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waayoutofline · 2 months ago

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Avoiding every mistletoe (Until I know It’s true love)

Marvel Masterlist

PROMPTS: Shy Natasha Romanoff and Lab Assitant!Reader

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Tags: Fluff, awkward and clumsy Nat, Tony's lab asistant reader, christmas fun! ( posting this during actual christmas), meddeling avengers, a sprinkle of hurt/comfort.

Summary —> Ever since Natasha met you, Tony's new brilliant assistant, she has been down bad. But her sudden lack of confidence around you banishes every hope for her to make a move. Christmas is around the corner, and the team knows about your superstitious nature. There seems to be a clear answer: Mistletoes.

WC: 5473

Warnings: Descriptions of making out, but not explicit sexual content.

***

November was in full swing at the Avengers Tower, which meant sophisticated red, green, and gold decorations adorned every surface, Christmas songs played on an endless loop through the speakers, and the unmistakable aroma of gingerbread wafted (somehow) through the air.

As was classic Tony Stark fashion, a lineup of extravagant holiday parties had already been scheduled and meticulously planned for execution. Natasha Romanoff though was already dreading it.

Hoping to avoid any unnecessary interaction, she quietly sneaked into the communal kitchen, intent on grabbing a couple of waffles Wanda had made earlier. But as soon as she stepped in, she felt the weight of several pairs of eyes on her back.

“Ah, Miss Romanoff, there you are!” Tony’s voice rang out, cheerful and full of purpose. He was already decked out in one of his newest suits—sharp, festive, and annoyingly ostentatious.

Sighing, Natasha turned around, realizing it was too late to make a run for it. She was greeted by the sight of her team sprawled across the couches and armchairs in the lounge, each of them absorbed in their own activity, but now casually watching Tony’s sudden commotion with mild interest.

“Morning,” Natasha grunted, reluctantly moving to join them, plate in hand.

“Just the person I was looking for!” Tony said, flashing a shit-eating grin as he patted the empty space beside him on the couch.

Instead of humoring him, Natasha settled herself on the fluffy rug in front of the coffee table, placing her plate down without a word.

“You are officially invited to the pre-Christmas party hosted by moi,” Tony declared dramatically.

“Tony, you literally held us hostage at one last week. I still have a hangover,” she deadpanned, recalling flashes of the chaos where even she had gone overboard with the alcohol, thanks to Sam Wilson’s stupid drinking games.

“Oh, come on! This one’s different. It’s intimate—just for us heroes and co,” Tony countered, undeterred. Then, leaning back smugly, he added, “I even got the space lady to come. How awesome is that?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Oh don’t be boring. Where’s the wild Natasha Romanoff we all love?” Tony teased, grinning as if to provoke her.

“Easy. She doesn’t exist,” Natasha replied flatly, cutting into her first waffle. She let out a satisfied hum at the sweet taste.

“These are amazing, Wanda,” she said, looking over at the young witch.

Wanda, sitting comfortably on a loveseat, smiled warmly at the compliment. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Is it a new recipe?” Natasha asked, curious.

“Yes, actually. I added a bit of cinnamon and—”

“Okay, okay!” Tony interrupted, baffled by the lack of attention he was receiving, looking bewildered between them two. “Let’s get back to the main thing here. Are you coming?”

At Natasha’s reluctant silence, Steve stepped in with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Natasha. I’ll make sure he’s on his best behavior.”

“Ugh, boring—” Tony groaned, dragging the word out in sing-song. But under Steve’s hardened stare, he sighed in defeat. “Fine. It’ll be a cozy hangout. No traces of fun or whatever,” he relented, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Taking another bite of her waffles, she carfulkly took a sip of her coffe, trying to hide her smirk as she sees Tony waiting in anticipation fo her response. “Fine.”

Tony threw a punch onto the air, clapping in victory. “Carol is coming you said?”

He nodded proudly. “Yeah I managed to rope her and her little sidekick in. There is also the kid, Clint and his family…”

”Dont forget Strange.” Bruce, who just entered the living room reminded. Tony grumbled a bit at that.

“Yeah, Houdini too. Scary lady and Patch eye…god were those hard to convince— Oh and my lab assistant too.” Nathasa choked at that.

”Assistant? She practically takes over your lab.” Bruce chuckled.

Tony rolled his eyes, but there was no hint of malice. If anything, a spark of pride made his eyes a bit brighter. “Yeah well, I taught her well. Did you knowl that last week she-“

Nathan’s brain disconnected at a scary speed after those words. Images of you hit her hard, and she could already start to feel her heart race a bit.

Y/N Y/L/N was Tony Stark’s most recent lab and tech assistant, and to say he was impressed would be an understatement. After reviewing your résumé, Tony had practically declared you a godsend. You were one of the rare people who could keep up with his eccentricities, effortlessly managing the stream of tasks he threw your way. It didn’t take long for you to earn a permanent spot at the Avengers Tower.

Natasha remembered the first time she saw you as if it were yesterday. She had been on her way to ask Tony for a replacement for her gauntlets after a particularly rough mission. When she stepped into the lab, though, she was surprised to find someone else hunched over the workbench.

Frowning, Natasha set her hand on the fingerprint scanner, the door sliding open with a soft whoosh. At the sound, the stranger turned around, and Natasha froze in place.

For her, the world seemed to stop spinning, settling into an almost unnatural silence. You were… ethereal.

In her life, Natasha had faced aliens, wizards, and even sentient robots. So how far-fetched was it to assume she was now standing face to face with an angel?

Even though you didn’t know her, a gentle smile settled on your lips, your gorgeous eyes peering at her with almost childlike curiosity. Natasha stood there, frozen in place, unable to move. It wasn’t until something shifted in the silence that she remembered to breathe again.

Startled, she realized she hadn’t moved from the doorway. The door had automatically closed where she stood, trapping her. Embarrassed, she quickly stepped forward, pushing herself to snap out of it.

And, of course, she had to stumble. The gauntlets she was holding slipped from her grip and fell to the floor with an unforgivable thud. Cringing, she immediately knelt down to retrieve them. What she didn't expect was for you to do the same, even if your movement were more calm.

She flustered when she dared to look up, finding your own awaiting gaze. “Well, if they weren't broken before, they sure are now.” You joked with a smile, tone teasing but not judging.

Blinking, Natasha started sputtering, not really knowing what to say. Or how. “Yes.”

“Yes” is what her stupid brain decided to go for. Even thinking about it even now, her face scrunch with self embarrassment. What was even happening? Taking a breath, she redirected her eyes to the ground. Right, the gauntlets. They are broken. Need them fixed.

Finally standing up, she forced her body not to fidget. As if sensing this, you offered a hand to her. “Y/N Y/L/N, Mr.Starks new hire here in the lab.”

Tentatively, she accepted the shake. Her mind hanging on how your hand seemed to fit into hers. “Natasha Romanoff. Um, avenger.”

God what’s wrong with her? You giggle at that, and the sound is enough to get her out of her head. Of course that the sound is also beautiful. Was there anything about you that wasn’t? Why is she even think that?

“I know. Pleasure to meet you, Ms.Romanoff. So…may I help you with those?” You ask, your hand still being held by hers. Noticing this, Natasha removed her grip as if you were burning.

“Please.” She ended up saying, utterly embarrassed by her behaviour. Still, you gave no sense of judgment, only nodding and taking her over the workbench.

She stayed with you all that evening. And most of the next ones after that.

***

Her infatuation with you only seemed to grow since that first meeting, and the others quickly picked up on it. They saw it in the way Natasha—the most grounded person they knew—started sputtering and flustering whenever she talked to you. The unshakable confidence she was known for seemed to melt under the warmth of your sunshine smile and the twinkle of mischief in your eyes.

And as much as they insisted for her to make an actual move, Natasha refused.

“Uh-oh, I know that look.” Wanda sang, like a high school girl teasing her friend in high school when they listened the name of their crush. Rolling her eyes, Natasha scoffed.

”There is no look.”

”Oh, but there is.” Clint, who was watching Sam and a struggling Bucky play Mortal Combat added, not even looking away from the screen. “Your pupils practically shape into hearts— likes a lovesick puppy. It’s almost painful to watch.

”Shut it Barton.”

You were too good for her, Natasha decided on her own. You were like the sun, kind and warm, gentle in a way that it was entirely selfless. Natasha's life was one of dangers and precautions, she didn’t want to expose you to any of the threats that surrounded her lifestyle.

Even if she ached to be close to you, call you her own.

“Now it’s the time to make a move. Who knows? Maybe you will find each other under the mistletoe.” He adds with a wink.

Tony hummed. “Hm, that’s actually a good idea.”

Her head whipped toward him. “Don’t even think about it, Stark. Besides, that’s a stupid tradition. How do you even know that Y/N would willingly kiss someone just because a stupid parasitic plant is above her?”

They all laughed at that.

“Our Y/N? Please. She practically had a mental breakdown when I broke a mirror in the lab the other day,” Tony quipped, grinning.

Wanda nodded in agreement, casually flipping through the pages of her book. “Yeah, once she made me search the entire tower for something made of wood to touch, just so I wouldn’t jinx the next mission after I mentioned a hypothetical worst-case scenario. Still don’t get that one.”

Natasha’s face went pale at that, remembering a conversation she’d once had with you. You had mentioned that, while you didn’t fully believe in superstitions yourself, your family did, and it had resulted in some strange and unshakable habits for you. “Better safe than sorry,” you had said with a shrug.

A cold sweat made her tremble slightly, worsening by all of a sudden interested and sneaky grins on her friends faces.

Whatever, she still can not go.

***

She still had to go.

When you confirmed your attendance, you clapped excitedly, rambling about how fun it would be to spend your first Christmas together. You even brought it up when she bought you lunch—a frequent occurrence, since you often got so engrossed in your work that you forgot to eat. Natasha would be lying if she said your words didn’t tug relentlessly at her heart.

And so, there she was, surrounded by the thrumming chaos of an all-together gathering, overwhelming decorations, and overly festive arrangements at every turn. Anxiety prickled at her as she glanced toward the newly decorated attic. They couldn’t possibly have infested the entire place with mistletoe, right?

Wrong.

They were everywhere.

On every doorway, on the stairs, in the high columns and ceilings, even on top of the Christmas tree, scattered around—everywhere she looked, there it was. Mistletoe.

Trying to shake it off, Natasha focused her attention on the ground, her sharp gaze scanning for the culprit behind this festive ambush.

“Tony!” she half-yelled, her steps quick and deliberate as she marched toward the eccentric billionaire, who was in the middle of a conversation with Pepper.

His head whipped toward her, a flicker of fear flashing across his face before his usual smug smirk returned.

“Care to explain?” she demanded.

“Explain what, exactly? My fantastical abilities to host, or…?” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement.

She glared furiously. “Aw, c’mon, don’t look so grumpy, Grinch! This is a time of tradition, joy—”

“And manipulation?” she interrupted through gritted teeth. “This is way too much.”

Despite her glare and the unmistakable edge in her voice, Tony remained unfazed. If anything, his amusement only grew. He glanced over her shoulder, his expression brightening as he perked up.

“Well, complaints are non-refundable. Sorry, it’s the new policy. If you’ll excuse me, Pepper needs me to sign some super high-confidence document, right, dear?”

Pepper frowned. “What are you talking ab—”

Before she could finish, Tony gently grabbed her hand and began steering her away, the two trailing off into the crowd.

Natasha was about to follow and press him further, but a voice behind her made her freeze.

“Nat, hey!”

She turned around, and suddenly, everything seemed to slow down for her. There you were, wearing a comfy red sweater, black jeans, and a pair of Mary Janes. Your hair, usually tied back for work, was flowing freely, framing your face. It was a simple, casual look, but Natasha felt her face heat up at the sight of you.

As you got closer, alarm bells blared in her mind. Her eyes darted upward, and her stomach dropped. One of those dreaded mistletoe clusters hung right above where you were heading.

Panicking, she practically sprinted toward you, desperate to avoid both of you standing under it. But she miscalculated her speed, and before she knew it, she was barrelling straight into you.

You let out a startled huff as her momentum almost knocked you over, but her quick reflexes kicked in, and she steadied you before you could stumble.

“Geez, Romanoff,” you joked, brushing yourself off as you smiled up at her. “We just saw each other this morning. Did you miss me that much?”

Your teasing tone and warm voice snapped her out of her panic, but the damage was done. Natasha’s heart was hammering in her chest, her senses overloaded as she became acutely aware of how close you were. The soft warmth of your body pressed lightly against hers, the delicate scent of cocoa beans, coconut, and something distinctly you filling the air around her.

Her cheeks burned as her mind scrambled for something—anything—to say as she looked down at you, mortified. Luckily for her, your attention diverged when someone from the staff (who even brings staff in closed up parties?) bough a chocolate fountain in a rolling chair. “No. Way.— I thought he was kidding!”

And just like that you went off excitedly, a silhouette of dust being the only trace of you left. Sighing, Natasha brought her hand to her racing heart, trying to figure out a way to survive this evening.

Her eyes opened again in determination, she was going to take off these damned things, starting with the one right on top of her.

***

This task, however, grew increasingly difficult as the evening wore on. Between being roped into endless conversations, you constantly looking out for her (and her desperately trying to avoid you), and the absurd number of mistletoes everywhere, Natasha felt like she was fighting a losing battle. It was as if they were multiplying before her very eyes.

Her frustration peaked during a particularly embarrassing moment—one where, of course, you were the witness.

