his pajama pants on, and you couldn't deny how cute it was.

Blissfully unaware that you could see him, he knelt down at his bedside and started to pray. You wondered if this was an every night occurrence, and for the most part it was, but Matt would spend an extra long time praying whenever he'd committed a lustful sin, which was more often than not. You peered at him from the comfort of your bedroom, wondering how good he'd look on his knees for you.

After about ten minutes of praying, Matt climbed to his feet, shut off his bedroom light, and crawled between his sheets to drift off to dreamland.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

You were pulled from your deep sleep the next morning at about 8 a.m. by the sound of your phone vibrating next to you. At first, you ignored it, thinking you were getting a text, but when the buzzing against your night stand continued, you realized you had an incoming call.

You didn't recognize the number, but you still answered. "Hello?" You sleepily mumbled into the phone. "Uh, hi," you immediately recognized the shy voice that responded to you. "Last chance for you to come to church with me. I'm leaving in half an hour," Matt told you.

"You wake up at 8 a.m. every Sunday to go to church?" You asked in a groggy tone. "Actually, I've been up for about an hour," he told you. "Do you have any coffee at your place?" You asked him, rubbing your eyes. "I don't even have a coffee maker at my place," he laughed. "I mean, I do somewhere, but it's still packed up."

"I'll come with you to church if we can stop for coffee on the way," you smiled into the phone. "Uh, yeah. We can do that," Matt said, attempting to conceal his excitement about you agreeing to go to church with him.

"Do I have to wear a dress?" You wondered. "You don't have to, but I'd like to see you in one," Matt replied, biting his lip. "I'll be over in like fifteen minutes. In my sunday best," you answered before you hung up.

You put on an off-white, vintage smock dress that synched at your waist and had long, puffy sleeves. You brushed your teeth, combed through your hair, and ran downstairs.

You were greeted by a confused look from your mother. "Where are you going so early looking so nice?" She asked, peering up from the book she was reading. "To church," you casually said, resting your hand on the doorknob. "Church?" Your mom said confused. "Yeah, I made a new friend. I'll be home later!" You called out before shutting the door behind you.

You made your way over to the boy next door's house, and you knocked while you waited patiently on his porch. A few seconds later, Matt opened the door and his eyes danced across your outfit. "Wow," Matt whispered, taking in the sight of you in a dress. He thought you looked like a fairy.

You looked him up and down as well, admiring his black slacks and black button-down long sleeve. You admired his emerald green tie, wondering how it would feel to grab him by it.

He had a notebook in his hand, and you glanced at his long, slender fingers again that were wrapped around the cover of the book, dreaming about how they'd feel curled inside of you. "What's the notebook for?" You asked. "Oh, nothing. It's just my journal."

"Your diary?" You raised your eyebrows at him. "You write about me in it last night?" You bit your lip at him. "No," he looked away and blushed. "Well, what do I have to do to get you to write about me in there, hmm?" You cooed, reaching for Matt's tie and fiddling with it while you flirted with him.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked, ignoring your question and looking a bit annoyed at you. "Yeah, are we just waiting for your dad?" You asked, gaze still fixed on his black-painted nails, and your mind still fixed in the gutter.

"My dad's not feeling so good. I think the elevation change kind of got to him, so he's staying home today," Matt responded, nervous to be alone with you, but you stared at him hungrily. "Just me and you?" You lustfully asked. You couldn't wait to be alone with him. He sheepishly nodded. "Well, I'm ready if you're ready," you chewed on your lip.

The two of you left to get coffee. You got a frozen caramel coffee drink, and Matt just got a black coffee.

Since Matt was new to the area, he had you navigate the two of you to the first place of worship that came up when he searched for Christian churches, and the two of you showed up just in time for the 9 o'clock service to start.

Matt backed his truck in to a spot on the side of the building, and the two of you slipped into the church, relieved that no one greeted you or asked if it was your first time there. You guys wanted to avoid the spotlight and just take your seats somewhere near the back.

An energetic man walked out onto the stage and immediately drew in the attention of the crowd. It didn't take long before you realized it was one of those weird, eccentric churches where the pastor claimed to be not like the other pastors, but he really just seemed like he was trying to use God as a way to get into people's wallets.

The sermon given revolved around the first book of the Bible, the Garden of Eden, original sin, and the way Adam and Eve gave into temptation. The whole time, you just listened quietly, your eyes shifting back and forth between the man giving the sermon and Matt, who seemed to be in a trance.

The service lasted about an hour and a half, and after the closing prayer, you and Matt shuffled out of the church along with the rest of the crowd, and you made your way back to the truck. On the way back home, you sat next to Matt in the truck that he and his dad shared, facing the shy brunette boy while you mulled over the service given today.

"Do you think Adam and Eve fucked in the garden?" You asked him, breaking the silence and looking at him seductively. Matt pulled his eyes off the road and glanced over at you for a second. "What!?" He asked in an appalled voice.

"Like the apple and the snake. You think those are just code words for something else?" You wondered, chewing on your lip. "I don't think you should be talking about stories in the Bible like that," he widened his eyes at you as if you were about to be struck by lightning.

"I mean, that's what they're alluding to, though, right?" You suggested. "I-I don't know. I never thought that far into it," Matt responded, dumbfounded. "You think Adam and Eve liked getting punished by God?" You smirked at Matt.

His cheeks grew red, he swallowed hard, and he started wiping his sweaty palms off on his button-down. He looked so cute when he was all flustered. "You think Adam was a naughty boy and liked getting caught eating Eve's fruit?" You said, slowly parting your legs and flashing Matt a sneak peak of what was under the skirt of your dress.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the little damp spot on the front of your white panties. "You're all wet.." Matt whispered, wide-eyed, unable to pull his eyes from between your thighs. "I know. I can't help it when you're around," you muttered, parting your legs a little further and gently petting yourself over your underwear.

"Please don't make me sin," Matt peered up at you with his needy, blue eyes. "I can't make you do anything," you teased him, brushing your finger over the soaked spot on the cotton fabric. "If you sin, it's because you want to."

"You're making this so hard for me," he whined, his eyes dancing between the road and the juicy treasure between your thighs. "You're right, I'll stop. I don't want us to crash," you smirked at him, pulling your hand away from your special place and slamming your legs shut.

The desperation on his face turned to disappointment. He didn't want you to stop, but he was riddled with guilt and shame about the way he was thinking about you.

"Can we stop at a store on the way home? I need to pick something up," you asked him. "Sure. Just tell me where to go," Matt responded quietly, still trying to clean his mind of the image of you spreading open your legs and gently rubbing the wet spot on your panties.

You led Matt to a parking lot with a sex shop in the plaza, and it was then that he realized you were up to no good. "Why are we stopping here?" Matt inquired, his wide eyes shifting back and forth between you and the shop you told him to park in front of.

"Don't worry about it. I just need to go in for a minute. It won't take long," you said, unfastening your seatbelt. "Well, you shouldn't go in alone," Matt killed the engine and started eagerly unbuckling his seat belt as well. "Yeah? You gonna protect me from all the dildos?" You chuckled, knowing he couldn't protect you from anything if he tried.

Secretly, he just had never been inside an adult entertainment shop, and considering sex was almost all he thought about besides God, he was curious. But he'd never admit it out loud.

The two of you walked in through the front door, clearly both in church clothes, and the girl at the front counter greeted you by name. "Who's this handsome devil?" The cashier asked, motioning towards Matt, and he blushed.

"This is my new neighbor. His name is Matt. We just got back from church," you told her. "Hot. It's always the religious ones that are a little freaky," the girl said, eyeing Matt and biting her lip. "I-I'm not," Matt quickly said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, he's a virgin," you whispered loudly. "A-am not!" Matt defensively said, turning bright red. "We're not here for him. I was actually looking into getting a new vibrator. I like the ones I have already, but I just want something with a little extra kick, you know?" You told her.

"I have the perfect thing for you," she winked at you, and she started to lead you towards the back. As the three of you walked past the magazines and DVDs, Matt's eye caught the cover of a few, and he started growing hard in his black slacks. He prayed neither of you would notice, trying to adjust himself as subtly as possible.

"This is the womanizer. We just got a shipment of them in this morning," the woman held up a toy. "And this part right here uses airflow and pressure while it vibrates to simulate oral sex," she informed you, turning on the toy and holding it out for you to feel.

"Wow," you said, your eyes twinkling as you felt the sensation against the tip of you finger while you imagined how it would feel elsewhere. "You sold me. Which color should I get, Matt?" You asked, looking over at your cute neighbor who was still trying to fix the erection forming in his pants.

Your eyes flicked down at the way the fabric strained around it, you smiled, and then you looked back up at Matt's embarrassed expression. "Um. Pink, I guess," Matt quietly responded. "Yeah? Like the color of your lips?" You smirked at him, knowing your comment was going to fluster him.

He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Whew. Is it kinda warm in here?" Matt asked, loosening his tie and turning an ever deeper shade of red. "I want a pink one," you said, turning back to the sex shop worker. She smirked at Matt and the tent growing in his pants before she wandered off to the back to go grab you a packaged one.

"You come here so often, they know you by name?" Matt quietly asked you. "What can I say? I like sex. Sex with myself, sex with another person, sex with more than one other person," you chuckled. "You've had sex? How many guys?" Matt asked, sounding a little jealous. "A lady doesn't fuck and tell," you whispered, winking at Matt before the woman reappeared with the vibrator you and Matt had just picked out.

"Are you sure you don't want a sex toy recommendation, pretty boy?" The cashier turned towards Matt. He glanced between the two of you like a deer in headlights. "Uh. N-no, thank you," Matt studdered, wiping sweat from his brow.

The three of you made it back to the front of the store, walking past BDSM gear and lingerie. "Okay, with your employee discount, it's gonna be $40 even," the girl smiled at you.

"Thanks, Carly. By the way, since I'm here, can I get my paycheck?" You asked, handing her the cash in your wallet. "Yeah, girl. Of course. I'll be right back," she told you after shoving your crinkled twenty dollar bills into the register.

"You work here?" Matt asked, looking at you wide-eyed. "Just part-time," you responded. "And your co-workers know," Matt gulped. "That you masturbate?" He whispered. "Yeah, I mean, if they're the ones thinking about it in their free time, that's their prerogative," you chuckled at Matt.

Carly reappeared from getting your paycheck and handed it off to you. "See you on Tuesday!" You waved goodbye and left the store with Matt trailing behind you.

"Why would you embarrass me like that and tell her I'm a virgin?" Matt asked you, starting up his truck. "Sorry! I didn't mean to embarrass you! I was just being honest. Plus, some girls find it hot," you smiled at him while you buckled your seatbelt.

"Really? Do you?" Matt inquired, putting the truck into reverse and backing out of the parking space. "What do you think?" You narrowed your gaze at him. "I-I don't know. Is that a rhetorical question?" He asked, still bright red from the interaction with the sex shop lady while he shifted into drive. "C'mon, Matthew. Let's go home," you turned your gaze back to the road in front of you guys.

"Okay, if you tell my dad we went into a sex shop, he's going to kill me," Matt looked over at you with a serious expression as he pulled into his driveway. "Why would I tell him that? Plus, you're not going home just yet. We're gonna go hang out in my treehouse. Remember?" You reminded Matt, slugging him in the arm.

"I-I don't wanna smoke weed," Matt admitted to you. "That's fine. You don't have to. I'm not gonna make you. But I am going to smoke weed, and you can hang out with me up there while I do, and we can just talk. Get to know each other better," you suggested, staring at Matt's lips and licking your own. "Okay," Matt hesitantly agreed.

He followed you through the wooden gate on the side of your house into your backyard where the two of you climbed the rope ladder up to your treehouse. Matt noted how much bigger the structure looked on the inside once you and he were in it.

You made your way over to a bag you had stuffed in a crevice in the wooden-pannel flooring, and Matt's nose wrinkled as a pungent smell filled the air when you opened it. Matt noted that it contained a lighter, rolling papers, and several nugs of a green substance.

"You keep your weed up here?" Matt asked you, his eyes widening. He'd never seen it in person, just in movies and in pictures where teachers in school were showing him what to stay away from. "The devil's lettuce," he remembered church leaders referring to it at sermons.

"Yeah, my mom's one of those people who's in denial about everything, so if I keep it out of her sight, she can more easily pretend I don't," you snickered. You sat down on the floor with your back up against the wall, and Matt was directly across from you, leaning up against the opposite wall.

You started to roll a joint, grinding the flower up with your fingers while you watched Matt's nervous expression. "So, why don't you smoke? Does it make you paranoid or something?" You asked him as you rolled. "I don't know. I've never tried it," Matt shrugged.

"Why not?" You questioned him, licking the joint sealed as you stared into his innocent, blue eyes. "It goes against God's word," he confidently told you. "Where does it say you can't smoke weed in the Bible?" You asked, lighting the end of the paper.

"The Bible says you shouldn't alter your state of mind," Matt replied, watching the smoke from your marijuana cigarette slowly drift out the window of your treehouse. "But you had coffee this morning? Caffeine is a drug and a consciousness-altering substance," you smirked at Matt, using his own logic against him.

"That's different," he said, rolling his eyes. "How? Is it because you're one of those cherry-pick Christians?" You taunted him, blowing out another plume of smoke. "You're gonna get me second-hand high," Matt snarked at you, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt and covering his nose and mouth with it.

"You didn't answer my question. Listen, I don't care if you pick and choose what things to listen to or not, but I was just curious as to how you know what you're gonna follow or not. And you're not gonna get high. I'd have to hold you down and blow it in your mouth," you sneered at him.

The idea of you pinning him down had Matt's palms sweating and his heart racing.

"You get turned on really easily, don't you?" You seductively spoke, taking another drag. The end of the joint crackled while you inhaled. Matt licked his lips and subtly nodded.

"Naughty boy," your lips curled into a malicious grin, knowing this would drive him crazy. Matt hugged his knees up towards his chest to hide the fact that he was getting another hard on.

"So, tell me, Matt," you took a final drag off the joint and put it out. "Do you think it's a sin to masturbate?" You inquired. "Well, yeah," Matt shifted around uncomfortably. "But you still do it," you smirked at him. He silently looked at you, neither confirming nor denying your accusation.

"What's the difference if someone else did it for you?" You stared at him lustfully, testing him. "I guess I'm not sure," Matt softly responded. "Well, you should think about that," you told him as you started opening the package that contained your new vibrator.

"W-what are you doing?" Matt asked nervously. "I'm just testing it out," you assured him. "In front of me?" Matt inquired, his eyes growing wider. "Relax. I'm not gonna get off with it in front of you. Unless you want me to," you smirked at him, turning on the vibrator and running it across your palm and your wrist.

"Here, feel it," you said, crawling over beside Matt and placing it on his fingertips. "Wow. That probably feels really good," Matt quietly responded, imagining how you'd sound and look with it between your legs. "I can't wait to use it tonight," you whispered in his ear, gently grazing his earlobe with your lip. Matt's stare flicked up to meet yours while you ran the toy across his palm.

"Are you gonna think about me?" You were shocked at the words that left Matt's mouth. It was the most forward he'd been with you, and it kind of turned you on. "Of course, I am. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I met you," you quietly whispered, your gaze dancing between his perfectly blue eyes and his full, pink lips.

The tension in the air was palpable, and you felt a magnetic-like pull as the two of you leaned in to close the distance that lingered between the two of you. And just as your lips were about to touch, you heard your mom calling your name from inside the house.

You pulled back, shut off your buzzing toy, and sighed. Matt was looking at you with a desperate and needy expression. You leaned in and whispered in his ear again, "I've gotta go. Text me. And when you write about me in your diary tonight, make sure you call me mommy."

part two posted here 💖

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[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Summary: After a deadly tempest rage against Berk, a maelstrom in the sea claims your parents—Where you were then eventually passed into the gruff, tender care of Gobber as his adopted niece. Help raising you beneath the clang of his forge alongside his own godson, Hiccup, a boy destined to defy the world. Hiccup and you stand through many hardships as childhood friends, and awkward occasions as two misfits against the world—a fierce baker of breads and a dreamer craving Viking glory. Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 5.1k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader descriptions are not described besides the clothing, true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 1

The Great Hall of Berk hummed with the morning clamor of a village waking to the promise of a new day. The air was thick with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke, the sweet smell of fresh baked goods ready for the taking but not without a symphony of chaos swirling around you as you danced between ovens and tables in a blur, with flour-dusted hands.

Loaves of bread, their golden crusts glistening with a crisp perfection, stacked high upon the counters in a tantalizing display. Among them, an irresistible assortment of buns—barley, ryes smothered in butter, and berries with oats—each mouthwatering with rustic flavor.

Stretching before you, a mile-long table groans under the weight of temptation: frothy eggnog, honeyed mead, and robust ale, each poised to dance with creamy skyr's or steaming bowls of porridge. And that's just the beginning. Succulent meats, tender fish, plump eggs, vibrant fruits, and crunchy nuts sprawl across the spread, a cornucopia of delights ready to satisfy the ravenous hunger of the tribe.

While the shouts of hungry Vikings echoed through the stone walls—orders barked with the urgency of warriors prepping for any sudden battle.

"More rye, lass!"

"Where's the barley flatbread?"

"Don't skimp on the butter this time!"

You stumbled over your own feet, catching yourself against a barrel of pickled herring before it toppled, a laugh bubbling up despite the madness. This was your domain, your forge of flour and fire, and though the frenzy threatened to swallow you whole, pride sparked in your chest like a well-tended ember.

You kneaded the last batch of dough with a fierceness that would've made a dragon crawl away, slamming it onto the table with a satisfying thwack. The rhythm of it steadied you—knead, fold, press—until the dough was smooth and ready for the oven. Wiping sweat from your brow with the sleeve of your elbow, already streaked with flour, you surveyed the kitchen.

Milkmaidens darted about, their aprons flapping like dragon wings, juggling trays of cheese and slabs of smoked fish. The head cook, a stout woman named Marta, bellowed at a young lad who'd nearly upended a cauldron of porridge. It was a storm, yes, but one you'd learned to ride with the same grit that kept Berk standing against the war.

"That's the last of it," you called, sliding the dough into the roaring oven. The heat kissed your face as you shut the iron door with a clang. Turning to Marta, you tugged at the ties of your apron. "I've got to run—Hiccup's waiting."

Marta's head snapped up; her wooden spoon poised mid-stir like a weapon. "Now? You're leaving me in this mess? The chieftain's crew'll be here any minute, and they'll eat us alive if the bread's not—"

"You've got it under control," you shot back, already halfway to the door, snagging a cloth from the counter. With a deft hand, you bundled a wedge of creamy goats' cheese, between a hunk of fresh flatbread, with some smoked meat and a fried egg—Hiccup's favorite, a little morning ritual you'd started years ago when his skinny frame needed coaxing to fill out. "Besides, I'll be back before Stoick's beard hits the table!"

"Lass, you're a menace!" Marta hollered in her heavy accent, but there was a grudging fondness in her tone as she waved you off, already turning to scold the porridge boy again.

You burst out of the Great Hall into the crisp morning, the wind tugging at your hair as it carried the tang of salt and pine from the cliffs and mountainside. Berk sprawled before you, alive with the clatter of hammers, the bleat of sheep, and the distant roar of a blow horns and shouts overhead—probably one of the twins stirring trouble again.

Your boots pounded the dirt path, the bundle clutched tight against your chest, warm and fragrant. The village blurred past—old man Mildew grumbling at his cabbages, a gaggle of kids chasing a chicken—and your heart thudded with a mix of urgency and something softer, something that always stirred when you thought of Hiccup.

He'd be waiting, probably perched on that rocky outcrop overlooking the harbor you two always shared, scribbling in his sketchbook or muttering to himself about some wild new idea. Ever since you were kids, he'd drag you into his schemes—mapping new ideas that would benefit Berk, testing contraptions that usually ended in singed eyebrows or a stern lecture from Gobber.

You'd been his shadow, his anchor, and somewhere along the way now both at the tender age of fifteen, that quiet crush you waved off had settled in your chest and blossomed more unwillingly. Only sometimes you'd hope he'd never see you as just the bread making Viking who tagged along. A small hope that flickered every time his green eyes lit up with a grin meant just for you—though you'd long convinced yourself it was nothing more than friendship to save yourself.

The path climbed, and your breaths came sharp as you rounded the final bend. There he was, silhouetted against the rising sun, a lanky figure hunched over, legs dangling off the cliff. Hiccup's auburn hair caught the light, tousled by the breeze, and his head was bent over something—probably another madcap invention doomed to earn Gobber's exasperated sigh.

You slowed, catching your breath, and felt that familiar tug in your chest. As you stepped forward, cheesecloth in hand, the wind carried a faint growling-rumble from him, and a laugh slipped from your lips—half at the oddity of the sound, half at the sight of Hiccup's hunched frame as he scribbled away in his journal.