After listening to Peter and Kamala endlessly gossip about high school drama, Natasha had collapsed onto the sofa, her patience hanging by a thread. As her gaze wandered across the room, her eyes landed on the ceiling—and there it was. Another mistletoe. This one was perched slightly higher than the others, hanging right above the beanbag chair where you often sat. Of course.

Those strategic bastards.

Taking advantage of everyone being distracted in the kitchen, she sprang into action. With no ladder in sight, she grabbed a nearby chair and carefully climbed onto it. Still too short to reach, she braced herself against the shelves, stretching precariously as she balanced. Every slight wobble of the chair made her heart lurch, but she pressed on, determined to remove the offending decoration before anyone noticed.

But of course, that was the moment you walked in, calling for her.

“Nat? Aren’t you hungry? I saved you some of those little pies you like so much—”

Your voice startled her, and she immediately looks down at you. Her grip slipped briefly, the chair wobbling dangerously beneath her.

“Y/N! Shit—” she hissed, her heart leaping into her throat. Scrambling to steady herself, she clung to the edge of the shelf and managed to avoid completely losing her balance. She froze, her cheeks heating as she realized you were staring at her, bewildered.

“What… are you doing?” you asked, the corners of your lips quirking up in confusion and slight amusement.

Blushing furiously, Natasha’s mind scrambled for a reasonable explanation. “Um… I was just… looking for Clint? You know how much he loves to hide up here.” she said with a nervous laugh, trying to sound nonchalant.

Before you could respond, someone brushed past you, momentarily breaking the tension.

It was Clint, holding a bottle of rosé wine, with the kids trailing behind him. “No alcohol until you’re 21,” he announced, his tone firm but playful.

“But I am 22!” Kate argued.

Clint snorted. “Sure you are.”

As they disappeared into the kitchen, you turned your attention back to Natasha. Arching an eyebrow, you crossed your arms, your curiosity clearly not satisfied.

“Oh, great! There he is!” Natasha blurted, clinging to her flimsy excuse. She waved awkwardly in Clint’s general direction, desperate to change the subject. “Let me just—”

But as she began stepping down, her foot slipped on the edge of the chair. She let out a startled gasp as she lost her footing entirely.

”Oh my- Natasha!”

***

She even tried to gain support in enemy territory.

“Steve!” she called out. The man looked over at her and clearly tried to sneak off, but it was too late. “Just how many are there?” she asked, her desperation evident. So far, she’d removed eight mistletoes and had endured three risky situations where she’d practically had to run away from you.

“Of what?” Steve replied, taking a sip of his drink, feigning ignorance.

Natasha huffed, crossing her arms. “Please, let’s skip the act. I know you also took part in this.”

Steve remained silent, his expression unreadable but gullible. Natasha sighed in exasperation. “Come on, Steve, you’re the most reasonable one out of all of them. Just tell me where the rest of the mistletoes are!”

She could see the guilt on his face—he was clearly uncomfortable. Steve Rogers wasn’t a man who lied easily. As he opened his mouth, clearly about to crack, Sam and Wanda swooped in.

“What are we talking about?” Sam asked with a goofy smile, casually draping his arm around Steve’s shoulders as if shielding him from her interrogation.

Natasha’s left eye twitched. “You know exactly what, Wilson.”

“Hmm, do I?” Sam teased, his grin widening.

Natasha ignored him, focusing on her second-best shot, since it was clear Steve wouldn’t be of much use now.

“Wanda,” she said, turning to the witch, “how many mistletoes are there?”

Wanda shrugged, playing innocent.

“If you tell me…,” Natasha added, her voice turning sly, “I’ll lend you those boots of mine you like so much.”

Wanda hesitated at that, her composure faltering slightly. “… The ones with the metal buckles?”

“The ones with the metal buckles.”

Wanda’s eyes glinted with temptation as she weighed her options. But after a brief internal debate, she furrowed her brow and firmly shook her head and crossed her arms. “No. We’re doing this for your own good, Natasha.”

Natasha laughed forcefully, her expression taut with frustration. “For my own good? I’m losing my sanity over here, Wands.” Her tone was sharp, but her forced smile remained plastered on her face.

Just then, a voice cut through the air, making Natasha freeze.

“Have you guys seen Natasha? I swear I just keep losing track of her today,” you said, your voice light-hearted as you spoke to Bruce and Tony.

The group perked up at your words, and Natasha’s head snapped toward the sound of your voice. There you were, standing across the room, looking as radiant as ever as you chatted with the two men.

As Tony and Bruce were about to point in her direction, Natasha didn’t waste another second—she quickly ducked behind the rolling chocolate fountain cart, slipping out of sight just in the nick of time.

***

It all came down to the climax of the party. Most of the children were asleep by now, and only the closest circle remained. Natasha was exhausted but relieved. She had finally managed to get rid of all the mistletoes, even if, in doing so, she had humiliated herself in ways she hadn’t thought possible.

Now, she could finally relax and hang out with you. Or at least, that’s what she thought. A wolf whistle and cheers erupted from her friends, who had formed a circle outside on the terrace. Curious, she approached, only to regret it immediately as she was squashed between Steve and Bucky.

Her face went pale as she saw the final mistletoe, hanging right above you and a smug Carol Danvers. In her frantic pursuit of avoiding standing under a mistletoe with you, someone else had managed to get there before her. This outcome was far worse, and dread filled her as she watched the scene unfold.

She couldn’t stand it. The way Carol got closer with bravado and you, with a smile (it was more polite and friendly than anything, but at that moment she didn’t see it like that), made her heart drop.

The world once again slowed down, but this time it was for her and you. And she just couldn’t stand it. Shattering the slow-motion moment, her mouth and body moved faster than her mind.

“Wait! You’re supposed to kiss under the mistletoe, not near it! I mean—look at that angle, it’s tilted and all wrong. Besides, is it me or are the leaves…wait, let me just scoot over here—” she muttered, pushing her way through the onlookers to get to the mistletoe. Everyone went quiet in surprise as she reached it and caressed the leaves. You just stared at her, but she seemed to pay no mind. “Ah, as I thought! These leaves are all dried. How about we replace it? Here, I know where we can find a suitable one. Will you come with me, Y/N?”

Without thinking, she took your hand and practically dragged you away, turning back toward the group. “We’ll be right back.”

Everyone remained quiet as they watched the two of you disappear.

***

“Here, let me just…” Natasha started, trying to find her card in her pockets. “Where did I—ah, here.”

With quick motions, she attempted to swipe the card to unlock her room. You stood behind her, watching her increasingly desperate attempts to open the door.

“Nat…” you started softly.

Chuckling awkwardly, she waited for the green light, but it still wasn’t processing for some reason. “These are so annoying. I keep insisting to Tony that he should just put in a code, but he doesn’t listen—”

“Nat.”

“Typical of him, I know. Let’s try again.” Waiting for the red light to turn off, she swiped again, and this time the light turned green. “There, finally.”

You tried calling her again, but she interrupted. “Sorry for the wait. There are some left in my room, let’s just pick one and…” She said, turning the handle and opening the door, knowing that all the stolen mistletoes were in the corner.

“Natasha!” You finally yelled, making her turn around with wild eyes. Uh oh, you almost called her Natasha.

Your face held no negative feelings, only the patience you were known for. “Nat.” Slowly, you grabbed her trembling hand and got a bit closer. Your worry made her squirm.

“What’s going on?” you started softly, as if trying not to scare her. The consideration and gentleness in your voice made her almost burst into tears. “You’ve been behaving… strange this entire party. Running around all over the place… avoiding me.” You whispered the last words, clearly pained, and her heart shattered.

The last thing she wanted was to make you feel bad. “Did I do something wrong?”

Your question was so raw, your expression vulnerable, and Natasha wanted nothing more than to wrap you in her arms, kiss you gently, and reassure you that you didn’t—couldn’t—do anything to upset her. But she couldn’t, and the knowledge of it broke a little bit more.

“No, no, of course not. It’s just—” She started, her words getting stuck in her throat, unsure of how to put them together. “The others decided to put the place swarming with mistletoes.”

You looked at her in confusion. “Okay…why?”

Refusing eye contact, Natasha took a deep breath, her heart pounding so loudly that she thought you could hear it. Without dropping your hand, she stepped a little closer, her legs slightly trembling. She figured the best thing to do was to just say it and get it over with. She had already been making a fool of herself the entire day. But saying it was harder than she thought it would be. The fear of rejection was suffocating her.

“Because…” Finally daring to look at you, her neck reddening all up to the point of her ears, being suddenly conscious of the warmth radiating. “Because they know how serious you are about superstitions. And that if we got caught under one, then I… then I would finally dare to kiss you.”

The admission came as a whisper, shame and embarrassment hitting her like never before. It was as if she was going to combust from the inside. A pause hung between the two of you, each second of it feeling like a stab straight to her chest.

She couldn’t even begin to imagine losing you. You had become so close this year, and to think that just a couple of silly words could ruin everything was killing her. Her eyes closed tightly, waiting for the worst—a rejection, disgust, or just pity. Any of these would shatter her.

But it never came. Instead, she felt warmth—a gentle caress on her cheek, you softly urging her to open her eyes and look at you. Your face was far from the rejecting one that Natasha’s brain had conjured. Instead, it was a reassuring one, with a bright smile like the one you first gave her the day you met, your eyes soft and bright under the lights.

She blinked, as if the soft touch had pulled her back from her darkest places. Her heart seemed to stop, no longer beating out of fear but for hope. Because as she studied you, she saw nothing but kindness and happiness.

“You… you’re not upset?” she asked, as if it were too good to be true.

Your smile widened, laughing softly under your breath at her surprise. “Nat, how could I ever be upset? I—” This time it was you who searched for the right words, your cheeks flushed with a lovely rosy color that Natasha couldn’t help but find fascinating. “How could I, when I’ve been waiting for you to do this for quite some time?”

Your admission hung in the air, like a symphony. Natasha could feel the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. “You have?”

“Of course I have.” You confessed, as if the question were ridiculous to even ask. “You’ve been everything my heart has been yearning for, Natasha.”

Natasha sure wasn’t a poet, but right now she was seeing the world as one. The way in which your words embraced her, your slightly dilated eyes looking at her as if she was the only one on your mind.

Was this what the others saw? The look she has been too oblivious to see?

She wanted to hit her head in frustration, all the time wasted because of her doubts. But she was free of them now, having you as her savior.

Getting closer, she dared to pull you closer by your waist, marveling at how it felt in tandem with her movements, as if you two had done this a thousand times before, in different lives, before this one.

“So… you’re telling me I made that champagne pyramid fall all over Fury for nothing?” she asked, as if it were a secret.

You laughed loudly at that, remembering the moment when Natasha stumbled all over the table later on in the evening. Everything seemed to make sense now.

“You know…” you started, the laughter dying down as you softly tucked a piece of Natasha’s hair behind her ear, your touch lingering on her jaw. “For someone so intelligent and charismatic, you sure are clumsy at times.”

Natasha huffed, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smile. “Only because you…” she started, but caught herself, her eyes slightly widening.

You arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Only because of that? Do I make you nervous, Romanoff?” You grinned, adoring the way she seemed lost for words.

Sputtering, she tried to defend herself, but someone beat her to it.

“Very much so!” Tony yelled.

Your eyes snapped toward him, only to see the team huddled up behind the corner.

You snickered, Natasha flustered. “What are you…? Go away!” She hesitated.

Tony smirked. “Not so fast, Romanoff! You have to kiss.”

Confused, she followed his hand motion, only to see a mistletoe floating with surrounding red magic.

“Damn it, Wanda…” she muttered, but you just laughed at your friend’s antics, hiding your face in her shoulder.

Natasha’s attention shifted back to you, her smile filled with adoration. Finally, you peered up at her.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to…” she started shyly, not wanting to pressure you into doing anything. But you only got closer to her.

“I don’t know, I think you do owe me a kiss,” you replied with a grin. “You know, to balance the universe.”

“Yeah…” she muttered, eyes lowering. “To balance the universe.” She reaffirmed, leaning down. But before her lips touched yours, she gripped you and dragged you both into her room, slamming the door shut. She ignored the muffled complaints heard from the hallway as she pinned you against it, wanting to have you all to herself.

Connecting her eyes with yours, she searched for any trace of doubt, but found nothing but darkened irises. Hesitation left her once and for all as she leaned in, her lips meeting yours. She sighed, and everything else seemed to fade into the distance.

The kiss was slow at first, gentle and tentative, giving you both time to discover each other. But the passion, held back for so long by insecurities and “what ifs,” broke free like a dam, intensifying everything tenfold. Her hand gripped your waist slightly harder, while one of your hands trailed up to her hair, tugging it just enough to make her shudder. Urgently, she pulled you even closer, as if afraid you might disappear.

Her breath quickened as she felt your body pressed against hers. The kiss deepened, turning frantic with all the pent-up desire. Suddenly, you tugged at her bottom lip, almost provocatively, as you looked up at her through your eyelashes. Natasha groaned, her heart racing. It was like seeing a whole new side of you, and she just couldn’t get enough.

Licking into your mouth, she hummed as your knees seemed to buckle, holding your hips to make sure you didn't fall. No, you weren’t going anywhere. Not when she finally had you in her arms.

You could feel the tension in her body as you traced her shoulders and back, her muscles tensing with every movement. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of you, kissing you—consuming you with everything she had.

It left you breathless. If anything, air became the only obstacle, the only force capable of separating you. Both gasping for breath, you didn’t dare to say anything for a moment, just taking in the overwhelming sensation of being so close, so lost in each other.