His head snapped up at the sound, green eyes catching yours as you crested the hill. A grin flickered across his face—real and unguarded, the kind he saved just for you—and he set down his tools quickly as you closed the distance. You dropped onto the grass beside him, nudging his shoulder with yours.

"Brought you your fave again," you said, unwrapping the cloth with a flourish. "My original, egg-cheese, meat breakfast muffin!"

Hiccup's eyes lit up, and he snatched it from your hands, sinking his teeth into it without a second's pause. "Gods, this is my favorite," he mumbled through a mouthful, voice warm with that earnestness that always tugged at you.

You smiled, pulling out your own and taking a bite, the rich tang of the cheese and smoky meat settling on your tongue. For a moment, you both fell quiet, chewing in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, painting Berk's jagged cliffs in hues in warm orange and blue. The village sprawled below, a patchwork of roofs and smoke trails, framed by the endless sea stretching toward the horizon. It was a rare stillness, the kind that felt like a held breath.

Hiccup finished first, brushing crumbs from his tunic with a satisfied sigh, then turned to you, his face alight with sudden energy. "I did it," he said, voice buzzing with excitement.

"Finished your food first?" You respond sarcastically.

"Yes, but no—Finished the dragon trap. It's gonna catch a Night Fury—the Night Fury."

You nodded, still savoring your muffin, as he leaned closer to you.

"This is it, y'know? If I can pull this off, everyone'll finally notice me—Dad, the village, everybody. Maybe I'll even. . ." He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck. "Maybe even get a girlfriend."

You kept chewing, the meat turning a little tougher in your mouth as you tilted your head, listening. His eyes were fixed on the horizon now, bright with dreams you'd heard a hundred times—dreams you'd helped him sketch on scraps of parchment, dreams you'd quietly wished might one day include you. But you nodded anyway, letting him ramble on about the trap's clever gears and the glory he was chasing.

"You'll do it, Hiccup. You've been planning this for months now. Now we just wait for that dragon. Hopefully, of course, without destruction on its part. . ."

His eyes flicked to yours, brightening, and he nodded—a small, grateful smile breaking through his usual tangle of nerves. "Thanks," he said, soft but sure, the word landing like a spark between you. "And for having my back on this."

For a beat, you held his gaze, that ache in your chest flaring, before the distant clang of the forge bell snapped you both back to Berk's relentless rhythm.

"Gobber's gonna skin you if you don't get back to work," you teased, brushing crumbs from your hands as you stood. Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, and Marta's probably got a ladle with your name on it," he shot back, smirking. You laughed, hefting the empty cloth.

"Meet you at the forge later? After I've survived the Great Hall, and you've dodged Gobber's wrath?"

"Deal," he said, already turning back to his workbench, muttering about adjustments. You lingered a moment, watching him, then turned down the path, the rumble fading into the morning's hum.

The hours slipped by in a blur of Hairy Hooligan chaos. Back at the Great Hall, you dodged Marta's sharp tongue and the Vikings' endless appetites, morning, afternoon, and now evening. Your hands stirring while your mind wandered to Hiccup's trap—and the plans to come after.

Meanwhile, the village churned on: smoke curled from chimneys, sheep bleated, and somewhere, a horn sounded signaling another practice raid thwarted. By evening, the sun hung low, casting sharp shadows over Berk's rugged sprawl, and you finally broke free, boots kicking up dust as you headed for the forge again.

The forge glowed like a dragon's maw, heat rippling the air as you approached. Gobber's voice boomed over the clang of metal, his hammer-hand punctuating a lecture you could've recited by heart. "—and if ye think I'm cleanin' up another one of yer 'genius' messes, Hiccup, ye've got another thing comin'!"

Hiccup stood by the anvil, head ducked, fiddling with a tangle of rope and gears that looked suspiciously like his trap. He caught your eye as you stepped in, flashing a sheepish grin—half apology, half plea for rescue.

"Saved by the baker," you called, leaning against a workbench. Gobber wheeled around, his eyes narrowing, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Oi, lass, don't encourage him! This one's been goofin' about all mornin'—nearly set me eyebrows on fire, he did." Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, but Gobber barreled on, waving his hammer-hand.

"And you—shouldn't ye be feedin' the village instead of nursin' this troublemaker's ego?"

"Already did," you said, crossing your arms. "Thought I'd see if Hiccup's still in one piece." Hiccup rolled his eyes, but the grin lingered as he hefted the trap's frame, its metal glinting in the forge light.

"It's ready," he said, voice brimming with that restless energy you knew too well. "Tonight's the night—I can feel it."

Gobber snorted, muttering something about "fool's hope," but you caught the flicker of pride in his gruff stare at Hiccups invention. The forge hummed around you, a heartbeat of steel and sparks. Whatever Hiccup was chasing, it was coming fast and it almost made you nervous.

The forge's glow dimmed into the late dark evening, shadows stretching long across the cluttered workbench. Gobber's patience finally snapped, his hammer-hand clanging against an anvil for emphasis as you too went on and on about things he could care less about.

"That's it—I can't be around ye two anymore tonight! Bunch of misfits, schemin' and chatterin' like a pair of natterin' nannies. Don't blow the place up, ye hear?" He stomped toward the door, muttering under his breath about needing a tankard of mead and a moment's peace, leaving the air buzzing with his departure.

You side glanced at Hiccup, catching the glint in his eye as he turned to you, practically vibrating with excitement. "Finally," he said, running up to his dragon trap tucked away near the corner space. You admitted it looked really neat, like some of his previous inventions—this was a contraption as wild as his imagination. It didn't surprise you.

"C'mere, look at this." He said excitedly patting it before he crouched beside it, beckoning you closer, and launched into an explanation that tumbled out faster than a terrible terror could attack.

"See, the tension's all in the springs here," he said, tapping a coiled mechanism. "One good shot, and it'll snap shut—bam!—right around the Night Fury's entire body. Fastest dragon out there, but it won't see this coming." His hands danced over the trap, tracing ropes and pulleys, his voice alive with that reckless hope you'd always admired.

You leaned in, squinting at the tangle. "Looks like it could catch a Gronckle. . .or maybe just tangle you up instead," you teased, nudging a loose rope with your index finger. He huffed a laugh, adjusting it with a quick tug.

"Nah, it's foolproof. Well, mostly. Okay, fifty-fifty." He grinned. "But if it works, Dad'll have to notice. The village, too."

"And Astrid?" you added before you could stop, keeping your tone light despite the sting. He flushed, shrugging, and you let it drop, pointing at a jagged edge.

"Better smooth that down—don't want your Night Fury limping away with a grudge."

"Good call," he said, grabbing a file and setting to work. You traded ideas back and forth—tightening bolts, testing the trigger—until the forge grew quiet, the night pressing in around you. Hours slipped away, the fire dwindling to embers behind you both as you sat waiting on the cliff again, and still no raid came. Hiccup's shoulders slumped as he stared out at the dark, star-strewn sky expression disappointed.

"No dragons," he muttered, disappointment lacing his voice. "Thought tonight was it."

You placed a hand on his back, forcing a smile. "They're just waiting to catch you off guard. C'mon, let's call it—Gobber'll have our hides if we're dead on our feet tomorrow." He nodded, reluctant, and you both trudged out, locking the forge behind you.

The village lay silent under a shroud of clouds, and you parted ways—him to his house, you to yours—carrying the weight of an empty home to go back to.

Hours later, the skies still clung tight to the new morning night, heavy and restless, when the first screech tore through Berk. A dragon raid—fierce and sudden. You were already in the forge, having been shaken up by Gobber barging in and yelling at you for help.

Sweat streaking your face as you and Gobber worked in a frantic rhythm, the air thick with sparks and steel. Axes clattered onto the counter, swords hissed against the grindstone, and Vikings roared past the window and above, silhouettes against bursts of flame attempting to steal the sheep.

"Faster, lass!" Gobber bellowed, tossing a freshly sharpened blade to a burly warrior who barely grunted thanks before charging back into the fray.

"These beasts'll have us for breakfast if we don't arm this lot!" You nodded, hands steady despite the chaos, passing out axes like loaves of bread on a feast day. The forge was a storm—metal clanging, fire roaring, and the stench of singed wool and leather as a stray ember caught someone's cloak.

Then the sound of rushing footsteps was heard, and Hiccup stumbled in, all gangly limbs and wild hair. "I've got it—tonight's the night!" he whispers shouts to you. His eyes were bright, desperate, like he'd finally glimpsed his chance.

You glanced up from the axe you were sharpening, catching his gaze, and flashed a quick grin before continuing to sharpen the blade down for a waiting warrior. Gobber spun around; hammer-hand raised mid-swing.

"Oh, nice of ye to join the party!" he bellowed, sarcasm dripping like forge sweat. "I thought ye'd been carried off!"

You snorted, hefting a different weapon, a sword, onto the grindstone, sparks showering your apron. "Aye, by a dragon too picky to eat him? It couldn't stomach all that brawn," you quipped, shooting Hiccup a smirk.

He grinned, shoving your shoulder playfully as he hauled a giant hammer to the wall and moved closer to you, nearly tripping over a pile of scrap metal.

"Who, me?" Hiccup said, puffing out his chest. "Nah, come on—I'm way too muscular for their taste. They wouldn't know what to do with all. . .this." He flexed, all gangly bravado, the gesture so absurdly exaggerated you choked on a laugh, even as you handed off the sword to a Viking who didn't spare you a glance.

Gobber rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?" he joked, turning back to the anvil with a grunt.

You smirked, but the high demands of Berk's warriors drowned out any retort—shouts for "More axes!" and "Hurry it up!" pulling you back to the grindstone. Your hands flew, sharpening steel, passing tools, your focus split between the work and Hiccup's whirlwind energy as he darted past you, dodging Gobber's half-hearted swipe to reach the window.

Hiccup wrestled getting to work muttering about angles and tension, a lanky form of determination. You tracked him with quick glances, axe blades singing under your hands, too buried in the rhythm to catch every word of their brewing argument.

Then Hiccup's voice cut through—"I might even get a date"—and your head snapped up, interest flaring with small hope.

Your eyes flickered to him, catching the hopeful tilt of his grin, until a Viking's bellow—"Oi, lass, where's my sword?!"—jerked you back. You muttered an apology, hands scrambling to finish the blade, ears still tuned to their banter.

"If ye want to get out there and fight dragons, ye need to stop all. . .this," Gobber said, waving his hammer-hand at Hiccup in a broad, exasperated arc. You turned, mid-motion, eyebrow raised as you caught the tail end.

Hiccup blinked, incredulous. "But you just pointed to all of me. . ."

"Yes! That's it! Stop being all of you," Gobber shot back, flashing a winning grin that made your stomach twist. You shook your head, jaw tightening, and slammed a pile of sharpened tools onto the counter for the next wave of Vikings.

Gobber's jabs at Hiccup always stung you sideways—too close to the scorn the village heaped on him—and you buried the flare of anger in the work, pounding steel harder than necessary. They kept at it, trading barbs over the forge's roar, while you stayed silent, letting the clatter of metal drown out the urge to snap.

Then a shout shattered the air—"Night Fury!"—and the forge trembled as a shadow-streaked past, unseen but felt, a ripple of dread through the chaos.

Gobber straightened, peg leg thudding. "Mind the fort, ye two! They need me out there!" He wheeled on you both, hammer-hand jabbing.

"Stay. Put. There. . .both of ye. Ye know exactly what I mean." With that, he was gone, charging into the fray with a bellow, leaving the forge quieter but no less alive.

You turned to Hiccup, wide-eyed, the air between you crackling. You knew that look—the glint of a chance he'd been chasing since he first sketched that trap. "You going?" you asked, voice low but steady, a hint of worry.

"Yep!" he shouted, already snagging the trap's frame. "I'll see you soon!" He bolted for the door, a blur of lanky limbs and reckless hope, and you watched him go, heart thudding against your ribs. The forge hummed along with yelling Vikings piling up, embers glowing all around outside, and the Night Fury's sound echoing everything growing chaotic.

"Be careful. . ." You had whispered after he could let you say anything.

You stood alone in the heat, the air thick with soot and the tang of molten steel and turned back to the grindstone. Vikings pounded at the wood framed window, hands outstretched—"Axe, lass!" "Sword, now!"—and you moved quickly, sharpening blades, tossing them out, your arms burning but relentless.

You kept your head down, hands focused on the job at hand, but your mind flickered to Hiccup—out there with that rickety trap, chasing a dream he worked so hard to build. You only prayed he'd be ok.

The raid raged on, a blur of shouts mixed with dragon's roars and flame. You sharpened another sword, passing it back to a warrior whose beard was singed black and strands still burning. The forge was your second battlefield besides the kitchens, and you held it—alone, steady, until a distant crash jolted the air, sharper than the usual din.

You stayed put, as Gobber had ordered, piling blades on the counter before they could take them, ears straining for any hint of Hiccup's fate. The sky lightened, a bruised gray creeping over the horizon as morning began to peak, when a new sound reached you—Stoick's bellow, loud enough to rattle the forge walls, followed by the murmur of a gathering crowd.

Wiping sweat and soot from your face, you stepped outside, the dawn air sharp against your skin. Down the hill, the village had clumped around the wreckage of a torch tower—flames licking its splintered remains. Hiccup stood at the center, shoulders hunched, dwarfed by Stoick's towering frame.

A Monstrous Nightmare roared, pinned by a toppled net, and Stoick wrestled it back, barking orders—"Take it to the pens!"—before rounding on his son. You edged closer, boots crunching on charred earth, catching the tail end of the lecture as the crowd watched, a mix of pity, shame and scorn in their eyes.

". . .Every time you step outside, disaster follows!" Stoick thundered, his voice a hammer strike. "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter's almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"

Hiccup shifted; voice small but defiant. "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?" A few Vikings gasped offended, while you covered your mouth to hide the laugh, but Stoick's glare silenced them.

"This isn't a joke, Hiccup! Why can't you follow the simplest orders?" he demanded, hands clenched.

"I—I can't stop myself," Hiccup stammered, gesturing helplessly. "I see a dragon, and I have to just. . .kill it, you know? It's who I am, Dad. . ."

Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation carving lines into his face. "You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them." He straightened, turning to the crowd.

"Get back to your homes!" Then, softer, to Hiccup, "Get back to the house." He glanced at Gobber, who'd limped up beside him. "Make sure he gets there. I have his mess to clean up."

Gobber nodded, slapping Hiccup with his good hand. "Aye, come on." The crowd dispersed, muttering, and Hiccup trudged forward, head down, hands shoved into his tunic as he ignored the other teens taunts. You stepped out from the edge, heart twisting at the slump in his frame, and caught up as he passed. Gently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to say I'm here without words.

He glanced at you, eyes shadowed but softening, a faint, tired smile flickering. "See you later," he murmured, barely audible, and you nodded, letting your hand fall as Gobber steered him toward the house. You watched them go—Hiccup's lanky silhouette beside Gobber's hobbling bulk—until they vanished up the path, the weight of his failure and your quiet worry settling like the ash around you. Lingering a moment, the weight of his slumped shoulders etched into your mind, then turned back to the forge.

The chaos had ebbed, leaving charred wood and bent steel in its wake, and you busied yourself stacking weapons, the rhythm dulling the knot in your chest. But it didn't stop your ears from straining for his footsteps, or your thoughts from circling back to that scream he made down the hill.

By mid-morning, you'd exhaustedly traded the forge for the Great Hall, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in dough like every other day before it. This time with barely any sleep. The air hummed with yeast and mead. The low grumble of Vikings in the hall nursing wounds with pride over their porridge.

Marta barked orders as she always did, her ladle a scepter, but you barely heard her—your mind was still out there, with Hiccup, wondering what mess he'd stumbled into now, and how you wished your shift would end so you can visit him or sleep.

Flour dusted your arms as you kneaded, the familiar pull and press a tether to sanity, when a shadow slipped through the door. 

Hiccup—eyes wide, darting like a hare caught in the open. He sidled up, voice a hushed rush. "I hit something," he said, tugging your sleeve with that restless energy you couldn't ignore. "Last night, with the trap—I think it worked. C'mon, you've gotta see." His breath was quick, his grin half-thrill, half-panic, and it left a spark of unease in your gut.

You froze, dough clinging to your fingers, and shot a glance at Marta. Her back was turned, but her glare could burn holes through stone. "Hiccup, I'm up to my elbows here—," you started, but his pleading look cut you off, green eyes bright with the kind of wild hope you'd never learned to say no to. You sighed, wiping your hands on your apron. "Fine. But if Marta skins me, you're baking the next five batches."

"Deal," he said, already halfway out the door. You followed, ducking Marta's wrath and the curious stares of a few Vikings, your boots hitting the dirt as Hiccup led you uphill, past the village's edge. The woods loomed, damp and tangled, and he rambled as you went—words tripping over each other about the trap's "perfect shot," the bola's arc, how he'd heard something crash. You stumbled over roots, swatting branches, and tossed him a dry look.

"Perfect shot, huh? Or did you just knock down another tower and call it a win?" you teased, dodging a low limb. He huffed a laugh, shoving you lightly.

"Come on, really? This is it—the Night Fury. I know it." His voice trembled with conviction, and you didn't argue, just kept pace, the air growing thick with pine, earth and the faint tang of rain. You didn't bother to counter, simply matching his stride while you two made it deeper into the woods.

The woods closed the deeper you got—turning into forest. The damp earth tugging at your boots, your heels throbbing after what felt like hours—though you couldn't be sure. Maybe one, maybe two; time blurred by quickly. You hadn't wanted to disappoint him, not with that fire in his eyes. So, you kept on, even as he groaned every mile, his makeshift map—a mess of 'X' marks scratched into his sketchbook—crumpling in his grip.

He edged closer to you, shoving the map under your nose. "Here—see? It's gotta be near," he muttered, tracing a jagged line with a dirt-smudged finger. You squinted at it, biting back a smirk at the chaos of his art, and shifted your weight, wincing as your heels protested.

"Hmm. . .Hiccup?" you said, slowing to a stop. "You think maybe we should head back and try again tomorrow?"

He sighed deeply, a gust of frustration that seemed to deflate him, and snapped the book shut. "Oh, the gods hate me," he grumbled, voice dripping with self-pity. "Some people lose their knife, or their mug. No, not me." You froze, biting your lip to stifle a snort, watching him trudge on, still ranting to the trees—and you.

"—I only manage to lose an entire dragon," he spat, slapping a broken branch in his path. It whipped back, smacking him square in the face, and that broke you. A burst of laughter erupted, echoing around you both as you doubled over, hands on your knees, the sound of your laugh leaving you silent at its peak from sheer force. Hiccup whirled, cheeks flushed and waved a desperate hand to cover your mouth. "Shh! Shush, shush—quiet!" he pleaded, voice a frantic hiss.

Your smile faded as his urgency hit, and you ducked lower beside him, breath catching. The forest felt quiet suddenly—too still—and a rustle rippled through the underbrush. Hiccup's wide-eyed glance met yours, a shared pulse of adrenaline, and you crept forward together, his crumpled map forgotten in his fist. The trail dipped into a ravine, steep and shadowed, and he slowed, breath catching as he heaves—quickly ducking.

"There," he whispered, pointing with a trembling finger. You peered over the edge, and your stomach twisted. There it was—the Night Fury—bound in a snarl of ropes and bola weights, black scales glinting like wet stone against the earth. Its wings still, pinned, and its chest unmoving.

"Hiccup. . ." you breathed, voice barely a thread. "You actually did it," you murmured, awe tinged with worry, your gaze darting between them. He swallowed, face pale, and you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the flicker of something deeper.

He edged closer, pulling his knife from his belt. You lunged to grab his arm, roots jabbing your knees, but he slipped free, clambering over the ravine's lip before you could stop him. He ducked behind a boulder—the only shield between him and the beast—and you crouched, watching, worry gnawing at you. Your lip stung as you bit it hard, tasting iron, eyes locked on his lanky frame huddled in the dirt.

He peeked out, voice rising, loud and brash. "I—I did it! Ohh, this. . .this fixes everything! Yes!" He straightened, chest puffed, and you rose too, both of you bold with the certainty the dragon was dead—its stillness a grim trophy. "I have brought down this mighty beast!" he crowed, stepping forward to plant a foot on its side, triumphant.

Then the Night Fury twitched—a shudder of muscle under scales—and Hiccup froze, the blade shaking in his grip. You stumbled forward, the air thick with earth and the beast's ragged breaths, its green eyes snapping open to bore into his. Very much alive.

This is Chapter 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

SUPER BELATED Spring Cleaning 2024 Sale

okok the whole starting a separate part time job kinda threw me for a while but I've GOT MY SHIT TOGETHER!!! IT'S STILL SPRING!!!!