“You know, technically…” you started slowly, a playful smirk on your lips. “Technically, you interrupted my kiss with Carol before.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, her grip on you tightened, a small growl escaping her at the thought of anyone else getting the chance to do what you had just done. But you quickly calmed her, softly cupping the side of her face. “So, you owe me another kiss.”

She looked at you with darkened eyes, a mix of desire and challenge in her gaze. “I guess you’re right… We wouldn’t want to have bad luck.”

“Of course not,” you repeated, your lips brushing against hers as you gently guided her closer. “You know how superstitious I am.”

“Yes, I do,” she whispered, a teasing smile crossing her face as she closed the distance.

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cailinsblog · 3 months ago

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A Sweet Christmas | Lando Norris

Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando Norris and his girlfriend, Y/N, spend a cozy Christmas evening baking cookies together. Despite Lando’s playful messes, they laugh and enjoy decorating the cookies. The night is filled with warmth, love, and holiday magic as they relax by the tree and savor their homemade treats.

Masterlist

The snow had started to fall softly outside the windows of Lando Norris' cozy apartment. It was the kind of quiet, peaceful evening that you could only find around Christmas, when everything felt a little bit more magical. Inside, the soft glow of fairy lights twinkled around the living room, and the warm scent of cinnamon and gingerbread had begun to fill the air.

Y/N was standing in front of the kitchen counter, her apron tied around her waist, carefully measuring out flour. She was excited for their Christmas tradition, even if it was something simple—making cookies together. It had become something of a special ritual for the two of them. Lando might spend most of his time on the racetrack, but when it came to Christmas, he was more than happy to trade in fast cars for flour-covered countertops.

Lando, for his part, was currently attempting to "help" by sifting the powdered sugar... a task he had apparently decided was too easy and, therefore, not nearly as fun. Instead, he was playing around, tossing little clouds of sugar up in the air and watching them drift down like snowflakes. Y/N chuckled as one of them landed in his hair.

“Lando!” she laughed, reaching for a paper towel to wipe some sugar off his shoulder. “You’re making a mess!”

He grinned sheepishly, but there was something incredibly endearing about his childlike energy. “Hey, I’m helping! You just don’t understand the art of creating the perfect snowfall effect with powdered sugar,” he teased, flicking a bit more in her direction.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, holding up the flour and gesturing with a teasing smile. “I think you’re just making a bigger mess than we need to clean up later.”

“You can’t rush art,” Lando replied with mock seriousness, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

Y/N shook her head but couldn’t suppress the smile spreading across her face. “Well, while you’re busy perfecting your snowstorm, I’m actually going to start making the dough,” she said, grabbing a bowl and starting to mix the ingredients.

Lando watched her for a moment, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leaned against the counter. “I can do that too, you know. I’m good with my hands. Maybe I’ll make the best dough ever.”

“Oh really?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You can barely bake a cookie without burning it, let alone make the dough.”

“That was one time!” he protested, holding up a finger. “It was a *very* complicated recipe.”

She smirked, already knowing he was about to get defensive. “Sure, Lando. You’re probably right,” she said dryly, handing him the rolling pin. “But for now, you can roll out the dough, okay?”

Lando nodded like he’d just been given the most important job in the world. He immediately took the rolling pin and started to roll out the dough with exaggerated concentration, as though the fate of the Christmas cookies rested entirely on his shoulders. Y/N could hardly contain her laughter at his antics.

After a few minutes of him dramatically rolling out the dough, he grinned triumphantly. “All done! Now, what’s next?”

Y/N moved in to take a look, inspecting his work. The dough was unevenly rolled, with some parts much thinner than others, but she didn’t mind. It would all taste the same in the end. “Okay, now we can cut out the shapes,” she said, pulling out a set of cookie cutters in the shape of stars, snowflakes, and Christmas trees. “Are you ready to make some Christmas magic?”

“Born ready,” Lando said, positioning himself beside her. “But I’m going to warn you, I’m excellent at decorating cookies. Like, top-tier.”

Y/N laughed. “We’ll see about that. I have a feeling you’re going to end up eating most of the decorations instead of using them.”

They spent the next hour rolling, cutting, and laughing. Y/N couldn’t help but love the way Lando’s enthusiasm was so contagious. Even when he accidentally made a dough explosion or ended up with flour on his face, he just laughed it off, turning every mishap into an inside joke.

When the cookies were finally ready to go into the oven, Y/N turned to him, her smile softening. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun baking before.”

Lando shrugged, his expression warm. “It’s the company, not the cookies, that makes it fun.”

As the cookies baked, they moved into the living room, where the Christmas tree twinkled with lights and the soft hum of holiday music filled the background. Y/N curled up on the couch, and Lando joined her, draping an arm over her shoulders.

They sat in content silence, only the sound of the occasional pop from the fireplace breaking the quiet. The world outside seemed far away as they simply enjoyed the moment—together, cozy, and happy. It wasn’t the holiday shopping or the big celebrations that made Christmas special; it was these simple, quiet moments.

Eventually, the timer went off, and they both jumped up, rushing back to the kitchen to check on their cookies. The smell was heavenly—spiced with cinnamon, ginger, and sugar. Lando opened the oven door and pulled out the tray with exaggerated care, pretending like he was handling fragile treasure.

After a few minutes of cooling, it was time for the best part: decorating. Y/N set out icing, sprinkles, and little edible pearls, and Lando was immediately at it, piping colorful swirls of icing onto the cookies with absolute concentration.

“You really are good at this,” Y/N said, genuinely impressed as he carefully outlined the snowflakes.

“I told you,” Lando grinned. “I’m a natural.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as she began decorating her own cookies. They worked together in harmony, sometimes making faces at each other over their icing, sometimes getting into little “cookie decorating contests” to see who could make the prettiest designs. Of course, most of the cookies ended up a little lopsided, but that was part of the charm. Every one was unique and full of love.

When they were finally finished, they stepped back to admire their work. The plate of cookies before them was a sweet, colorful mess of imperfect but delicious-looking treats.

“Well, we definitely won’t be winning any decorating contests,” Y/N said with a laugh, “but I think we’ve created some Christmas magic.”

“Agreed,” Lando said, looking at the plate with a satisfied grin. “They look like something straight out of a holiday movie… except maybe with a little more personality.”

They shared a laugh before grabbing the first cookie from the plate and taking a bite. The warm, sugary taste was perfect, and they both sighed contentedly.

“I think we’ve made some of the best Christmas cookies ever,” Y/N said, looking at him with soft eyes.

Lando smiled, his expression tender. “Yeah, I think we have too.”

They shared a quiet moment, just enjoying each other's company and the happiness of the season. In that moment, surrounded by laughter, cookies, and the warmth of Christmas, Lando and Y/N knew that this was what the holidays were really all about.

And as they settled in with a plate of cookies and a cup of hot cocoa, the world outside continued to drift by, but inside, everything was perfect.

💕💕Remember reblog helps a lot guy💕💕

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daisyblog · 1 month ago

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The Month of December

Our Story Masterlist Summary: YN’s Instagram posts leading up to Christmas.

ynstyles

liked by annetwist, lottietomlinson and 2,652,871 others

ynstyles first christmas with our girly🤍🎄✨🩷 view all 8,728 comments

harrystyles My favourite girls❤️

lottietomlinson So cute 🎀 🤍

gemmastyles An exciting year for both our girls💕

annetwist I love your matching outfits🥰❤️

the.daisytomlinson 🩷🩷🩷

niallhoran Can’t wait for my Christmas visit xx

louteasdale my heart🥹

zoesugg soooo cute🩷

daniellepeazer sweethearts💞

markyyferris Aww darlings🥹💕

louisfan Grace has light hair like the Tomlinsons🥹🥰

harryfan it still surprises me in 2024 that Harry is married to Louis sister and they have a baby!!

ynstyles

liked by louist91, gemmastyles and 5,832,467 others

ynstyles 2am selfie because this mama was craving tea and toast🤰🏼 view all 11,922 comments

louist91 Poor Harold looks half asleep!!

gemmastyles I don’t miss those 2am cravings😂😂

annetwist Hope you’re getting plenty of rest my love🩷

lottietomlinson I bet you woke Harry up to make it too🤦🏼‍♀️😂

marktommo1111 You two make me laugh😂😂❤️❤️

niallhoran I don’t mind babysitting Grace if you both need some rest ❤️

the.daisytomlinson You always eat tea and toast?😂

harryfan7 dreamy😛

harryfan5 HARRY😍😍😍

ynrryfan How good does Harry look even at 2am😫😍

ynstyles

liked by j_corden, zoesugg and 803,793 others

ynstyles our type of date nights🤎 view all 6,892 comments

annetwist Save some for me☺️

jefezoff Keeping my job easy😅😂

zoesugg Omg these looks amazing😍

j_corden Look at you two all grown up😂

mitchrowland Send me and Sarah the recipe please!!

the.daisytomlinson Can we make these together for Christmas plsssss🥰

louteasdale how times change ey? from being caught making out to baking gingerbread😂

harryfan4 the dream date night💙

harryfan7 ❤️❤️❤️

ynrryfan LOVE YOU BOTH❤️🩷❤️🩷❤️🩷

ynstyles

liked by zayn, thephoebetomlinson and 4,519,701 others

ynstyles baba is growing nicely🤰🏼🎄❤️ view all 8,682 comments

harrystyles ❤️

niallhoran Aww cuties xx

zayn Beautiful photo🖤

annetwist Absolutely precious💞

thephoebetomlinson your bump🥹🥹

the.daisytomlinson can’t wait for another niece or nephew🤍

anastasiakingsnorth You’re glowing✨🥰

markyyferris I’ve never seen a more stunning couple☺️❤️

harryfan2 they’re so love in love😫

harryfan8 Anyone else see these two and realise how single they are??!!

louisfan9 Tell Louis I love him🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

ynstyles

liked by annetwist, gemmastyles and 908,652 others

ynstyles Christmas fun at auntie Lotts house🎄🫶🏼❤️ view all 7,283 comments

lottietomlinson our babies🥹🥰

gemmastyles Little cuties🥰🫶🏼

lewisburton ❤️

the.daisytomlinson aunties babies😫🥹

marktommo1111 my grandbabies💙🩷❤️

sallietommo Precious memories🥰❤️

annetwist Awww memories to last a lifetime❤️

louisfan9 They’re growing up so fast!!!

ynrryfan Have the best Christmas as a married couple and parents❤️❤️❤️❤️

ynstyles

liked by harrystyles, lottietomlinson and 4,681,721 others

ynstyles A huge happy birthday to the best brother and uncle that us girls could wish for!🥳🎈

Louis, my older brother, my best friend and one of my favourite people! Have the best day and we can’t wait to celebrate with you later❤️

The absolute best uncle to Grace and watching your bond grow is priceless. Grace can’t wait for birthday cuddles and more belly laughs because your the funniest person she knows🩷

Love you millions Lou xxx view all 9,713 comments

louist91 Thanks tiny!! Love you both so much!!xx

harrystyles Happy Birthday Louis!

annetwist Happy birthday my darling! Have a lovely day🥰xx

gemmastyles Have the best day🥳

lottietomlinson ❤️❤️

the.daisytomlinson ❤️

niallhoran Happy birthday lad!!

louteasdale happy birthday babe🤍

louisfan7 HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOUIS🎉🥳🧁❤️

louisfan4 The bond these siblings have is so beautiful💖

harryfan3 Happy birthday Louis!! Have the best day/Christmas❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Tag List:

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @harrys-flower @platinumbarbie143 @frickin-bats@harrysbbyh0ney @chronicallybubbly @goldensunflowe-r @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite@kaverichauhan @peterholland04 @panicattheuc @or-was-it-just-a-dream @hittiesontour@bunnyharold @fanfictioncafe @lilfreakjez @iamahallucinationnn @theekyliepage @indierockgirrl@buckybarnessimpp @ashleighsss @jerseygirlinca @fake-coolbeans @itsmytimetoodream@treehouse-mouse @mrs-anna-styles211994 @macy-tpwk @mrs-anna-styles211994 @fruity-harry

171 notes · View notes

100vern · 1 month ago

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the great british fake-off | xmh

you thought the guy in the hawaiian-print shirt who seems physically incapable of being quiet would be the most annoying person here, so imagine your shock when it's xu minghao, who has seemingly decided you're the enemy and keeps sabotaging you. a baking competition for charity might have others on their best behavior, but what's a little sugar without some spice?

❆ pairing: minghao x reader ❆ genre: great british bake-off, holiday au; crack, fluff ❆ wordcount: 5.5k ❆ rating: e for everyone ❆ warnings: some swearing, minghao is a saboteur, idiots abound. ❆ credits: this netflix psd template for the banner. this recipe for the yule log; this recipe for the gingerbread house; and this recipe for the entremet. divider from here. this post for the divider. this was roughly edited by me, so any and all mistakes are my own. ❆ written for: the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories as they're posted. ♡ ❆ author's note: i had this rotting away in my wips since literally 2021, so even though it started as a completely different story, i'm so glad it's finally seeing the light of day even if it's not what i originally intended. (also, i know the banner says 12 contestants but the holiday specials only had a couple, okay. i forgot when i made it and i wasn't going back to fix it.)

The obnoxious one is wearing an aloha-print shirt.

He’s also extremely loud, his raucous, fake laughter filling every corner of the large warehouse you’ve been assigned to for filming. Makes a show of batting his eyelashes, throwing his head back every time someone cracks a joke that’s not even funny, comes up with nonsensical nicknames for the entire crew just to suck up to them.

“John Davies? Mind if I call you Joe?”