Basically, I have way too many print designs, and I've selected 9 of the older/less popular ones to phase out. I've put the following listings on sale for 25% off, and when they're out, they're OUT (unless people years down the line ask for a reprint batch or two). I updated the inventory quantity in each listing to accurately reflect how many of each print is left

this sale is gonna last a month, whatever's left over after the sale ends I'll just end up recycling. And from there on I'll be looking into creating funky NEW print designs for yall!

This sale doesn't affect the remaining 20-odd designs I have in the shop at the moment, you can still buy those whenever

1) why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food

2) Smashed Mouthe: Put Thy Show On

3) I may not know my flowers....

4) Born in a Graveyard Raised by a witch...

5) The only thing better than collecting BOG MUMMIES is BECOMING one! it's NATURAL, it's ORGANIC, and it's COMPLETELY FREE OF CHARGE!!!

6) Pinpath: A poem I wrote about my cross stitch needle, available in uncial and italic hands

7) Gaymer House (this one does well actually but I could have designed it nicer. Might just be selling out these old ones and come up with a new design for June)

8) Dummy Thicc Telltale Heart

9) Yeah, I'm into Battles Dragons Swords and Magic

The sale should be live! clicking those links should take you to the discounted listings, have fun yall!

I'll be boosting this a few times in the next day or two and then i'll limit boosts to once every few days or so in order to not fuck up anyone's dash

[pucksandpower]

Made with Love

Charles Leclerc x amateur baker!Reader

Summary: in which Charles would rather risk the entire paddock getting food poisoning (again) than break your heart by telling you that your baking is horrible

You hum to yourself as you pull a tray of freshly baked cupcakes out of the oven. The sweet, chocolaty aroma fills Charles’ kitchen, making your mouth water.

This batch is sure to be perfect! You’ve been practicing your baking skills for months now, determined to get it just right.

Charles wanders into the kitchen, drawn by the scent. “Mmm, something smells good in here!”

He peers over your shoulder at the tray of cupcakes. They’re a bit misshapen, with cracked tops that deflated the second they were taken out of the oven. The frosting is glopped on unevenly.

To you, they look absolutely mouthwatering. To Charles, they look … well, he loves you too much to say.

“Try one!” You urge, holding out a cupcake. Charles flashes you a hesitant smile before taking it. He peels back the liner and takes a bite. His eyes widen and he forces himself to chew and swallow.

“Well? How is it?” You ask eagerly.

Charles clears his throat. “It’s, uh, it’s great. Your best batch yet,” he lies. In truth, it’s dry and dense, with a strange bitter aftertaste. But the delight on your face makes the fib worth it.

You throw your arms around him in a hug. “Yay! I can’t wait to share them with the team this weekend.”

Charles’ stomach drops. The thought of the entire paddock pretending to enjoy your baking makes him cringe internally. But he plasters on a smile. “What a nice idea! I’m sure they’ll love them.”

The two of you arrive at the circuit and you can barely contain your excitement as you carry a large container of cupcakes into the paddock. Charles trails behind you, backpack slung over one shoulder, his other arm wrapped around your waist. He presses a quick kiss to your temple before you flit off to distribute your baked goods.

You first approach Max Verstappen, holding out a cupcake with rainbow sprinkles. “Here Max, have one!”

Max eyes the treat dubiously but accepts it with a polite smile. “Thanks Y/N, that’s really nice of you.”

You beam and turn to Charles, missing the look of apprehension on Max’s face. Charles catches Max’s eye and draws a finger across his throat in warning. Max’s eyes widen but he nods in understanding. Charles won’t let anything ruin your mood today.

You make your way through the paddock, handing cupcakes to mechanics, engineers, PR reps, reporters, team principals, and drivers. Charles hovers behind you, keeping a watchful eye on each recipient.

Daniel Ricciardo visibly gags on his first bite when you turn away. Charles glares and shakes his head sharply. Daniel rearranges his face into a smile and gives a thumbs up.

Lando Norris takes an overly large bite and Charles has to pound on his back as he chokes it down.

Esteban Ocon discreetly spits his cupcake into a napkin when you’re not looking. Charles lunges forward and grabs his arm, squeezing tightly until Esteban wheezes out “Delicious!”

You remain blissfully unaware of the chaos that falls over the paddock in your wake, oblivious to Charles’ desperate interventions. All you see are your friends and acquaintances enjoying your baking.

When you finally offer a cupcake to Charles, he takes it and eats the whole thing without hesitation. Because even if it tastes like sugary sawdust, the delight on your face makes it the best treat in the world.

“Wasn’t that fun?” You gush to Charles afterwards. “I can’t wait to try out a new recipe soon!”

Charles just kisses your frosting-smudged nose and says, “I can’t wait either, mon amour.” As long as you’re happy, he’ll choke down all the questionable cupcakes you offer. Because your smile is the only thing that matters.

***

The paddock is bustling with activity as you and Charles arrive for the next race weekend, yet another batch of fresh baked goods in hand. You’re eager to share your latest creations — classic chocolate chunk cookies. You spent hours carefully following the recipe, determined to get them just right.

As you make your rounds distributing cookies, the reactions are the usual mix of forced smiles and discreet spitting. Charles trails behind you, glaring at anyone who doesn’t immediately rave about how delicious they are. The drivers and mechanics quickly catch on, showering you with praise and shooting Charles grateful looks when he turns you away.

You finally offer a cookie to Graham, a mechanic from the Mercedes team. He takes it hesitantly, eyeing Charles standing behind you. But Graham is new to the paddock and unaware of the baked goods situation.

He takes a bite and immediately grimaces. “Ugh, these taste terrible!” He blurts out.

You gasp, stumbling back as if struck. Tears well up in your eyes. Charles is at your side in an instant, pulling you into a comforting hug. Over your shoulder, he shoots Graham a look of absolute rage.

Graham realizes his mistake too late, shame washing over his face. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean ...” he stammers. But you’re already pulling away from Charles and rushing off, sobbing.

Charles turns on Graham, eyes blazing. “How could you? All she ever wants to do is make others happy!” Graham cowers before him, other mechanics backing away nervously.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Graham says miserably.

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” Charles snarls. “You stay away from her, you hear me?” Graham nods shakily. Satisfied the message is received, Charles races after you.

He finds you behind the garage, face buried in your hands. “Oh mon ange,” Charles murmurs, wrapping you in his arms. “Don’t listen to him, your cookies are perfect.”

You cling to Charles, sniffling. “I just wanted to do something nice for everyone. But I’m so horrible at baking!”

Charles tilts your chin up. “You listen to me. You have the biggest, kindest heart. It doesn’t matter if the cookies are a little, er, overdone. What matters is you put love into making them. Don’t let someone like Graham get you down.”

You smile tremulously. “Have I told you lately that you’re the best boyfriend ever?”

Charles grins. “Hmm, I don’t mind hearing it again.” Laughing through your tears, you tell him again, punctuating it with a kiss.

After ensuring you’re okay, Charles seeks out Graham. “I trust you’ll be more considerate going forward?” Graham nods meekly. “Good. But just so we’re clear, if you upset her again, you’ll be out of this paddock for good.”

The next day, the news breaks that Graham has been dismissed from the Mercedes team for “attitude issues.” You feel a bit guilty, hoping your cookies didn’t cause him to lose his job. But Charles seems strangely satisfied, so you don’t dwell on it.

From then on, Charles redoubles his efforts to protect your feelings whenever you provide baked goods. The paddock falls in line, fawning over your overly salty pretzels and dry banana bread.

The brightness of your smile makes it all worth it to Charles. Because keeping that joy and kindness shining in you is what matters most to him.

***

You step out of Charles’ Ferrari, the engine purring as he puts it in park. Taking his hand, you smile excitedly — today is another fan meetup organized by the team, and you can’t wait to connect with Charles’ supporters again.

“Are you ready, mon cœur?” Charles asks, squeezing your hand gently. His green eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks at you adoringly.

“Absolutely!” You chirp, patting the large picnic basket hanging off your arm. “I made lots of treats to share today!”

Charles grins and leans in to kiss your forehead. “I’m sure they will love everything you made, as always.”

You beam, bolstered by his encouragement as you both make your way to the event. The meetup is being held in a local park, with tents and tables set up amongst the lush green grass and towering trees. You spot a long line of fans waiting eagerly for Charles’ arrival. Most are dressed in the familiar rosso corsa of Ferrari, holding posters and memorabilia for him to sign.

“Charles! Charles!” They chant excitedly when they see him. You hang back happily, letting him have his moment with his dedicated supporters. Charles takes selfies, signs autographs, and chats animatedly in Italian, French, and English. The fans are thrilled to interact with their racing idol.

After some time, Charles waves you over. “I would like you all to meet someone very special to me,” he announces, wrapping an arm around you. The fans erupt into cheers and applause. “This is Y/N, my love.”

You blush at the attention but manage to give a little wave. “Hi everyone! I’m so happy to be here today.”

Charles addresses the crowd again. “As some of you know, Y/N loves to bake and has brought some special treats to share with you all today.”

This is met with more enthusiastic cheers. Though none of them particularly enjoy your baked goods, the fans appreciate the effort and know Charles likes to reward them for humoring you.

You open up your large picnic basket, beaming with pride. “I made my favorite oatmeal raisin cookies, some lemon squares, and my famous rocky road fudge!”

The fans try not to visibly cringe, lining up politely with plates held out. You happily distribute your overly dry, burnt cookies and gooey, cloying fudge. The lemon squares are mushy and saccharine. But the fans accept it all with smiles and encouragement.

“Mmm, delicious!” One teenage girl forces out through a mouthful of your fudge.

An older man gives you a thumbs up as he chokes down a cookie, eyes watering. “So good!”

You beam, pleased that they enjoy your baking so much. As you chat with each person, you don’t notice Charles discreetly handing out autographed photos, caps, and other prized memorabilia to reward the fans for their efforts.

After you’ve handed out all your baked goods, Charles suggests a stroll through the park gardens. As you walk hand-in-hand admiring the flowers, he says softly, “You have such a big heart, Y/N. The way you care so much about connecting with the fans means the world to me.”

You squeeze his hand gratefully. “It’s the least I can do — they support you in everything, so I want to support them too.”

Charles stops and turns to you, his expression tender. “You are amazing, truly. I’m the luckiest man in the world.” He leans in and kisses you sweetly. Your heart flutters just like the first time your lips met.

When you return from your walk, the event is winding down. You say goodbye to the fans, who thank you profusely for the treats and making their day so special. You tell them you can’t wait to bake for them again soon!

After the last fan leaves, it’s just you and Charles. The late afternoon sun casts golden light on the empty picnic tables.

“Did you have fun, mon amour?” Charles asks, caressing your cheek.

“The best time!” You say enthusiastically. “I just love baking for your wonderful fans and seeing how it makes them smile.”

Charles’ eyes are full of love. He kisses the top of your head. “As long as it makes you happy, that’s all that matters to me.”

You snuggle into his chest happily. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“I don’t think so,” Charles teases. “Why don’t you remind me again?”

You grin up at him. “I’ll tell you over dinner … I have a new donut recipe I want to try out.”

Charles fights down a grimace as he reminds himself that your love is more than worth suffering through another dreadful dessert. “I can’t wait!”

***

“Mate, you have to stop her before she poisons someone,” Max whispers urgently to Charles as you step out of the room.

Charles furrows his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Your girlfriend. Her baking. It’s … it’s just terrible. I’m sorry, but it has to be said.”

Charles lets out a dismissive chuckle. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Max raises his eyebrows incredulously. “I chipped a tooth on her brownie last week!”

Charles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as he avoids making eye contact.

“Look, I get that you don’t want to upset her,” Max continues, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “But we can’t keep lying and pretending it’s good! One of these days, someone is going to end up in the hospital.”

Charles sighs deeply, running a hand through his tousled hair. “What do you want me to do? If I tell her the truth, she’ll be devastated.”

You return to the room then, a bright smile on your face as you carry a plate of freshly baked apple tarts. “Who wants one?”

Max cringes almost imperceptibly while Charles shoots him a warning look. “They look great, ma belle!” He says with forced enthusiasm, taking one and bringing it to his lips.

The apple filling is gelatinous and tastes faintly of soap. Charles forces himself to swallow it with a strained smile. Max quickly declines when you offer him one.

Later that evening, Charles finds Max alone outside his apartment building. “I need your help,” he admits defeatedly.

Max looks at him expectantly.

“With Y/N’s baking … how do I get her to stop without completely crushing her?”

His friend contemplates this for a moment. “Well … you could try convincing her to take up a new hobby instead?”

Charles shakes his head. “I’ve suggested that before, but she’s dead set on baking. It’s her biggest passion.”

“Okay, then you’ll have to take a different approach.” Max strokes his chin thoughtfully. “What if … you told her a bunch of us were going vegan or something, so she couldn’t bake for us anymore?”

Charles raises an eyebrow at the suggestion, but then slowly nods. “You know, that could actually work …”

The next day, you eagerly bring a fresh batch of blueberry muffins to the paddock to share with everyone. Charles takes a deep breath before pulling you aside gently.

“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” He starts, trying to keep his expression neutral.

You blink up at him curiously. “Of course. What’s up?”

“Well …” He clears his throat. “I was talking to the guys and … Lewis has actually convinced a bunch of them to go vegan. Lando, Max …”

He lists off a dozen more names, watching as realization dawns on your face. Your shoulders slump slightly.

“Oh … I see.” You glance down at the muffins in your hands. “I guess that means I can’t really bake for them anymore.”

Charles feels a pang of guilt at the disappointment in your eyes. But then, your expression brightens again.

“I’ll just have to start baking vegan treats instead!” You declare happily. “This is so exciting, I’ve been wanting to experiment with more plant-based ingredients!”

Charles’s shoulders tense as the plan epically backfires. Of course you’d take this as an opportunity to bake even more.

Over the next few weeks, you gleefully embrace the vegan baking lifestyle. Charles has to smother his laughter when Max nearly chokes biting into one of your “chewy” vegan brownies. Lando spits out a mouthful of your gritty vegan chocolate cake when you’re not looking.

You, however, remain blissfully unaware of how dreadful your creations are. No matter how many hints Charles tries to drop, the problem only seems to be getting worse.

One evening, you set a plate of fresh-from-the-oven vegan peanut butter cookies on the coffee table, plopping down on the couch next to Charles with a proud grin.

“Try one!” You insist, picking a cookie up and holding it in front of his lips.

Charles hesitates for just a second too long. Your face falls and he scrambles to take a bite, barely suppressing a wince as he chews on what feels like a solid lump of chalk mixed with peanut shavings. He forces himself to swallow it down with an enthusiastic grin.

“Wow, these are incredible!” He lies through his teeth. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

You perk up immediately, the dejected look vanishing. “You really think so? I tried a new recipe I found online.”

“Definitely a winner,” Charles affirms, trying his best to sound convincing. “We should bring some to the paddock for everyone to try.”

Your eyes light up at the suggestion and guilt twists in Charles’s gut. The last thing he wants is for the other drivers to have to suffer through these … confections. But he could never be the one to shatter your baking dreams.

The next day at the track, you eagerly pass around the plate of peanut butter hockey pucks to the drivers and crew. Charles discreetly pulls Max aside with a pained look.

“Please, I’m begging you …” he murmurs under his breath. “Just smile and nod, no matter how bad they are.”

Max grimaces as he takes an experimental bite of one of the cookies, his expression doing little to mask his revulsion. But he meets Charles’s pleading gaze and forces out a strangled, “Mmm … great!”

One by one, the others follow suit — fake smiles and strained praises as they choke down your baked atrocities. You remain obliviously pleased, unaware of their suffering.

Over the next few weeks, the vegan baking experiments only seem to get worse and worse. The paddock has become a silent circle of culinary martyrs — all sworn to an unspoken code to preserve your feelings at all costs.

You proudly present a tray of charcoal-colored muffins that leave the entire garage coughing from the plume of burnt flour. “Tried a new recipe for dark chocolate avocado muffins!” You explain brightly.

“Can’t wait to dig in,” Lando is close to crying, his eyes already watering.

Charles has to bite back a laugh as Max takes a heroic bite, barely managing to keep it together. He pats the Dutchman on the back firmly as the poor guy fights back a gag reflex.

“Two more words about her baking and you’ll be racing with three wheels next season,” he warns Carlos in a low mutter after witnessing the Spaniard nearly vomit up a slice of your “moist” vegan zucchini bread.

The sheer willpower it takes for the entire crew to maintain the facade is almost impressive. Technique and strategy meetings have now become immense displays of unspoken fortitude — everyone driven by the simple goal of not letting you catch on that your baked goods are, in fact, completely inedible.

Charles has started bringing backup protein bars and shakes to every race just to make sure nobody accidentally lapses into baked good-induced delirium.

He really has no idea how much longer this can possibly be sustained. But he also has no idea how to safely extract the situation without demolishing your passion and self-confidence in the process.

For now, his main objective is to ensure your bright smile and cheerfulness remain unchanged — no matter how many mouths he has to personally silence to make that happen.

At the end of the day, having you by his side, radiating that infectious joy and following your heart’s desire, is worth enduring all the subpar vegan muffins in the world.

He’ll take a bite of your latest abomination with an adoring grin, because that’s what partners who truly love each other do — they support each other through the good, the bad, and the burnt-to-a-crisp.

***

It’s the start of a new season, and Charles has been racking his brain for a solution to the ongoing baking saga. As much as he loves indulging your passion, the charade is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. The entire paddock is at their wits’ end trying to choke down your vegan torture devices week after week.

That’s when he has an idea — one he hopes will be a win-win for everyone involved.

“Surprise!” He says with an excited grin, presenting you with the envelopes. “I got us signed up for this baking course. I thought it could be fun for us to take some classes together!”

You’re beaming as you throw your arms around his neck. “That’s such a thoughtful idea! I would love nothing more.”

Of course, Charles being Charles is hardly fully forthright about his motivations. “To be honest, I’m the one who really needs the help,” he fibs sheepishly. “We all know I’m a disaster in the kitchen. But with your talents guiding me, maybe there’s hope!”

Over the next few weeks, you and Charles diligently show up for your baking classes. The instructor walks you through fundamentals like properly measuring ingredients, controlling oven temperatures, and mastering technical skills. Slowly but surely, your creations start emerging looking (and smelling) better and better.

One evening, you return home with a fresh tray of beautifully baked chocolate chip cookies — the first delicacy you’ve felt confident enough to bake since the lessons. You present them to Charles with bated breath.

He takes one tentative bite, his eyes widening in surprise. These are actually ... edible! More than edible — they are legitimately delicious! The dough-to-chip ratio is perfect, the texture is chewy but not dry or crumbly. He quickly stuffs two more into his mouth with an appreciative moan.

“Ma belle … these are incredible!” He gasps out between bites.

You clap your hands over your mouth, eyes shining with glee. “Oh my gosh, you really think so? I was so nervous!”

“Are you kidding? I could eat this entire tray all by myself!”

The two of you dissolve into celebratory laughter and hugs, the sweet taste of success quite literally on your tongues.

“I think it’s time for the real taste test,” you declare one day, rolling up your sleeves as you start prepping an array of fresh baked goods. “We’re taking these bad boys to the paddock!”

The next race weekend, you stride in carrying bakery boxes of your fresh chocolate chip cookies as well as some decadent fudge brownies.

“Fresh out of the oven!” You announce proudly, setting them down with a bright grin. “Who’s hungry?”

For a long beat, nobody moves. The drivers exchange wary glances, their self-preservation instincts kicking in as they recall the many baking debacles of the past. Lando bravely reaches for a brownie first, his face scrunched up preemptively-

Only to blink in surprise as the rich, fudgy flavor hits his taste buds. His eyes widen comically as he takes another bite. “Bloody hell ... this is actually good!”

The words seem to shatter the suspended tension. Soon the entire paddock is swarming the trays, devouring the fresh baked goods with delight. Charles watches on in disbelief, his own taste buds experiencing flavors he didn’t even know were possible from your former creations.

He sees Max take a bite of one of the cookies, freezing in place as his eyes slip closed with an expression of pure bliss. When they open again, Charles is alarmed to see they’re glistening with unshed tears.

The Dutchman wordlessly holds up the cookie, gazing at Charles reverently as a lone tear trails down his cheek. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he brings the baked good to his lips and takes another sensual bite, savoring it like it’s the first good thing he’s ever tasted.

From then on, it’s like a switch has been flipped. The paddock that once dreaded your baking now seemingly can’t get enough of it. Every race weekend, they await your fresh creations with unrestrained enthusiasm, like kids on a sugar bender.