Joe doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for John, but John fucking loves it, apparently. Looks at the annoying guy like he just watched him string the stars in the sky.

But it’s the shirt—god, the shirt drives you absolutely crazy. He’s about to go on national television, be a household name, and some ill-fitting, charity shop Hawaiian print shirt is what he woke up and chose to wear. What’s his angle here? Appeal to the public with some sob story about only being able to afford second-hand clothes so that’s why he’s competing? Needs the money to care for a sick relative?

(The expensive watch on his wrist and his limited-drop sneakers tell an entirely different story, but you’re keeping that to yourself for now. No reason to play your hand so early.)

As much as you hate the shirt, you have to admit it suits him. The colors are garish and unsightly, just as obnoxious as he is, and you can’t stare at it too long because you start going cross-eyed. Looking at him feels about the same as stuffing your mouth with a bunch of sour candies: you get that same burn in the back of your jaw, same scrunched-up, grossed-out look on your face; have to squeeze your eyes shut to blink back tears.

You don’t even know his name, but you hate him immediately.

Your eyes scan the other contestants. None of them inspire the same level of animosity within you as the annoying one does; all of them nearly unremarkable. A variety of ages, appearances, backgrounds. You hear one say they’re a retired investment banker. There’s an accountant, a teacher, a fucking aerospace engineer.

And then it’s his turn to introduce himself. He clears his throat, speaks with an easy, practiced confidence. Completely void of nerves. Makes eye contact with everyone in your conversation circle. Gesticulates wildly as he speaks, immediately endears everyone to him.

“I’m Tim,” he says, and you nearly recoil at how honeyed his voice is. “But you can call me Tim. I’m thirty-eight, originally from a small town. Work as a…”

You can barely stand to listen to it anymore, each “Nice to meet you, Tim!” like another punch to the gut. How can’t these people see right through him? How are they falling for his bullshit? You should’ve known. Producers always throw in at least one bomb to up the ratings—a secret millionaire, someone rude and confrontational, a flat-earther. Even if you’re competing in a charity baking competition, of all things, it’s still reality television at the end of the day.

Just because the bunch of you are going to spend the next few days creating confections out of sugar, spice, and everything nice, doesn’t mean you have to be part of that ‘everything.’

Tim thinks he’s got this in the bag. Thinks he’s going to show up and win easily, the rest of you be damned, and even if you are typically a very nice person, you’re also highly competitive. There’ll be no rolling over done by you, and if Tim wants to play dirty—

Game on.

As you introduce yourself, you feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your head. Probably because you don’t bother with the faux-humility the rest of the contestants have. Polite and charming but firm, just the way your mother had taught you. You’re not boisterous, don’t crack silly jokes to play up to the cameras the way Tim loves to do, and you know he’s scrutinizing you the way you’d done to him, trying to figure out your angle.

Well, joke’s on him—you don’t need one.

And you really, really hope it drives him crazy.

Except maybe the joke is on you, too, because you don’t account for Xu Minghao.

In true reality television fashion, the tent is boiling hot.

As if the universe itself had looked down on all of you and decided what you all needed was a heatwave uncharacteristic of this time of year, just to up the ante. Not even ten minutes in the tent and you’re all fanning yourselves and wafting air up your shirts. Which is great, really, because it isn’t like you need to use ovens or stand over hot burners. It’s not like you aren’t going to be soaking through your clothes with anxiety sweats, either! Sweat dripping off your brow into your eyes won’t matter because you don’t need to use them.

Everything’s going to be fine!

But everything is not fine. Not only has the universe gifted you with sweltering heat, it’s given you the work station directly next to Tim’s. You’ll have to feel his annoying, off-putting aura near you for the entire competition. There’s always the possibility of him bungling it and making an early exit, but you know that’s unlikely. Obnoxious he may be, you also know a strong opponent when you see one, and something tells you you’re going to be stuck with him for the long haul.

Think of the cats, you tell yourself. All of this is for the cats.

It’s not like you never would’ve returned here of your own volition. No, your first go-round with feel-good, competition-based reality television had gone fine. You hadn’t won, of course, because you wouldn’t be here again if you had, but you placed respectably in the top three. Became a fan favorite, too, which was arguably more lucrative than winning. People make a living on social media these days.

So, it’s not the competition itself that has you white-knuckled gripping onto the edge of your station. It’s the man at the one beside you, cracking all these stupid jokes about the weather and how it’s a horrible day for tempering chocolate, so he bets that’s going to be the first challenge!

You suck in a deep breath. Try to remember the breathing exercises from that one yoga class your sister had dragged you to. It had been about the same temperature then, too—well duh, it’s hot yoga, your sister had said, which was news to you, because you never would’ve signed up for something called hot yoga willingly. Still, you endured it, just like you’ll endure this, and a little sweat is not going to get in the way of you delivering a check to all those poor, sad cats without families.

“Psst, hey,” you hear from behind you. When you turn, a man is smirking at you as he finishes tying his apron around his waist—has to wrap the strings around twice, you notice, because only someone hand-picked by the gods themselves would have that shoulder-to-waist ratio.

You don’t really recognize him. Can’t recall his name or where he’s from; can’t remember what he mentioned doing for a living. Probably something artsy, if you had to guess—he definitely has the style and demeanor of a creative, with his trendy shag-mullet and the multicolored, glitter-y snowflakes decorating his nails.

You aren’t sure he introduced himself at all, but the confidence with which he holds himself—easy, like it’d take a national emergency to rattle him even a little—implies he doesn’t really have to. Most of the people here already know him, if you had to guess, and he gives the impression that he’s not fussed with impressing any of them.

If only Tim was so inclined.

You clear your throat, vaguely aware you need to respond. “Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Ah, I don’t think so? We’ve done this before, after all. We should be seasoned veterans by now.”

He smirks. “Should be,” he emphasizes. “Feels different when it’s for charity. Extra serious, you know?”

“Right,” you agree, taking a look around the tent. “Anything for the cats.”

There’s an immediate shift in the atmosphere. What was friendly and carefree is now tense; where a smile and a floral giggle sat on the man’s lips has been replaced with a crooked scowl. And it doesn’t make sense, all you’d done was agree with what he said, but then the producers are yelling something at the front of the tent, cameramen are rushing to their equipment, and a woman appears at your side and starts clipping equipment to your clothes, and there’s no time to question it. On your right, Tim’s laughing and joking around with some crew members like they’re old drinking buddies. It drives you nuts, has annoyance pricking at your skin, flushing your cheeks—

So much so that the woman at your side leans in and asks, “Should I get hair and makeup over here?”

“I—no, it’s fine.”

The unnecessary members of the production team scatter away after a loud countdown. Hair and makeup don’t come to wipe the sweat tracks from your skin. You already know Man Behind You is standing there looking perfect because he’s equally as attractive as he is mysterious. God truly has favorites, and this guy somehow made the top five.

You stare down at the instructions in front of you, confident in your ability to read but not so confident in your ability to make sense of any of it. And it’s your own recipe, which is the worst part. You’d typed this recipe yourself. These are your hand-written notes in the margins. You’ve conceptualized, tweaked, baked, and eaten this recipe more times than you can count, and now all you can do is thousand-yard-stare into the ether.

In the time since you were on the show, you’d somehow forgotten about the chaos. Not unlike that hormone women have that makes them forget about the pain and agony of childbirth, you reckon.

In addition to being one of the most bothersome people in history, Tim apparently doubles as a prophet.

Because it is a terrible day to temper chocolate, and you’ve got a bûche de Noël on the horizon that requires you to do so. You can pivot, maybe make some kind of buttercream, but a basic chocolate buttercream is not going to win you a world-renowned baking competition even if it is Swiss meringue. A child could make that.

You sigh. Push that wave of panic to the back of your mind. In a setting like this, you have approximately ten seconds to come up with a back-up plan and execute it and you wasted your time thinking, so you’re just going to have to temper the stupid chocolate and stick to your original plan. God, you have a headache.

But the show must go on, so you do too.

Step 1: Preheat the oven.

Easy enough. If nothing else, you can preheat an oven.

Step 2: Make the sponge.

Not as easy, but you’ve made so many sponge cakes throughout your life you could probably do it in your sleep. Whisk attachment on the stand mixer. Four eggs. Sugar meticulously weighed and added to the bowl. Sugar and eggs whisked together until the mixture is the color and consistency you’re looking for. Flour, cocoa powder, and salt sifted in. Metal spoon to fold it all together as delicately as possible. You won’t have a sponge cake if you beat all the air out of it, now will you?

“Good enough,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at the bowl.

At least you’d had the foresight to grease and line your baking tray, because the entire entourage arrives at your station just as you’re meant to be pouring the batter into it and sticking it in the oven.

“Ah, we meet again,” the group choruses, genuine smiles peeking through as if you’re old friends separated only by time and distance.

That’s the weird thing about being on television. For as long as you’re able, you exist within a microcosm of daily life. A world exists outside of your bubble, you know, but you don’t see much proof of it. All of your meals are eaten together; all of your conversations are had with one another. You share temporary living quarters and oftentimes too much of yourselves, and you’re thankful the show encourages teamwork and kindness because that’s the kind of thing that can grow sour if you leave it unchecked too long.

And then it just—ends.

Bubble burst, you all go back to your regular lives. You look back on that time fondly, but the friendships are thinned out by time and distance. Eventually it all starts to feel like a dream, except every now and then something breaks through the haze to remind you it actually happened: a stranger recognizing you at the store, a message on social media, the casting team contacting you to ask if you’d be interested in competing in a holiday special for charity.

“We certainly do,” you retort, smile matching everyone else’s.

All things considered, you are happy to be back. Even if the tent is crowded and far too warm, the atmosphere is unmatched, especially when it’s decorated for the holidays.

“What are you working on?”

You explain the general workings of your yule log: chocolate sponge, hazelnut liqueur cream filling, and chocolate icing to top it off. You aren’t sure how you’re going to decorate it yet—you’ll figure it out once you get there, depending on how much time you have—but you guarantee them it’ll look festive and professional.

Satisfied with your plan, they wish you luck and move on to the man behind you. It’s so great to see you again, Minghao, someone says, and you’re grateful they’ve spared you the embarrassment of having to ask for his name. It still doesn’t ring a bell, and you can’t recall what season he’d been on for the life of you, but he speaks with a patience and a gentleness that is so unlike Tim that you nearly drop to the floor in thanks.

But as the commotion of the tent reminds you, you don’t have time to waste thinking about Minghao. You’ve only been given an hour for your signature, and you’re going to need all sixty of those minutes if you have any hopes of presenting a finished product.

It doesn’t register at first.

It doesn’t register at second or third, either.

In fact, you’re sure you’re hallucinating when you open the oven door to pop the sponge inside and you aren’t hit with a blast of hot air. Room temperature. Perhaps a bit on the cooler side, if you’re being honest.

And that can’t be, because you know you preheat your oven. It was the first thing you did, because it’s always the first thing you do. It’s just… automatic, like opening your mouth to eat or washing between your toes in the shower. Instinctual. Not something that needs to even be considered, because it’s always the first thing you do.

No, this cannot be. Forgetting to preheat the oven is a rookie mistake and you’re not a rookie.

…Could it be?

Perhaps you were so caught up in the lights and buzz, the thrill of returning to the tent, that it had slipped your mind? Perhaps you’d pressed the wrong buttons and turned the wrong dials? While it’s not likely you’d somehow bumped into the oven and turned it off, nothing is impossible, so… maybe?

“Shit,” you hiss through your teeth. The producers are not going to be happy about your swearing. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Everything okay up there?” Minghao asks from behind you. When you turn, he’s got a flour-dusted towel thrown over his shoulder as he nurses a cup of tea, and his composure in the face of your hysteria has your head spinning.

Your mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Minghao is drinking tea without a care in the world and your oven isn’t even halfway to the temperature you need. “I—yes? No? I don’t know. I could’ve sworn I preheated the oven, but—”

“Don’t panic,” he offers, his top lip catching on the rim of his mug. “You got this. Work on something else while you wait.”

Something else. Right, you can work on something else. Both the filling and the frosting still have to be made, and quick mental math tells you there should just be enough time to get everything done if you’re efficient. Of course, that’s a big if, but that’s why you’d chosen a yule log, after all: sponge cake doesn’t need that long to bake, and anything can happen (and go wrong) in this tent.

So, you get to work on something else. Measure out a sheet of parchment paper, dust it with cocoa powder, and set it to the side. Decide to get to work on the frosting, because if one thing has already gone wrong, you don’t trust the universe to let you temper chocolate correctly.

The chocolate is halfway melted when the oven dings. A small harrumph of victory and you’re finally good to go, setting a timer for twelve minutes. Minghao offers you a discreet thumbs-up, fingers covered in something sticky you assume is marzipan.

Time flies after that. You get both the frosting and your filling made, and it’s only through divine intervention that your sponge cake comes out perfectly and with enough time to score and cool. When you dare a look around the room, everyone seems to be in a similar position as you: frazzled and covered in powdered sugar, making frantic trips to and from the refrigerators, chucking seized-up caramel into the trash and starting over for the third time with a pained expression.

A holiday special—it was supposed to be more laid-back, more for the vibes and festivity than actual competition, but it looks to you like everyone’s taking it just as seriously as your first go-rounds.

“Fifteen minutes!” someone calls, and your competitors fade out of focus. You’ve got a yule log to ice and fondant to roll out.

You make it by the skin of your teeth.

It isn’t perfect, of course, as few things on this show ever are, but it’s more than acceptable. It looks great and tastes even better which is all you can hope for. Much to your dismay, Tim also gets top marks, but it’s Minghao that shocks you all. His stollen wreath earns him a handshake and a lot of clandestine, private glares, but he’d been kind to you earlier, helped untangle that knot of pandemonium, so you return the thumbs-up he’d given you earlier with a smile that feels akin to getting away with murder.

Something is wrong.

On its own, this is not necessarily surprising. Gingerbread, tasked with bearing the weight of an entire house, can be fickle. On any other day you wouldn’t blame it if it wanted to rebel and go sideways, but the thing is—you’ve made gingerbread before. Tons of times. Another thing you could probably make in your sleep if you absolutely had to. So it doesn’t make sense when you look down in your mixing bowl and it just… doesn’t look right.

You tell yourself it’ll get better when you knead it. Maybe the color just looks off because it’s underworked, and a few good punches will set it straight.

But it doesn’t. The dough sits at your station like a sad, formless lump, giving you no indication it intends to become anything at all. Which is, admittedly, a problem. Your technical challenge is to build a gingerbread house—one complete with little windows and golden-toned nightlights, a scalloped roof dusted with powdered sugar to look like fresh snow, a working door!—and you’re far from an engineer, but you don’t think you can have a gingerbread house without gingerbread.

You sneak a peek at Tim’s station, where he’s well into measuring an immaculate-looking dough with a ruler. The contestant in front of you is in a similar place, too, so it’s with an oh fuck I’m doomed sigh that you turn around and hope to find a comrade in Minghao again.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. “Does this look right to you?” You jerk a thumb in the direction of your dough-lump. Minghao, bless him, looks around you and tries his best to hide his grimace.

He does not succeed.

“Um. Well, no.”

You sigh. Place one flour-dusted hand on your waist and pinch the bridge of your nose with the other. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I’ve made gingerbread a million times.”

“Looks pale,” he offers. Of course, this is the exact moment he dumps his own dough—his beautiful dough, flawless chestnut brown—onto his station to knead it. “Was the sugar right?”

A strangled, disbelieving laugh escapes you. Was the sugar right—of course the sugar was right! Dark muscovado sugar. Everyone knows that's what you use for gingerbread, so of course the sugar was right because no one, both in their right mind and at this stage of competition, would use anything else.

Before you can respond, Minghao’s pointing at your jar of sugar. Your jar of pale, producer-supplied sugar, which even a blind person could tell does not resemble dark muscovado sugar.

A million thoughts race through your head at once, but it boils down to instinct, you think. Your brain had seen flour, butter, and sugar and went into baking mode, not stopping to take in the color of anything. Maybe a smarter, more perceptive person would put two and two together and get sabotage, but you don’t have enough time to play detective.

“Here, here,” Minghao says, hurriedly handing over his (correct) sugar. “It’ll be close, but you should have just enough time to redo the dough.”

You’re going to throw up.

In the end, a chunk of chocolate buttons is missing from the roof and the piping around the edges is far from your neatest work, but it’s passable. You already lamented your loss during the signature bake, because anything less than perfection was not going to win you much of anything, and you’re now 0-for-2 on showstopping, unbelievable, awe-inspiring confections.

Just like the devil, your fall from grace will be studied.

Overthinking isn’t going to get you anywhere, but you can’t help it.

You collapse sideways into a chair, immediately face-planting into the catering table. Everyone else buzzes around you—animated conversations that have your head spinning, words that jumble together and start to sound like nothing at all—but you’re a million miles away. One mistake is out of character for you, but two? It’s unheard of. Something you would’ve said was impossible if it didn’t happen to you just a few hours ago.

This is something you need to file away for later so you can think about it just as you’re about to fall asleep, horror and embarrassment there to keep you company when it keeps you awake until the wee hours of the morning.

A chill runs down your spine.

“Hi. Do you mind?” You startle. Bang your knee on the underside of the table. “Sorry,” Minghao apologizes, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. You shake your head. Gesture to the empty seat across from you as if to say it’s all yours. “I brought you some tea,” he continues, setting it in front of you. “I find it’s easier than coffee when you don’t know how someone takes theirs. Less chance of getting it wrong.”

You smile. Wrap your hands around the Styrofoam cup and delight in the warmth. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

“Seemed like you had a rough day.”

Groaning, you try to wave away his words. “Please don’t speak of it.” Minghao jokingly salutes you before miming his lips sealed. “Anyway. Let’s talk about something that is not reality television or baking or a reality baking competition.”

So, you do. Most of the talking comes from you, to be fair, but Minghao is a good listener: nods along, chimes in when appropriate, keeps the spit in his mouth where it belongs. You talk about your hometown and what made you apply for the show the first time. He tells you about growing up in Haicheng and all the things he grew up baking with his mother. You swap stories from your respective seasons; Minghao shares anecdotes with a straight face that have you clutching at your stomach.

Hours pass this way, and you end the night feeling like you’ve made an honest-to-god friend.

Xu Minghao ends the night feeling the guilt weigh him down like an albatross.

In retrospect, it is probably a bad idea to make another sponge, but no one can accuse you of learning from your mistakes.

“It’ll be a patterned joconde sponge with two mousse layers—chocolate and raspberry—and a raspberry jelly. Then I’m going to attempt to top it with chocolate and raspberry decorations.” The judges blink. Are you sure that’s a good idea? you know they want to ask, but this is a holiday competition for charity, so they’re trying not to be pessimists. “Anything is possible through holiday cheer,” you tack on, hoping your smile doesn’t look crazed.

They nod. “Right, right,” they say in unison. “Well, good luck!”

And then they’re off.

Determined to nail this, you triple-check your oven, which is preheating to a crisp 400 degrees; you double-check all your ingredients and confirm they’re correct; when you can spare the time, you watch your refrigerator like a hawk, making sure no one tries to sneak their own work in there and displace yours when you aren’t looking, but everyone’s engrossed in their respective showstoppers.

Tim’s planning a shadow box of sorts, with blown-sugar baubles and isomalt fire. Someone else is stressing over their three-tiered cake, asking the presenter if they think they’ve taken on too much. From what you can piece together, Minghao is making a three-dimensional house, also made from cake that he imported special pistachios for.

“Special pistachios?”

“Mm, from Iran. They have a better color.”

“Iranian pistachios! Can you believe it!”

But you don’t have time to worry about Minghao and his special Iranian pistachios. You have so much to do and not enough time to complete it. Your paste is in the freezer and the sponge is in the oven, but you’ve still got two mousses to make, a jelly to infuse, and little chocolate trees to create—and all of this wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t pointless, but you don’t want to disappoint the cats by half-assing it. They deserve your whole ass, and your whole ass is what they’re going to get.

The result is stunning—not necessarily in stature, but rather craftsmanship and effort. This is what you’re capable of. This is why you came back to the tent. For all your complaining and wanting to put your head through a concrete wall, there’s nothing like seeing the judges ooh and ahh when you present your work to them. There’s nothing like the ego boost of someone taking a bite and watching their eyes light up. There’s nothing like carrying your cake back to your station feeling proud of yourself.

“Great job,” Minghao says, a genuine smile stretched across his face. He also exceeds expectations, of course. Must be those special pistachios, you think, but your congratulations are also sincere.

Production makes a spectacle of judging, much like they always do.

The set is decorated to look like a winter wonderland, even though you’re still in the midst of autumn: a giant Christmas tree in the center decked to the nines with garland and baubles; warm, golden bulbs strung from every awning they could find; all the participants bundled up tight in festive sweaters and scarves all the way to your chins, cheeks and tips of noses dusted with red-pink blush to mimic the cold that’s nowhere to be found. Fake snow falls from the sky, and it doesn’t feel real, but it does feel magical.

One of the hosts catches you by the elbow, asks who you think is going to win. “Oh, I’d have to say Minghao,” you answer, because you’d rather die than give Tim the satisfaction. “His showstopper was incredible, but he was really great the whole competition.”

In the end, however, neither of them wins—it’s Jeon Wonwoo, three-tiered cake guy, who comes out of nowhere to claim first place. He’s bashful as he accepts his prize and says he’s going to donate the prize money to an organization that provides underprivileged kids with video game equipment. No one has a whole lot to say about that.

Once most of the hubbub dies down (and you give Tim a half-assed you did great, so sorry you didn’t win), you find Minghao near the refreshments table. He’s frowning around another mug of tea. “Alright?” you ask, helping yourself to some cider.

“For some reason, I’m no longer feeling very festive,” he replies, which is a very funny thing to say while wearing a hat with a little pom-pom on the top.

You roll your lips to keep from laughing. Sidle in a little closer and knock his shoulder with your own. “Ah, I know how you feel, but you really did do great. You were my pick to win, for what it’s worth.”

“Please don’t tell me that. It only makes me feel worse for losing.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “Would’ve been nice to donate some money to the cats, but shit, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn some dark force was sabotaging me. Like, come on—forgetting to preheat the oven? Using the wrong sugar? Not even a kid would’ve made those mistakes.”

Two things happen in rapid succession: beside you, Minghao goes very, very stiff, and you realize you had been sabotaged. And not by some dark, evil force, either. You were sabotaged by the very man standing beside you—the man you shared thumbs-up with and thought was your friend. The man whose cake you complimented and picked to win. The man who is now standing ramrod straight, as tense as a corpse, and the thought of sabotaging someone in a charity baking competition is so ridiculous and unbelievable that you just—

You just laugh.

At first, it’s a bark of stunned laughter. Then, the more it sinks in how absurd, how nonsensical all of this is, you can’t stop. Tears are rolling down your cheeks. You gasp for breath as your stomach begins to ache. People are staring, including Minghao, who sort of can’t believe what he’s seeing, but none of it does anything to deter you.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “I can’t believe it was you—”

Minghao groans. “In my defense, it was for the cats!”

This was not the answer you were expecting. It makes you laugh harder. “What do you mean it was for the cats?”

He swallows. Removes the mitten from one hand to run it through his hair as if that one tic was enough to distract you from everything that’s happened in the last sixty seconds. (It is.) “Listen, you told me you were going to donate the money to a cat charity if you won and I just—so was I, was the thing. I was also going to donate the money to a cat charity if I won—”

“Okay, but which one, though?”

“The Cat’s Paw-jamas.” Much to Minghao’s horror, this sets you off again. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Minghao,” you try to choke out, but you can barely breathe around the cramp in your stomach. “Minghao, that’s the charity I was going to donate to. Oh my god, you sabotaged me and I was going to donate to—to the same fucking place. Jesus Christ, this is some Gift of the Magi shit.”

Your saboteur, who has gone deathly pale, is quiet for a very long time. Every now and then he’ll open his mouth like he’s going to say something before it snaps shut again. When he does manage to speak, what comes out are mangled apologies that sound like gibberish, and you wave all of them away. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“I—I really don’t think it should be?”

“Minghao, it’s fine, trust me, this was just for fun—”

“No, I really insist.”

You sigh, good-natured and exasperated. Something about the fake snow has you feeling romantic and a little bold, so you turn, grab him by the lapels of his coat. “Please tell me if I’m misreading this, but if you insist, maybe you can start by taking me to dinner…?”

This was clearly not what MInghao was expecting you to say. Dazed, he recovers quickly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a half-smirk. “Dinner, hm?” You nod. “I think I can manage that.”

You smile. “Great. How do you feel about cat cafes?”

#winterwithyoucollab #minghao x reader #seventeen x reader #minghao fluff #seventeen imagines #minghao imagines #seventeen fluff

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judeslove · 3 months ago

Text

caught

pairing - jude bellingham x reader genre- pure fluff warnings - swearing, intended lowercase summary - christmas at jude’s house turns into a confession

you and jude had been close ever since your had your first blinks, as both your moms were best friends and happened to give birth the same day, at the same time and at the same hospital. so obviously you guys grew to be the power duo, the recipe for disaster and chaos.

you could never admit the crush you had on jude. i mean, everyone would have a crush on him. his smile so charming, always so caring and making sure your ok, appreciating his family and finding time for his loved ones in the middle of his career. he was the perfect partner really.

it was only a couple months ago when you decided to tell about your feelings. you were scared, as you didn’t want to ruin your dynamic. you were surprised when jude said that he was more than happy to introduce you as his girlfriend to everyone, admitting that he had a crush on you ever since you guys were 8.

now, you had to be careful and not make it obvious that you‘re together, and the fact that you were spending christmas at his house partly didn’t make it any better, since you had to hide all the loving looks and winks, plus no cuddling.

you arrived at judes house. the house was covered by different christmas lights, and it even had an inflatable snowman in the front yard.

immediately after the door opened you were crushed by denise‘s hug.

“oh darling, it’s nice to see you, merry christmas” denise mumbled agaisnt your hair while tighly keeping you in her warm embrace before pulling you away and getting you inside.

“merry christmas d” you smiled back at her. the inside of the house was warm, the scent of burnt gingerbread entering your nose, which made a lot of sense when an exhausted looking jobe marched out of the kitchen.

“oh hey, nice to see you” he said, making his way over to you and pulling you in a hug. from the corner of your eye you could see jude sitting on the sofa with his eyes locked onto jobe hugging you.

“well hello to you too, j” you chuckled at his excitement.

then, you made a bee-line toward jude and pulled him into your embrace. you smiled against his neck, inhaling his scent.

“i see you’ve got a new perfume, mr. bellingham” you smirked and pulled away from him.

“how did you know” jude gasped, mouth open.

“i just know” you laughed while getting up from the couch to greet mark.

after all the greeting was done you all sat around the dinner table, grabbing every food except the gingerbread that jobe had burnt.