Charles has lost count of how many times he’s caught drivers and crew sneaking off to wherever you’re prepping the latest batch, nostrils flaring as they try to scout out that heavenly aroma.

It’s gotten to the point where Max’s performance coach has had to implement strict rules about his treat consumption to prevent indulgences from derailing his season.

“Easy there, Max!” Rupert calls in a booming tone, swooping in to physically restrain the Dutchman as he makes a mad dash toward where you’re unpacking that week’s fresh delivery. “You know you have a limit on those.”

Max strains against his performance coach’s grip, eyes zeroing in on the platter of goodies being unloaded with unrestrained longing. “I don’t care, she brought triple chocolate cookie dough brownies this time! Let me go!”

Rupert grunts in exertion, struggling to keep his driver in check. “This is for your own good! Think of your diet!”

“That’s irrelevant!” Max practically snarls, pupils blown wide like an addict suffering from withdrawals. “Do you have any idea how long I waited to have real baked goods again?”

It’s a battle of wills and metabolism that quickly becomes a weekly sight. Charles can’t help but chuckle fondly as he watches Max and Rupert’s familiar tug-of-war happen like clockwork every Sunday.

As much as he’d love to intervene, he knows better than to come between Max and your heavenly baked creations. He’s just thrilled that this baking journey took such a delicious turn — both for your invigorated culinary passion and for the safety of everyone’s tastebuds.

Honestly, he’ll take the sight of a feverish Max drooling over freshly baked goods any day over having to choke down burnt muffins and brittle biscuits. This is the sweet upgrade everyone had been dreaming about.

The true recipe for happiness was sticking by each other’s side through all those halfbaked stumbles.

[grandline-fics]

Hey, hey, hey. I'd love a love potion with katakuri if that inspires you and you have time for it 💕💕

DESCRIPTION: Love Potion- You were both only pretending to date. The feelings aren't real...right?

WARNINGS: none come to mind.

CHARACTERS: Katakuri

WORDS: 1,598

A/N: Thank you for this request @strawberry-000 this one got away with me and I hadn't intended it to get as long as it did. This is my second time writing Katakuri but I hope it was to your liking ♥️

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI | VALENTINES EVENT MASTERLIST

———————

The smell of baking filled the streets of Hakuriki Town. Intoxicating smells perfectly blending together to create the constantly sweet and indulgent atmosphere that kept all the residents in a warm and happy mood. Well maybe not all. Sadly you couldn't exactly join the others around you in their positivity and cheer when you were trying to keep yourself restrained and polite. All you wanted was to just work but instead you had to suffer the annoyance of a coworker standing a little too close and being far too persistent.

“So we both finish our shifts at the same time today.” He began while you glared down at the dough you were kneading expertly. Quickly you forced your expression into one of false calm. You were newer to this bakery and the one trying-and failing- to charm you was the Boss’ favourite. The last thing you wanted was to cause problems and make waves this early. “What do you say you and I go for a well-deserved drink?”

“Oh that'd be fun!” You said with false enthusiasm. You’d refused him so many times already by feigning tiredness or pretending to feel unwell that you needed to try something different. Today’s tactic: ignorance of his intentions. You turned to face him with as sweet a smile you could muster as you put the tray of dough into the oven. “I’ll let the others know and we can make a night out of it. I think we could all do with a work outing after how busy this week has been, don’t you?”

“It’d be kinda awkward bringing the others on a date though.” He laughed, completely sidestepping your plan with ease. “The last thing I'd want is to make them uncomfortable, y’know?” You held back the urge to punch the man in the face. He didn't want to make the rest of your coworkers uncomfortable but had no problem doing it to you if it meant you went on a date with him? Taking things up a gear you blinked at him in surprise. 

“Date?" you repeated innocently. “Oh…I thought you were only asking me out as a friend. I'm sorry but I'm not single.”

Oh you wished you could have fully savoured the bewildered and disappointed look on his face but you were too busy training your expression, appearing apologetic for the misunderstanding. You wished it hadn’t come to this; having to lie about your love life in order to get him to back off but if it meant he stopped asking you out it would be worth it. Then your eye twitched minutely to see your coworker’s confidence slip back into his features. Even that statement wouldn’t deter him from his pursuit. “You're seeing someone? Is it serious?”

“It’s still new but I’m very happy with them.” You explained while moving to grab ingredients to start work on the next batch of pastries. Your boss hadn’t spotted you and your coworker’s idle chatter but if they did, you’d be the only one to be lectured. Not giving them the chance you set about work while gnashing your teeth in frustration, feeling your coworker follow close behind you. You could feel the questions brewing on his tongue and tried to get ahead of it, in the hopes of finally killing the conversation you never wanted to be a part of in the first place. "So happy in fact I don't think he'd take kindly to hear someone else wants to date me.”

"Who is he? I think I could win a fight against him for your affections.” The bold declaration brought a sharp laugh from your lips before you could stop it. Everything already pointed to this guy thinking he was amazing at everything but you knew to look at him he was certainly not a fighter. Quickly you cleared your throat and decided you may as well commit to the lie fully. You needed to think of someone not even his ego would compete with while also being someone who he wouldn't directly have any involvement with. You couldn’t work out why it was the first name your mind conjured but it was out of your mouth before you could come up with anyone else. "It's Katakuri.”

For the rest of the day your coworker left you alone, creating as much distance between you both as possible. Your plan had worked too well. He didn’t question you at all because only someone with a death wish would falsely claim to be seeing a member of the Charlotte Family. When your shift ended you stepped out onto the street and let out a sigh of relief only to freeze at the sight of the Minister of Flour himself leaning against the wall of the building opposite your work. From the look in his eyes you saw that he knew. Was it some sort of sadism that he let you work for hours and finish your shift before ending your life? Somehow you felt enough strength return to your legs to carry you forward the last few steps until you were in front of Katakuri. “So…public execution or imprisonment?”

“Both seem like a harsh punishment.” Katakuri began as he stepped away from the wall and you couldn't help but grow still at how calm his deep, powerful voice was. You then became confused when his eyes slid from your face to look at something behind you. “All he did was ask you out but you set him straight.” Your eyes widened and you heard a panicked squeak behind you but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the man in front of you. “Had he touched you however, that would be a different conversation.”

You held back a gasp when Katakuri put his arm around you and pulled you into step to walk with him down the street. As light as the action was you could feel the immense power in his hand but you didn’t feel any fear. You felt reassured and protected but your mind was racing. Were you dreaming? What was happening? There was no point in asking how he knew about your lie because the Charlotte family ruled Totto Land, they were powerful enough to learn anything they wished. When you were far enough away from your work you managed to form enough thought to speak the one question you could ask. Nervously you glanced down at his hand still against your body. “Why did you play along?”

“It’s not really important is it?” Katakuri asked, you glanced up and saw that of what you could see of his face his expression was unreadable. “I could ask why you said my name but it wouldn’t really change things. The results are the same. Your coworker won’t bother you again.”

“That may be but that only works out in my benefit.” You stated with a small tilt of your head your curiosity only growing. “What could you possibly be getting out of this little charade?”

“Who knows?” Katakuri mused, watching your lips fall into a small scowl in dissatisfaction at the answer. “You work in a bakery right? Make me some doughnuts and we can say that’s my motivation to keep up your lie for as long as you need to.”

You blinked and let out a soft laugh. Katakuri had his own personal chefs and bakers that could make him anything he desired. Why he’d want your baking baffled you but if it meant he would continue to let you use him to get out of be asked out by people you had no interest in, it was a good trade. “Are you going to break up with me if they don’t taste as good as what you’re used to?”

“Only if they’re completely inedible.” Katakuri let out a small chuckle, amused that you felt so at ease around him to joke that way. He was already aware of how good a baker you were but he said nothing. The truth of the whole situation was that when he used Brûlée’s mirro-world to enjoy his merienda in peace, she kept the mirrors connected to Hakuriki activated so he could still ensure there were no dangers to the island he was in charge of. In that time one conversation caught his attention in particular because of how persistent and grating one voice sounded. He was subjected to hearing your get asked out again and again. Every time you patiently came up with something to end the conversation, your coworker pressed again and again to the point Katakuri became irritated on your behalf but that was just civilian problems. One of many minor grievances people had to deal with, hardly something that required his involvement. Then you conjured up his name as your boyfriend. He wasn’t going to lie, he had been impressed at that and to finally hear your coworker immediately shut his mouth Katakuri decided for that blessing you deserved a reward by legitimising your lie.

“This is me.” You spoke up, spotting your home come into view. “Stop by my work tomorrow and I’ll have your doughnuts ready for you.”

“I look forward to it.” Katakuri told you sincerely, watching you step out from his relaxed hold and walk towards your home to turn in for the evening. When you were inside, Katakuri couldn’t help but smirk underneath his scarf. He hadn’t fully known what to expect when he waited for you outside the bakery but now he was certainly interested in what was going to happen next.

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @its-a-dam-blue-brick , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall , @redwolfxx , @jevoislesbrasdemer , @schanwow , @pao198391 , @glitchtricks94 , @nina-ya , @48daisies , @rosemary-lungs , @sagyunaro , @artemis162534

[copperbadge]

I have finally perfected my pickled cashews recipe. Not only did I make a perfect batch but the results are replicable.

I'm not actually pickling cashews; I've been working on a recipe where they are mixed with a dill-vinegar seasoning coating and baked to set the coating in place.

This process began last summer -- Goldfish Crackers does an Old Bay seasonal edition every year and I liked them so much I found a "copycat" recipe that uses butter, Old Bay seasoning, and plain goldfish crackers. I started adding in cashews and then decided I really liked seasoned cashews...which was when my eye fell on the bottle of dill pickle seasoning I'd bought somewhere.

The problem is that the reason butter works to stick seasoning to goldfish crackers or Chex Mix is that they're baked products that absorb butter. Cashews do not. Butter also reacts strangely with one of the seasoning ingredients (powdered vinegar).

So the problem I was running into was that if the seasoning was correct, it didn't sufficiently stick to the cashews, and if it stuck, it has no flavor. I've spent months testing various ratios and techniques. Eventually -- a lot later than it should have -- it occurred to me to check the ingredients on a box of seasoned cashews that you can buy at the grocery store. There it was, the terrible magic bullet: corn syrup.

Equal parts butter and corn syrup, boiled together and then whisked with baking soda followed by the seasonings, makes a crispy, savory-sweet crust on the cashews once you bake them.