“hey, they can’t be that bad, try them” jobe tried to convince, while his face was all scrunched up when chewing the gingerbread in his mouth before finally swallowing it.

“yeah, no way” you laughed.

“i had another pile of the gingerbread in the kitchen, do you mind getting it?” denise asked you.

“no i don’t mind, i’ll go get it” you smiled, getting up from your seat and walking to the kitchen.

“i’ll go help her” jude got up and followed your steps.

while picking up the tray you felt judes arms snake around your waist, and you smelt his new scent intoxicating you. you leaned into his chest, seeking for more warmth. he turned you around and picked you up, placing you on the kitchen island.

jude began to leave kisses on your face, before finally placing a kiss against your lips. you deepened the kiss by exploring his mouth with your tongue. jude leant in closer and placed his hands around your waist.

“oh my goodness, get a fucking room y’all are disgusting, not on the table” jobe gagged while walking out of the kitchen immediately.

you buried your face into jude’s chest, showing your embarrasment.

“baby it’s ok, it’s just jobe” jude giggled, looking down at you.

“no but he doesn’t know were dating, then he’s going to tell them” you whined.

you both walked back into the dining room and you placed the gingerbread on to the table.

by the smirk denise and mark gave you, you could already tell that jobe told them what he saw in the kitchen.

“well, do you have something to confess?” denise asked, wiggling her eyebrows. you sent jude a nervous look, pleading that he would tell them.

“we’re dating” jude blurted and his family started cheering.

“we knew it” they cheered in unison.

“dad, you owe me 50 bucks” jobe said, while giggling.

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onlyhereforthestories · 2 months ago

Text

Football Cookie! (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Day 13 wooooo. I actually think the titles are becoming the hardest part. This one suckssssss. But enjoy the story again was a fun one to write.

The kitchen was alive with the scents of vanilla and cinnamon, the hum of soft holiday music playing in the background and the main kitchen lights were bright overhead. Alexia stood across from you, her gaze fixed on the recipe card perched precariously against a jar of sugar. A recipe she had printed out because last time you had baked together her phone had ended up in the batter and she had to get a new one.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Alright, so we need flour, sugar, eggs…” she murmured, tapping the card lightly as she spoke.

“Relax, chef,” you teased, nudging her elbow as you poured flour into a mixing bowl. “We’re baking cookies, not preparing for the Great British Bake Off.”

She grinned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, but these are cookies for the team,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “They’ve got to be perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused by her determination. “Alexia, we’re literally handing out sugar-loaded, frosting-covered holiday treats. If they’re anything short of perfect, I’m sure they’ll forgive us.”

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head. “Okay that might be true. But if any of these cookies come out burnt or misshapen, I’m blaming you.”

With a mock gasp, you placed a hand over your heart. “I see how it is. Throw me under the bus for a few crooked gingerbread arms, huh?”

Laughing, she leaned over to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Alright, alright, team effort. Let’s make these cookies the best Barca’s ever seen.”

Together, you began mixing up the dough, following the recipe step-by-step. It seemed simple enough, but with Alexia’s competitive spirit, each time you slowed down or tried to shake your aching hand out she was on you. Like in a game if you jogged too slowly back to position, she gave you a look or said your name with that tone, making you speed back up or carry on despite the soreness taking over your palm.

When the dough had been mixed and kneaded, it was set in the fridge to chill. You were about to take a seat at the island when you heard the clearing of a throat. “Don’t even think about it. We need to clean this mess before the dough is ready to roll. And if I’m cleaning then you are too.” You knew she was joking with you slightly, and if you needed to sit, she wouldn’t actually make you get up to clean. But you also knew she would clean now, and you would never let her do that alone.

After cleaning the mixing mess, the dough was chilled. You both began rolling it out on the counter, dusting the surface with flour to keep it from sticking. Before long, flour was everywhere once again, on the counter, on your clothes, and even in your hair.

“This is why we should have left the cleaning till after we were done making. Now we are just going to have to clean up the mess we just have again.”

Alexia held up a handful of flour, a mischievous look on her face.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

With a smirk, she tossed it in your direction, leaving you dusted in a cloud of flour. You sputtered, reaching out to grab a handful of flour in retaliation, but she quickly ducked out of range, laughing.

“Alexia Putellas, you’re asking for it,” you said, also laughing as you tossed a little flour back at her. Before long, you were both covered in it, giggling like kids as the kitchen transformed into a powdered winter wonderland.

Once you’d both called a truce and brushed as much flour off as possible ready to sweep and hoover up later, you returned to the task at hand. Alexia grabbed a variety of cookie cutters, stars, trees, snowflakes, even one shaped like a football. She handed you the football cutter with a grin.

“Thought it’d be fitting,” she said, winking.

You smiled, pressing the cookie cutter into the dough. “And here I thought you’d want them all to look like trophies.”

She rolled her eyes, though you could see the amusement dancing in her gaze. “Trophies are great, but it’s much more about being part of the team and playing the sport we love, right?”

She was very right, and you nodded along to what she said sending her a smile at the sentiment.

With the cookies cut out and spread onto baking sheets, you slid them into the oven and set a timer, giving yourselves a well-deserved break. As you waited, you leaned against the counter with Alexia, both of you sipping on mugs of mulled wine you’d set up to heat earlier. With the sweet smell of the cookies baking filling the air, the comfort of Alexias presence next to you and your fingers wrapped around the warm mug, you couldn’t dream of a better place to be.

“So,” you said, nudging her slightly, “any predictions on which of the team is going to be most impressed with our masterpiece cookies?”

Alexia grinned. “Oh, I can already see Patri’s face lighting up. She’s got a serious sweet tooth. And Clàudia? She’ll love anything we give her, but I think the football cookies might be a hit with her.”

“Good point,” you said, picturing the reactions of your teammates. “Ingrid will probably love the fact that we’re even doing this at all. Though she’ll probably tease you if they’re not perfect.”

Alexia laughed, rolling her eyes. “Let her. I’ll just make sure to give her one of the best-looking ones.”

When the timer chimed, you and Alexia excitedly pulled the trays of cookies from the oven, marvelling at how they’d turned out. For the most part, they were solid, a little uneven here and there, but golden brown and delicious looking. Some had spread into oddly shaped blobs, though, making both of you burst into laughter.

“I think this one was supposed to be a snowflake,” you said, holding up a misshapen cookie that looked like a lopsided star.

Alexia snorted, taking it from you and giving it a look of mock admiration. “A work of art.”

As you let the cookies cool, you both began preparing the frosting and decorations. Alexia was surprisingly meticulous, carefully spreading an even layer of white frosting on each cookie before adding red and green sprinkles.

You, on the other hand, went for creativity over precision, drawing little designs on the cookies with the icing, though some of them were less successful than others.

After a while, you noticed Alexia had gotten quiet, focused intently on one cookie. She was decorating a soccer ball-shaped one, adding a tiny Barca logo in the middle with red and blue icing. Her tongue poked out slightly as she concentrated, and you couldn’t help but smile at how serious she looked.

“Taking cookie decorating to a whole new level, are we?” you teased, leaning over to get a closer look.

She grinned, holding up her creation. “Look at this! Barca’s newest mascot. Cookie edition.”

You chuckled, admiring her work. “I love it, I think we should keep this one for us. You’re really putting your heart into this, aren’t you?”

Alexia shrugged, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Well, it’s just nice to do something special for everyone, you know? I want them to know I appreciate them. I thought maybe this would be a fun way to show it. It been a long season so far and I haven’t been able to help on the pitch recently.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at her words, touched by how much she cared, not that you didn’t already know this but still hearing her say it out load to you warmed you. “They’re lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you. And for what it’s worth, I think they’ll definitely feel the love.”

Alexia smiled, a soft, contented look in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

When all the cookies were finally decorated, you surveyed the results. Stars with sparkly sugar, Christmas trees with green frosting, footballs, and even a few gingerbread players. Some of the cookies were a bit unique, but they were unmistakably festive, and you could feel the holiday spirit.

Alexia stepped back, admiring the table full of treats. “Okay, I think we did pretty well,” she said, pride in her voice. “Ready to deliver these?”

Later that evening, you both arrived at the training facility for the Christmas meet up, carefully carrying trays of cookies wrapped in cellophane and tied with red and green ribbons. The team was in for a surprise, and you couldn’t wait to see their reactions.

As you walked in, Patri spotted you both and immediately called out, “Are those cookies?”

Alexia grinned, holding up the trays. “Homemade, just for you guys.”

The team gathered around, curious and excited as Alexia began handing out cookies. Patri’s eyes lit up as she picked one of the brightly frosted stars, immediately taking a bite.

“This is amazing!” she exclaimed, mouth full. “Who knew you were a baker, Alexia?”

Clàudia grabbed a football cookie as you had predicted. “Look, it’s a Barca cookie!”

Everyone laughed, the festive mood spreading as they admired the various shapes and designs. Even Mapi, who usually had a playful, teasing side, looked genuinely touched as she picked out a perfectly decorated snowflake cookie.

“Not bad, chef,” she said to Alexia with a wink, taking a bite. “I’m impressed.”

Alexia cowered a little under the praise, rubbing the back of her neck. “It was a team effort,” she said, nodding in your direction.

The team continued to snack and laugh, breaking into conversations about holiday plans and favourite Christmas movies. In the midst of the busy season, this small gesture brought everyone together, giving you all a moment to relax, laugh, and enjoy the holiday spirit.

As the evening wound down, Alexia slipped her hand into yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for helping me do this. I think it turned out even better than I’d imagined.”

You smiled, leaning into her. “I’d bake cookies with you any day.”

#woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine #alexia putellas imagines #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months ago

Text

For Goodness Bakes

hot cocoa bar celebration🧤❄️🎄

requested here!

Pairing: platonic Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: Tim needs to bake cookies for a Christmas party, and you're happy to help.

Warnings/Word Count: 1.4k+ words of fluff

Tim isn’t sure how Angela roped him into attending her Christmas party or why he offered to bring something for everyone. Next time he sees her, he’ll accuse her of trapping him or using something against him, even though he knows she’ll smile and ask what gifts he brought. Tim sighs and leans back on his couch when he's reminded about the gifts. His fellow officers are hard to get gifts for, he’s decided. The only helpful result he got from looking online was a recommendation to make something both because it’s heartfelt and it keeps costs down.

Tim scrolls through an article on the best things to make friends for Christmas and rolls his eyes as he passes what seems like the hundredth different cookie recipe. When he sees a cookie assortment idea, however, he stops. Tim doesn’t know what everyone likes, so baking different recipes and flavors seems like a good idea. Then, he remembers that he does not enjoy baking and doesn't think he could bake such a large quantity without assistance.

Tim taps his phone against his hand and considers calling Lucy for help. Before he can dial her number, his phone buzzes with an incoming text.

If Kojo needs any dog treats for Christmas, let me know. I made too many :)

Shaking his head, Tim stands and calls Kojo. After he clips the leash to his harness, Tim exits his house and walks toward yours. He should have remembered earlier that you love baking and enjoy spending time with Tim – even if he doesn’t understand why. Kojo bounces excitedly on your front step as Tim knocks, and when you open the door with a smile, Tim knows he made the right choice.

“Hi, Kojo!” you greet happily. “And Kojo’s walker.”

“Still funny,” Tim deadpans. “We’re not here for treats.”

You cover Kojo’s ears and look at Tim in faux disgust.

“Not just treats,” he corrects.

With that, you stand and invite them inside. Several baking sheets lined with silicone rest on your counter, and you pull a treat off the one closest to you. After ensuring it has cooled enough, you toss it to Kojo and smile as he catches it.

“What can I help you with?” you inquire.

“Baking,” Tim answers as he rolls Kojo's leash and sets it on one of your stools. “If you have time.”

Pressing a hand to your heart, you wipe an imaginary tear from your cheek and say, “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“Are the dramatics required for cookie making or just something you like to add for flourish?” Tim jokes.

“Cookies? Ooh, okay, what are we making and why?”

You move into your kitchen and wash your hands before offering Tim an apron.

“Right now?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to rush you.”

“When do you need them?”

“Tomorrow night for a Christmas party.”

“Then now is the perfect time. So, what flavors?”

Tim pulls his phone from his pocket and shows you the article he has open. You nod at the list of flavors and then purse your lips.

“I think we can do better,” you decide. You pull a pen from your drawer and tear a sheet of paper from the magnetic pad on your fridge. “So, chocolate chip, gingerbread, sugar cookies, those are Christmas classics. But for the rest, we can do better than snickerdoodles or shortbread.”

“Thank you for helping,” Tim interjects.

“Of course. And remember that I’m helping, we have to do this together.”

Tim hides his growing smile as he agrees, “Absolutely.”

“Who are these for? Cops?” you inquire.

Tim nods and says, “Angela, Lucy, Nolan, their families.”

You tap the pen against your chin, then say, “I have a caramel cookie recipe I think Lucy would like. Any idea about what flavors they like?”

Tim shrugs, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“If we do chocolate chip, sugar cookies, gingerbread, caramel, hot chocolate-“

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yeah, it’s a chocolate cookie with a fudgy ganache mixed in, and we can top it with marshmallow drizzle.”

“These are Christmas presents, not an entry to the Great British Bake Off,” Tim points out.

“I knew you liked that show,” you accuse, pointing at him. “Besides, it’s Christmas and you like these people whether you’re willing to admit it or not. So, we make a few relatively simple cookie recipes and make their year with a Tim Bradford handmade present.”

Tim pulls the apron over his head and sighs. “Tell me what to do.”

While Tim gathers the ingredients, you clean up from your last round of baking. After the silicone liners have been switched and everything has been thoroughly washed, you return to Tim’s side and find your favorite gingerbread recipe.

“We’ll start with these and the sugar cookies because the dough needs to chill before baking,” you explain. “Then while the others are baking and these are cooling, we can work on the other stuff.”

Tim skims the recipe as you speak and says, “Looks simple enough.”

“That’s what I hoped to hear. You get started on this then and I’ll work on sugar cookies?” you suggest. Tim nods, and you add, “Would I be pressing my luck if I turned on Christmas music?”

“Go for it,” Tim murmurs as he begins measuring ingredients for the first step.

“If I knew baking distracted you, I would’ve asked for help sooner,” you murmur as you press play on your favorite playlist.

Several minutes later, Tim switches the mixer off and asks, “Does this look smooth and creamy?”

You walk to his side and peek into the bowl. “Beat it for another thirty seconds or so.”

Tim turns the switch, and the paddle begins beating the butter again, and you stand by his side and watch. When he looks to you for confirmation that it's done, you frown.

“You got something right here,” you explain, wiping your finger across his cheek.

Tim feels the sugar roll off of your skin and onto his. Pressing his lips together, he watches you struggle not to smile.

“Why did I ask you for help?” Tim grumbles.

“Because you need my expertise. And I’m such great company, right, Kojo?”

Kojo huffs, and you offer Tim a towel before you return to your sugar cookie dough. Tim didn’t specify if he wanted to frost these, but you think just the cookies will be enough for now. His work friends will be shocked to get such a thoughtful gift, you think, and you’re grateful to be part of Tim’s life and to get to help him with something like this.

While you wait for the last tray of cookies to finish baking, you toss a ball for Kojo and laugh when he tries to tackle you to bring it back.

“Thank you again,” Tim says as he dries his hands. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“They’re going to love the treats,” you reply. “It was really sweet of you.”

“Maybe you can teach me how to make you a cake before your birthday,” Tim muses.

“Maybe,” you agree carefully. “Or maybe you can just order one so we can both get a break.”

The oven timer beeps, and Tim removes the chocolate chip cookies and sets them on a trivet to cool. He walks to your side to take the ball from Kojo before bouncing it.

“I found a recipe that I think Lucy would love,” you tell Tim. “You should make it for her birthday. It’s a copycat recipe for the 33-layer cake from Club 33, but the filling between each layer is a different classic Disney movie theme.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Tim says. “What makes you think I could do that?”

“If you’re chicken, just say so.”

“I’m not chicken!” Tim defends. “I can make it, I just-“ He stops when he sees the smile on your face. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“My stunning personality and incredible baking skills. Plus, I spoil Kojo.”

“And dinner,” Tim complains.

“I told you not to eat so much of the dough,” you remind him. “I can order a pizza, and we can start constructing these treat boxes I have that look like gingerbread houses.”

You disappear into the kitchen, and Kojo looks up at Tim with his ears perked.

“You did hear the part about thirty-three layers, right? I’m a beginner, pal.”

#fluentmoviequoter hot cocoa bar🧤❄️🎄#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford the rookie #the rookie x reader #the rookie abc #fem!reader #hanna writes✯#tim bradford

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lisascorner · 2 months ago

Text

IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS here are some ninjago CHRISTMAS DELEGATION HEADCANONS 🗣️🗣️ and i mean delegation as in who does what in preparing for the season itself.

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO LETS DO IT

lloyd

this boy is just the designated boy that gets to put the star on top of the tree. his other tasks consist of but are not limited to: eating gingerbread cookies, eating gingerbread houses, eating mint candy canes, and hanging up the stockings.

cole

it’s stereotypical, but he’s the one who sets up the tree. he tries to help out with the cooking, but zane refuses to let him into the kitchen LMAOOOO

jay

jay goes ALL OUT to decorate. having grown up in such a healthy and happy home, he definitely knows the best places to buy decorations and the way they’re placed. master wu gives him a budget and he’s just set free in the department store. he buys everyone stupid christmas sweaters and the crazy big inflatables and sets them up in front of the monastery.

nya

helps jay out with the more technical stuff, since jay is too busy in his own world making a little miniature town on the coffee table. christmas lights, fixtures, and the like.

kai

the lighter. jay puts multiple candles around the monastery and kai just lights them up. he helps zane heat up the cookies they make for everyone to share.

zane

the BAKER and cooker and the drinks maker. his hot chocolate recipes are perfection, his baked goods are top notch, and his cooked food gives all the ninja a sense of warmth in their chest when they eat it. additionally, he helps create ice sculptures!

i like to think they help out with the tree in general, but they only let lloyd put the star on the tree because:

he’s the youngest

he never really celebrated christmas with his family before so the ninja just let him have the best job

OKAY THANKS IM GONNA GO EAT MY DIMSUM NOW HAPPY HOLIDAYS

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supernovafics · 1 year ago

Note

requesting for the ill be there for you universe! the kids are coming over so steve and r plan a lil dinner party… well they make the dinner together… and its just a little too domestic…. bonus if they end up dancing to some silly song on the radio because arent we all a sucker for dancing in the kitchen 😭😭😭😭😭 the kids walk in on them and are like 🤨🤨 those two need to get together now so baddddddddddd

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑

"i'll be there for you" universe masterlist

pairing: bestfriend!roommate!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k words

warnings: explicit language

summary: in which a new year’s dinner at the apartment sparks a bet— that you and steve are completely unaware of— among the friend group

author's note: thank u for the request !! happy new year<33

general note: everything in this universe/series can be read as standalone oneshots but to understand the full “lore” it would prob be best to read the other stuff too<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Winter 1986

Steve heard the knock on the door first; you were way too engrossed in singing along to the song that was loudly playing to notice the sound.

He maneuvered around you in the kitchen to go answer the door as you took a quick peek in the oven to check on the lasagnas.

It was your idea to have this “New Year’s dinner” at the apartment— since you and Steve had been sick during the holidays and couldn’t see anyone, this was to make up for that— and Steve agreed. Of course, Robin and Eddie said that they would come, and then the kids were an immediate yes as well.

Even though your and Steve’s collective cooking skills were not the best, you both still wanted to attempt and cook something for everyone, instead of simply ordering a couple of pizzas or takeout from some place. So, you got a lasagna recipe from Miss Johnson that she promised was very basic and couldn’t really be messed up; and so far, she’d been right. Although you did initially have to remake the sauce because of a mess up that you fully blamed on Steve and he fully blamed on you. But, after that, everything else luckily went fine.

When Steve opened the door and you looked over to see everyone bounding into the apartment, it was then that you remembered just how big the friend group was— you could only imagine what that elevator ride up to the apartment had been like.

“Is this The Breakfast Club soundtrack?” Robin asked, laughing as she slipped off her coat.

“Yes,” Steve answered. “This is what I’ve been subjected to for the past week.”

You immediately rolled your eyes at his words, which you somehow managed to hear over the loud music. “Oh, shut up, you were just singing along to the last song with me.”

“There’s only some truth to that,” He said as he walked over to the record player to turn the music down a bit.

Everyone settled at the dining table that Steve’s mom bought for you two for the Thanksgiving dinner that you’d been forced to have here with your parents— that was still somehow a memory that lingered harshly in the back of your mind, like most interactions with your parents did. The table was only meant to fit six people, so the desk chairs that normally sat in your bedrooms were pulled out and placed at the table, and then two foldable chairs were borrowed from your other next door neighbor; this guy in his mid-sixties who would have weekly poker nights with his friends. You would continuously joke around with Steve and tell him that he should join in on the poker nights. In response, he’d always simply roll his eyes at you because you knew that he was bad at poker and he’d also rather not spend his Tuesday nights with random old men.

Mike walked over to you and handed you a tupperware full of what you could tell were gingerbread cookies. “Since you missed the Christmas party, my mom wanted me to give these to you.”

You immediately smiled. “Holy shit, God bless that woman. Please tell her I said thank you.”

He nodded at that and then went over to the table, sitting down next to El.

Steve went back over to where you were in the kitchen and started reaching for the tupperware, but you immediately shooed his hand away. When he simply pouted at you, you rolled your eyes and then opened it so that he could grab a cookie, which he did and then broke it in half so that he could give a piece of it to you.

“Is it just me or have they been acting extra old married couple lately?” Dustin asked, looking away from the interaction that just happened.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Max answered almost immediately and pretty much everyone else simply nodded in agreement.

Neither you nor Steve were paying any attention to the conversation that was currently taking place barely ten feet away from you; instead you both were focused on finishing up the food. You were pulling one of the lasagnas out of the oven and Steve was grabbing the other before putting the store bought garlic bread in the oven— you both had figured that if the lasagna did end up turning out bad, there would at least be bread that neither of you had a hand in making to somewhat save the day.

“I fully believe that this will be the year that they finally get together,” Lucas said, sounding very certain.

Robin shook her head at that. “No way. If they were gonna date, it would’ve happened already. Years ago, probably.”

She thought back to this past Halloween where you and Steve were dressed up in your Batman and Robin costume, and at some point during the night he ended up giving you a piggyback ride while you all were walking to some party, and she and Vickie were trailing a bit behind the two of you. She thought about how certain she had felt when answering Vickie’s question about if you two had ever dated. “They seem like they’d be perfect together, but I also think the world would implode if they ever tried something.” For the most part, that still felt entirely true. Even though it would’ve made complete sense if something happened, it still didn’t seem necessarily “possible” at this point— it felt like such a far-fetched idea.

“I’m gonna have to agree with Rob on this one. I don’t think they’ll ever actually get together,” Eddie said and then started laughing a bit as he said his next words. “Or it’ll happen twenty years down the road after they’ve both been married to other people and then divorced, and then they’ll finally realize that all they needed and wanted was each other.”

“Wow, that sounds like the most depressing movie ever,” Will told him.

“I guess it wouldn’t be that sad since they would end up together in the end,” El said with a small shrug.

Eddie nodded. “Exactly.”

“Okay, yeah, maybe that could happen, but I don’t think it would take that long anymore because things are so different now,” Dustin said. “They’re living together, they have a child together.” He gestured to Harold the Hamster’s cage that sat on the coffee table in the living room. “They’re practically already a couple. It’s inevitable now. Soon they’ll be married and there will be actual children involved, not just Harold.”

Robin rolled her eyes at his final statement. “They’re best friends. They’ve known each for like ten years.”

“Yeah, which is just another reason why they’re definitely gonna end up together,” Lucas said. “Also, I can’t even remember the last time either of them went on a date, and Steve usually always talks about his dates.”

“Actually, he was just going out with that girl last month,” Will chimed in. “Vanessa or something?”

“And that ultimately led nowhere,” Max reminded him.

Mike took a brief look over at you and Steve to make sure that you two still weren’t listening to the current conversation. “Okay, I have an idea. We should make this a bet. We each say when we think they’ll get together, and if it does end up happening we all give whoever got it right or was the closest five bucks.”

Eddie laughed before nodding. “I actually kind of like that idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” Dustin said with a nod, and it didn’t necessarily surprise anyone when he pulled out a small notebook and pen out of his pocket because it somehow made sense that he would be the one to bring a notebook and pen to a dinner party; he was probably prepared for anything.

He started off by saying February– because even though it was only a month away, it was in fact, the month of love— and then everyone started going around the table saying their guesses. Lucas said April, Max and El both said March, Mike said July, Will said August, Robin said a very certain “Never,” and Eddie finished by saying a playful and only slightly serious, “Twenty years.”

It was almost comical how oblivious you and Steve were to what was happening not that far away from you both. Instead, your attention was on grabbing enough silverware for everyone since the plates were already set on the table and Steve was pulling out some cups.

“I think both of our moms would scold us for not setting everything out before they came,” You told Steve, laughing a bit.

“Very true. I guess our years of being forced to eat at fancy restaurants with them have truly taught us nothing,” He joked back and you smiled at that as you both walked over to the dining table. “We’re gonna bring over the lasagna in a second. What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” Eddie said casually as Dustin slipped his notebook back into his pocket, which was a subtle action that neither of you noticed. “Just some movie.”

Once everything was set on the table, you two went back to the kitchen to grab the lasagnas.

“The bread will be done in a couple minutes, so if the lasagna sucks we’ll eat that,” You said as you sat down in one of the two empty chairs left, which just so happened to be your desk chair. “Also, if it sucks, blame Steve, not me.”

He shook his head as he rolled his eyes at you and playfully poked your side before taking a seat in the other empty chair on the opposite side of the table. “If it sucks, blame both of us because this was a very mutual effort.”

Robin nodded. “Okay, got it. If this turns out to be the worst meal all of us have ever eaten we’ll make sure to hate both of you equally and not talk to either of you for at least a week.”

Luckily, the lasagna actually turned out pretty great.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

(requests are open for stuff you wanna see in the universe/series!🫶🏾)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #stranger things fluff #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington series #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things fic #stranger things series #stranger things imagine #stranger things smut

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paceprompting · 2 months ago

Text

the gingerbread incident

@steddieholidaydrabbles & @steddiemas

Eddie was a disaster. He knew this.

His brain fired on all cylinders constantly and his mouth was hardly able to keep up, the residual energy coming out in gesturing with everything that he said. He bumped into everything, even in the trailer where he’d lived most of his life.

And, even with the best intentions, most areas he spent an extended amount of time in were usually left in chaos.

Especially with flour involved.

It’s not his fault he was left alone in Steve’s kitchen. There was supposed to be at least two gremlin children in there with him—he was only supposed to be supervising since it was their bake sale they were making gingerbread what-ever-the-hells for.