I've already worked out the coating and an original seasoning formula; next on the list is to test substitutes for corn syrup. Then I guess if I want to get any more from scratch I'm gonna have to grow my own cashews. (I already grow the dill.) And I'm starting to experiment with making a Sichuan peppercorn version. But that's for another day.

Hey look, I wrote a recipe blog essay! How fun.

"Dill Pickled" Cashews aka Deez Nutz

Seasoning mix:

1 part each garlic powder and onion powder

2 parts vinegar powder (white or cider)

2.5 parts dried dill

You won't use all of it for the recipe but the mix I make is 5 tsp dill, 4 tsp vinegar powder, 2 tsp each garlic and onion powder (should make almost 4 tbsp of seasoning). Mix thoroughly before measuring the seasoning mix.

Recipe:

3 cups (roughly 1 pound) unsalted, unseasoned cashews; they can be roasted or unroasted

2 tbsp corn syrup

2 tbsp butter

1/8 tsp baking soda

2 tbsp seasoning mix

optional: 1 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 250F. Line a baking sheet with nonstick foil or parchment paper. Measure the cashews into a largeish mixing bowl.

In a small saucepan, heat corn syrup and butter, stirring over medium heat, until they begin to boil. Remove from heat and whisk in baking soda, then sprinkle in seasoning mix and salt while whisking until it's all incorporated. Work fast because the mixture coats better when it's warmer and more liquid, but you do have some wiggle room.

Pour this "seasoning syrup" over the cashews, then stir and turn the cashews until they're all coated. Pour the seasoned cashews onto the baking sheet and place on the oven's middle rack.

Bake at 250F for an hour, stirring every 20 minutes; at the end of the hour give them one last stir -- they should be fairly crisp. Turn off the oven but put the baking sheet back into the oven and leave the cashews in the cooling oven for about an hour (longer won't hurt).

Once cooled, break up any clumps with your hands. Store in an airtight container; they'll keep a few weeks at least but I've always polished them off before they went bad.

[joeyfranchise]

do you believe in magic?

joe burrow x fem!reader

summary: joe loves watching you be unapologetically yourself as you do what you love, and he has to show you just how happy it makes him.

warnings: none really! just fluffy, cutesy and kissy 💋 but please minors do not interact!

word count: 1.3k

note: i’m a baker so this is pure self indulgent fluff with some sweet teasing!! (happy gamedey) 🤍

you danced around the kitchen, arms outstretched as you twirled around in circles. your headphones were tucked into your ears tightly, creating a barrier and providing you an escape from the real world.

your apron was covered in flour and the slightest bit of dough from the cookies you’d been baking all afternoon. this was your last batch, the thirty-sixth batch to be exact, and as soon as they were done you’d be finished and finally able to clean your space before individually wrapping and labeling all the cookies.

suddenly, one of your favorite songs began playing, and you couldn’t help singing along while you slid the fresh sheet pan of cookie dough into the oven. after you set the timer you grabbed the whisk, holding it up like a microphone so you could sing into it.

“do you believe in magic in a young girl's heart, how the music can free her whenever it starts,” you sang, eyes closed as you swayed to the music, the melody flowing through you. you continued spinning around with your eyes closed, singing along loudly as your cookies baked.

you didn’t see joe descend the stairs and make his way to the kitchen. he was standing against the doorway with his arms crossed, a small smile on his face at the sight of you. he loved watching you get lost in moments like these, doing something you loved.

his eyes crinkled and his smile widened as he continued to watch you, and you still had no idea he was there. he came down to see if you needed help frosting cookies or bagging and labeling them, but he was even happier he found you this way.

“if you believe in magic, don’t bother to choose, if it’s jug band music or rhythm and blues,” you sang out, finally opening your eyes and catching joe staring. you jumped at the sight, but you relaxed quickly when you realized it was him.

you pulled an airpod out to ask, “enjoying the show?” and joe laughed as he pushed off the door frame and walked toward you.

“loved it.” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. his lips pressed against your forehead and you smiled at his sweet affection.

“oh!” you yelped, pushing off him, “your white shirt’s gonna get dirty!”

you motioned at your apron, which was still covered in flour and cookie dough. joe carded his fingers through his hair and licked his lips, stepping toward you again.

“nah, i put this on because i was gonna come see if you needed help decorating or packing these things up.”

you grinned at his words, excited that he wanted to help you. you decided to make a bunch of cookies for a local bake sale that was going on this weekend, and it meant a lot that joe wanted to get his hands dirty to help you finish everything up so you weren’t too tired when you dropped them off the next morning.

you grabbed his hand, dragging him to the counter so you could show him what to do.

“alright these are the sugar cookies,” you motioned toward them, “but i need to put royal icing on them so you can leave them be.”

you moved down a bit, pointing to a few trays of smaller cookies. “these are heart jam cookies… well they will be. i need to put this strawberry jam on them in little heart shapes.” you picked up the jar to show him and a playful look crossed his eyes.

“the last few batches are chocolate chip and snickerdoodle, and those just need to be bagged if you want to start that.” you told him, placing the jar back on the counter.

“actually babe, can i try doing the heart jam?” he asked, playfully poking out his bottom lip. “okay, i guess…” you agree reluctantly, “but please try to do a good job!”

“i will. can you take your headphones out and play us some music?” he grins, and you nod your head yes.

“yep! but my music.” you say, winking. the oven dings just then, so you put your oven mitt on and you pull the cookies out, tapping them twice against the counter. joe gives you a questioning look.

“it’s a lil trick i learned. i don’t exactly know how it works, but that’s how my cookies always have crispy edges and are soft in the middle.” he nods with understanding, smiling to himself. you finally turn your headphones off and begin playing music, your favorite playlist of 60s & 70s classic rock.

joe pops the lid off the jam and grabs a small spoon, getting to work on the jam hearts. you begin packaging the cooled snickerdoodles, labeling them with a new blue sharpie. it doesn’t take you long to finish, so you move to decorate your sugar cookies.

you look over joe’s shoulder to check his progress, and you’re astounded.

“JOEY!” you shriek, jumping up and down. it alarms him for a second as he quickly turns to face you. “what? did i fuck them up? is there a spider?”

“no, they’re perfect. like probably even better than what i’d do!” you assure him.

he smiles at the compliment and turns back to his work, ready to finish his cookies so he could pack them. you start decorating the sugar cookies as well, working as quickly as you can on them.

joe finished well before you, so he went ahead and bagged all the chocolate chip cookies too. all that was left were your sugars, and you only had a few left.

you were laser focused on finishing, and you were paying no mind to joe. he, however, was plotting against you. he took the spoon he was using to put the jam on the cookies and dipped it back into the jam, waiting for the moment to strike. he looked at you again, lost in your work as you quietly sang along to dreams by fleetwood mac.

he slowly made his way to you, and in one quick motion he reached out and swiped the jam across your cheek.

“DUDE!” you yelled, reaching up to touch the sticky confection that was now smeared across your face. you looked down at your icing bags quickly, grabbing one and lunging at joe. he thought he’d be quicker than you but you got him in just enough time to smear some of the icing along the bridge of his nose.

he grimaced at the cold feeling. “see, doesn’t feel good does it?” you tease, putting the icing bag back down. you look over to joe, a playful glint shining in his eye. he steps toward you and takes your face in his hands, pulling you close to him. he leans in slowly before licking a slow, languid stripe along your cheek, cleaning off the jam. you shudder.

joe pulls away and looks back at you, smirking. your arms wrap around his neck and you pull him in for a kiss, his tongue instantly finding yours. the sweet strawberry jam lingers on his tongue and finds its way into your kiss.

your hands thread into his hair as the kiss deepens, and joe softly moans as you tug the strands. he moves you backwards until your back is against the fridge, your kiss never breaking. you moan softly as joe’s hands find your waist. he pulls back a bit, nipping at your bottom lip.

“joe..,” you say breathlessly, looking up at him. “we’ve gotta finish the cookies!”

he erupts into a fit of laughter and you aren’t sure why until you realize that the icing you squirted on his face is all smeared, and now you know. it’s on your face too.

you laugh and grab some paper towels, wetting them under the warm tap and cleaning his face, then your own. joe slaps your ass as you walk away to throw away the dirty rags.

you turn and look at him, raising an eyebrow. “easy tiger,” you warn, walking back over to him slowly. “if you help me finish these cookies, we’ll go upstairs and you can have your treat.”

taglist: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @bengals-barnesbabe @joeyb1989 @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld

[beeehiives]

Give me Baker!Steve who wakes up at four and gets into the bakery at five to start preparing ingredients and heating up the equipment.

Give me Bartender!Eddie who's getting off work around the same time, who always stops by the shop to bother (read: flirt with) the hunky baker man and snag some left over pastries from the previous day.

Steve always complains, but leaves the shop door unlocked anyway. Eddie's always a little ruffled from his long shift, and the way he leans into Steve's space from tiredness always makes him shiver.

After months of this, Eddie doesn't come into the shop one morning.

Steve finds the shop this early too quiet, missing Eddie's warm voice and comforting presence.

After getting the first batch into the oven, he heads next door, where he finds Eddie fast asleep on one of the stools, head resting against the bar. It's empty except for the two of them.

"Eds," Steve taps his shoulder gently. "Don't you have to close up?"

Eddie opens his eyes slowly, winces in pain at the ache in his shoulders from sleeping in such an awkward position.

"I usually don't fall asleep," Eddie says, locking eyes with Steve. He looks bashful. "It's only an hour."

"Huh?" Steve drops his hand from Eddie's shoulder, but stays close. He can smell the alcohol on him from a long night of serving drinks, can see the bags underneath his eyes and the gentle smile that tugs at his lips.

Steve thinks he's beautiful.

"Bar closes at four. I usually just finish cleaning and hang out til five." Eddie brushes a stray bit of flour from Steve's cheek.

"Why don't you ever just go home? You must be tired," Steve says slyly. He's grinning, slowly moving closer into Eddie's space.

"Yeah, but then I wouldn't get to talk to you," Eddie whispers, putting a hand on Steve's waist. "Highlight of my night."

Steve reaches behind him to pick up a napkin and pen, and jots his number down. He leans forward, placing one hand on Eddie's shoulder and the other places the napkin in the front pocket of Eddie's shirt.

"I get off at twelve today," Steve says. "Go to sleep. Come talk to me when it's light out."

Steve leans forward and brushes a light kiss on Eddie's cheek, before ducking out of the bar to continue his baking, leaving Eddie breathless and more awake than he's ever felt in his life.

( ノ・・)ノ========================== ~( ˘▾˘~)