But the kids were still rough and tumbling outside in the first snow of the season, annihilating the older not-so-kids-anymore in a snowball fight.

Steve had already picked out a recipe from Joyce’s and Claudia’s cookbooks, opened and ready on the counter. He’d presumably bought anything he didn’t have, because gingerbread was apparently slightly more complex than Eddie would have expected.

So, Eddie took his best shot.

And now, everything was…everywhere.

But there was something that resembled dough, as far as Eddie could tell, in the mixer. It smelled like ginger, or maybe that was the molasses (and who knew there was fucking molasses in gingerbread). And there was supposed to be flour on the counter anyway when he “rolled the dough out,” so really he’s just ahead of the game.

Take that, Directions.

Eddie clapped his hands together, and a cloud of flour into the air, readying to lift his doughy child from the bowl with both hands.

“Holy shit.”

Steve had stopped just short of coming into the kitchen, his discarded gloves held in one hand. His nose and cheeks were still pink from being outside in the cold, but the warmth of his brown eyes were fixed directly on Eddie, standing half-covered in flour in the middle of his kitchen.

“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie said pleasantly, standing up straight. He brushed a stray one of his curls away from his face, definitely getting flour where his fingers grazed his cheek and temple. “I, uh, decided to make the kids’ gingerbread.”

“And there was enough flour left over after you dumped it on the floor?” Steve said, tentatively stepping onto the tile floor, leaving bootprints in places where, sure, there was a considerable amount of flour where Eddie had knocked a full measuring cup off the counter with his hand.

But that would have happened to anyone.

“I was left unsupervised,” he defended. “While you were all gallivanting outside.”

Steve had the decency to look somewhat chastized, as he set his gloves on a miraculously saved counter near the fridge and joined Eddie on his side of chaos.

“Sorry we left you alone, babe,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek. He wiped flour off his lips, eyeing the dough in the mixer. “Can I try?”

“I suppose an integral part of the baking process is taste testing as you go.” Eddie gestured to his masterpiece. “Knock yourself out.”

Steve chuckled, stepping close into Eddie’s space to reach past him into the silver mixing bowl. He pinched off some of the raw dough between two fingers and his thumb, raising his brows as he popped it into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve said, poorly holding back a puckered expression as he forced down the piece of Eddie’s dough. “You need to start over. Immediately.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open. “But I followed the recipe! I read it three times.”

Steve sucked on his teeth, trying to work whatever the taste was of Eddie’s cookie dough out of his mouth. “My best guess, you switched something with salt.”

“What are you talking about?”

Steve pointed his chin toward the mixing bowl, an unspoken, See for yourself.

And Eddie did. Just to prove Steve’ tastebuds, as much as he adored the rest of the man, irrevocably broken, Eddie tore off an even larger piece of his dough. And, purposefully holding Steve’s eyeline, put the dough into his mouth.

And…oh boy.

Barely two chews into it, the main flavor Eddie was getting was indeed what some people might call…salty.

“You might have a point,” he said, words muffled.

He couldn’t bring himself to swallow. He had to turn sharply toward the trash can and spit out the horrible, horrible crime against baking that he had created.

Good fucking Lord, what had he done?

He went next to the sink, sinking his head under the running faucet to wash the rest of the taste out of his mouth. He heard the thump of the rest of the dough following its comrade into the trash, courtesy of Steve.

Satisfied enough that he’d gotten the salt taste out, Eddie shut off the water and turned to face Steve, holding a hand over his mouth as though he could actually hide his smile at his own boyfriend’s suffering.

He should have just waited. Then he could have laughed at Henderson for inevitably making the same, or an even worse, mistake than Eddie had.

Eddie sighed.

“Will you help me with the second batch? So I don’t poison all the kids?” he asked, glancing mournfully at the mess that was going to get a whole lot worse now that Eddie had to start all over.

“Tell you what,” Steve said, opening a nearby drawer and pulling out a blue plaid apron. Eddie watched with widened eyes as he tied it on—looking way too fantasy-like for how many people were around to walk in on them. Steve bumped him out of it with his hip. “You can be my handsome helper. I’ll tell you exactly what I need, and all you have to do is hand it to me. Sound good?”

A front-row seat to Steve Harrington baking in an too-sexy apron? And he wasn’t in charge of the end result?

Sign. Him. Up.

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie microfic #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steddie drabble #steddie fanfiction #established relationship #cute fluff

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lupinsweater · 2 months ago

Text

Through the Years We All Will Be Together

part two →

Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader 🎁 1.9k words

⋆꙳•❅*‧ ‧*❆ ₊⋆ ꙳•❅*‧ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The snow was falling gently on the Lupins’ small cottage, covering the garden in a soft quilt of white. Ten-year-old Remus sat by the window, his breath fogging up the glass as he watched the flurries dance in the glow of the streetlamp. He wasn’t expecting company—not on Christmas Eve, when most families were tucked away with their own traditions.

He hugged his knees to his chest, trying not to think about how Christmas felt different this year. His parents had done their best—there was a tree, strung with hand-me-down ornaments, and the scent of pine needles mixed with the faint aroma of his Mum’s cooking. But the lingering silence was heavy. It was the first Christmas since it happened—the full moon that had changed his life forever.

Remus jumped at the knock on the door. It was sharp and clear, echoing through the stillness. His parents exchanged a glance from the kitchen, but before either could move, Remus was already on his feet.

The cold air bit at his face as he swung the door open excitedly, sending a breeze into the house that made the fireplace flicker. You stood there on the porch, bundled in a too-big scarf and a wool coat that was so large that it reached your ankles, the hem covered in slushy snow. Snow clung to your hair and shoulders, and your cheeks were pink from the cold.

“You came,” Remus said, his voice soft but tinged with surprise.

“Of course I came,” you replied, rolling your eyes with a grin. “What else was I going to do, sit around while my mum and dad have their boring Christmas party?” You lifted a tin wrapped in a bow. “She sent these for you. Said you need fattening up.”

Remus laughed—a real laugh, not the polite one he’d been using all day. He stepped aside to let you in, and you stomped your boots on the welcome mat before slipping them off, followed by your coat, scarf, and mittens.

Inside, the warmth hit you instantly, and you rubbed your hands together. “Smells good in here,” you said, peeking toward the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Lupin!”

His Mum poked her head out, her face lighting up at the sight of you. “Merry Christmas, dear! Oh, those must be your mum’s famous shortbread.” She glanced at Remus, her smile softening. “Why don’t you two come sit down at the table? I’m almost done in here, and then you two can start on the gingerbread.”

“Okay,” you said cheerfully, grabbing Remus’ hand with your free one and tugging him into the kitchen with you.

The Lupin kitchen smelled like cinnamon, nutmeg, and a little bit of something lemony. You sat down at the table while Remus walked up to one of the cabinets, squeezing around his Mum to get to the drawer where they kept the cookie cutters.

“I don’t think we need the snowman one,” he said, pulling out a bent star-shaped cutter.

“But the snowman’s a classic!” you argued, shooting him a glare. “You can’t have Christmas cookies without snowmen!”

Remus rolled his eyes but placed the star cutter on the table. “Fine, but you’re decorating it. And you’re the one who has to explain why it looks like a blob.”

“It’s not a blob!” you protested.

“Last year, it was definitely a blob,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, this year it won’t be,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest defiantly.

Remus’ Mum finished mixing her bowl, and she poured the batter inside into a cake pan that got covered with cling film. She set the pan into the fridge and grabbed out the ingredients the two of you would need, as well as the recipe card.

“Alright, you two, the kitchen’s all yours,” she said, ruffling Remus’ hair with a smile despite his protests.

Remus pulled out two aprons that seemed about the right size, tossing one over to you as he tied his own. He looked at the recipe card on the counter, beginning to grab the measuring cups and spoons until he heard your protests.

Your back was facing him, your small fingers fumbling to reach the apron ties. “A little help, maybe?” you said with annoyance.

Remus laughed, coming over to tie the apron for you as you huffed at him. When he finished, you turned around to look at him, seeing the smug grin on his face.

“You’re too smug for someone who almost burned the cookies last year,” you said, crossing your arms.

“That wasn’t my fault!” he protested. “You’re the one who distracted me with your ridiculous reindeer story.”

“It wasn’t ridiculous,” you said defensively. “It’s festive.”

He shook his head, still grinning, and slid the mixing bowl over to you as he measured the flour. “Alright, then. What’s next, master baker?”

You squinted at the recipe card propped up on the counter. It was written in the neat, looping handwriting that you knew was Remus’s mum’s.

“Okay,” you said, reading aloud. “We’ve got to add in the spices and the baking soda, and then we’ve got to get another bowl to mix the other stuff.”

“Why don’t you do the ‘other stuff’,” Remus said, raising an eyebrow at you as he grabbed the spices and began to measure them out. He watched out of the corner of his eye as you added the brown sugar and butter into the other, mixing it with a whisk until your arms grew tired and you were satisfied with the way it looked.

“Help me with this part, will you?” You called over to him. “My arms are just so tired.” He shook his head at you with mock exasperation as he came over to look at the recipe card.

“It’s just adding in the eggs, molasses, and vanilla,” he said with a laugh, measuring the syrup and vanilla out. You cracked the eggs into the mixture; and he began to stir it in as you washed your hands of the slimy eggs.

“Now what?” You said, walking back over to him and peering over his shoulder to see the instructions.

“We’re supposed to cut the cookies into shapes, bake them, and then—”

“Decorate them with our amazing artistic abilities?” you finished, smirking at him.

“Or with lots of icing,” he said, grinning back at you.

Half an hour later, the two of you were elbow-deep in cookie dough. The table was covered in flour, and there were far more “blobs” than actual shapes in your pile of cut-outs.

“Why does this star look like it’s been through a snowstorm?” Remus asked, holding up one of the cookies.

“Maybe it’s just sleepy,” you said, snatching it from his hand and placing it on the baking tray.

He shook his head but didn’t argue, instead grabbing another chunk of dough to roll out. “Do you think Santa likes stars, or is he more of a gingerbread man kind of guy?”

“Santa likes everything,” you said confidently. “Except raisins. No one likes raisins.”

Remus laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile. His laugh was your favorite sound, especially when it came so easily, like now. He had been laughing less and less, these days.

“What do you think Santa does when Christmas is over?” you asked as you carefully placed another snowman on the tray.

Remus shrugged. “Probably sleeps for a year. That’s what I’d do if I were him.”

“You already do sleep for a year,” you teased.

“Not true!” he exclaimed, tossing a small handful of flour at you.

You gasped, staring at the white streak on your sleeve. “You did not just—”

Before you could finish, you grabbed your own handful of flour and flung it back at him.

“Hey!” he yelped, ducking.

Within seconds, the kitchen was a battleground, both of you laughing as clouds of flour filled the air. By the time you called a truce, you were both covered from head to toe in white powder, and the counter was even more of a disaster than before.

“You look like a ghost,” you said, giggling as you brushed flour off his hair.

“You’re one to talk,” he shot back, but there was a softness in his eyes as he reached out and wiped a streak of icing from your cheek.

Once the cookies were finally in the oven, the two of you flopped down at the kitchen table, exhausted but victorious.

“Do you think we’ll get in trouble for the mess?” you asked nervously, glancing at the flour-covered counters.

Remus shrugged. “Maybe. But it was worth it.”

You grinned, grabbing one of the bowls of icing and dipping your finger into it. “Want some?”

He made a face. “That’s raw icing! You’re going to get sick.”

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’s just sugar. Live a little.”

With a sigh, he grabbed a spoon and dipped it into the icing, taking a small bite. His eyes widened in surprise. “Okay, fine. That’s actually pretty good.”

“Told you,” you said smugly.

As the two of you sat there, licking icing off your fingers and waiting for the cookies to bake, he felt a warmth settle in his chest. It wasn’t just the heat from the oven or the sugar rush from the icing—it was the simple, unshakable feeling that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

When the cookies were finally done, the two of you set to work decorating them. There were stars with crooked lines of icing, snowmen with lopsided scarves, and one particularly ambitious attempt at a Christmas tree that looked more like a green blob.

“This,” Remus said, holding up a star with way too many sprinkles, “is a masterpiece.”

“It’s a mess,” you said, laughing.

“Yeah, but we did them,” Remus said, his smile bright.

Neither of you could disagree, there.

“Hey, Remus?” you asked after a moment, your voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“Do you think things will be like this forever?”

He frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you. “Like what?”

“You know. Us. Hanging out, telling stories, making gingerbread. Christmas.”

Remus paused, looking down at the cookie in his hand. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond, but then he looked up at you with a small, genuine smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think it will.”

You smiled at that, the kind of smile that made him feel like maybe things could be okay. Like maybe there were pieces of his life that hadn’t been taken away, that were still his to keep.

The clock chimed, and the sound startled you upright. “Midnight already?” you said, scrambling to your feet. “Mum’s going to kill me!”

You grabbed your coat, tugging it on in a flurry, and Remus helped you step into your boots before tying your scarf around your neck. You darted toward the door, but just before you stepped outside, you turned back, pausing in the soft glow of the tree lights.

“Merry Christmas, Remus,” you said, your voice warm and sincere.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, his chest tightening in a way he didn’t fully understand.

He watched as you disappeared into the snow, your figure fading into the swirling white. For a long time after, he stood at the door, staring at the footprints you’d left behind.

Years later, when he was older and the world felt heavier, he would think back to this day. To the flour fight, the crooked snowmen, and the way you had smiled at him, like nothing else in the world mattered.

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