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rainybubbles · 5 months

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How COD men say the first "I love you"

Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost, Rudy, Keegan

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)

for more context (you don't need it to read) : here how you met them

P R I C E

-He confessed with Gaz covered by whipped cream.

-Let me explain.

-After your first meeting based on a pregnant Shrek cake to his base and a misunderstanding, John became a regular of your bakery.

-So obviously for confessing his love, he thought of baking a cake.

-During the afternoon on the base, he tried to bake.

-Yes, he could have bought a cake with "I love you” on it. But John liked doing this on his own when it came to gifts.

-He liked the old-fashioned way of doing gifts himself.

-However, as the dough turned an unexpected purple hue, he wisely sought the expertise of Soap, a proficient pastry enthusiast.

-"Cap...your dough is..." Soap hesitated, unsure of how honest he could be.

-"Horrible, you can say it, son," John acknowledged.

-"I just wonder how you managed to make it turn purple?"

-"I used beetroot."

-"For a cake?"

-"Sugar is derived from beetroot."

-"Yeah, but in a Paris-Brest, you don't have beetroot."

-"...how can I fix this?"

-"Well, call Gaz. By three, we could finish the pastry in time," Soap suggested with a knowing smile.

-The collaborative baking commenced, yet Soap overlooked a crucial detail—Gaz sucked as much as Price when it came to bake.

- Entrusted with the delicate task of preparing the crème au beurre, Gaz inadvertently neglected to secure the mixer's lid.

-Chaos ensued as the cream erupted, spilling on the surroundings.

-Soap tried to stop it, but he slipped on the floor.

-Gaz couldn't see because of the cream, and John was looking at them reconsidering his life's chouce.

-Obviously, you decided to come back home at this moment.

-Yo were greeted by the sight of Gaz adorned in whipped cream, Johnny sprawled on the flour-strewn floor, and John enveloped in a cloud of flour.

-"I...is this a kinky food party, or did I miss something? Because usually, people are naked when they use whipped cream," you quipped.

-"I can explain, love," John offered.

-"Okay, what happened?"

-"I wanted to bake for you."

-"You know I don't need cakes or pastries; that's my job. If I crave a sweet tooth, I have plenty of cakes, honey."

-"I know, but this one was special. It was supposed to be a heart-shaped Paris-Brest."

-"Paris-Brest aren't heart-shaped."

-"Not when they're not employed for confessions."

-A moment of realization dawned upon you.

-"Fuck, you...you wanted to say 'I love you.'"

-"Yeah, but it's clear I messed up."

-"No, no. I mean, sure, Gaz covered in whipped cream, Johnny on the flour, and walls adorned with flour was not what I pictured, but it's perfect."

-"Good because I don't plan to cover Garrick in whipped cream every time I want to say it."

-A shared chuckle ensued as you joined Gaz and Soap in the aftermath, each contributing to the cleanup while John beamed with contentment.

G A Z :

-He confessed with a vocal.

-After your meeting and your teasing when you found out Gaz listened to your spicy ASMR as a streamer, you noticed him.

-He was a regular, one of the fans who always leave a comment under each post.

-He became more than just a familiar username.

-Your bond deepened as you sought his counsel on scenarios for your streams and videos, a virtual confidant in the ever-expanding realm of online content creation.

-As time unfolded, your relationship transcended the digital realm.

-The spark between you two ignited, an intangible force that fueled your creative musings.

-Swiftly, meetings materialized whenever Gaz found a fleeting moment of respite from his duties.

-When he was on long deployments, you sent him exclusivity audios so he could be distracted from the horror he did or saw, offering a temporary escape from the grim realities he faced.

-Your voice became a comforting melody, a beacon in the darkness, ensuring that Gaz could find solace even amid the harrowing experiences he encountered.

- In fact you could record yourself spelling a list of grocery and he would find it awesome

-Yet, despite the kisses shared and the intimate moments experienced, Gaz had yet to formally ask you out or declare those three potent words: "I love you."

-One night, as a gentle breeze whispered through the window, he turned to his friend Soap for advice, a hint of embarrassment lingering in his tone.

-"Hey, mate, can I ask for advice?" he queried, his eyes seeking guidance from Soap.

-"Sure," Soap responded, welcoming the opportunity to lend an ear.

-"How... would you confess to someone you've been flirting with for months?" Gaz inquired, his apprehension palpable.

-"Tell them," Soap replied matter-of-factly.

-"No shit, I wanted something special. They're... they're awesome, and I really want to make the thing memorable, you know?"

-Soap smirked, teasing Gaz.

-A playful shoulder bump ensued as Gaz protested, "Shut up, mate. I just... I feel like they're the right person, you know? I mean, they saw me during my lowest moments, and for people like us, it's hard sometimes to find those who can handle a lover with PTSD."

-"Yeah, I feel that," Soap acknowledged. "Well, maybe use your first meeting or something they love. If they're into soccer, bring them to a big match and confess during it."

-"But, you know, during a match, everyone screams? It's kinda dumb."

-Soap paused.

-Gaz looked at him.

-"Well, it sounded like a good idea at that time."

-Gaz's eyes widened. "Wait, you did that?"

-"Listen, it seemed like a good idea."

-"Oh my gosh, what happened?"

-"She didn't understand what I said and answered, 'You're such a good friend.'"

-"Damn."

-"But it doesn't mean it'll be the same for you."

-"I know. I just think about things they love. I... can't confess by ASMR, honestly. It'll be cringe."

-"Maybe send an audio? No need for ASMR," Soap suggested.

-"Yeah," Gaz agreed.

-As Gaz found himself in his room, armed with his phone and ready to send a heartfelt audio message, he hesitated.

-The recorded voice sounded foreign and awkward to him, far from the eloquence he envisioned.

-Discouraged, he abandoned the attempt.

- Upon his return from deployment, sensing your unusual behavior, he confronted you about it.

-"You... sent me a vocal, but it only said 'Fuck you,' so I didn't know if I did something or not," you confessed, puzzled by the unexpected message.

-Gaz paused, the realization dawning upon him. He had forgotten to delete a frustrated attempt at confessing that slipped through the cracks.

-"No, it was not against you. I... I tried to do something, but I messed up. So I was mad at myself, and at the same time, I was recording a vocal for you," he admitted, vulnerability coloring his words.

-"Can I ask what was this thing?" you inquired, curiosity dancing in your eyes.

-"I... gear. I couldn't take off my gear," he lied, attempting to divert the conversation.

-"You're a bad liar," you chuckled.

-"Okay, I wanted to confess to you. And I tried to record something like you do, but it sounded horrible."

-"You know you could have texted?" you suggested with a playful smile.

-"Yes, I... I didn't think about it. I was so focused on voices and the perfect confession."

-"I reciprocate, if you ever wonder," you reassured him.

-A smile broke across Gaz's face as he squeezed your hands, grateful for the understanding that transcended words.

S O A P :

-He confessed by drawings.

-After drawing you like Gollum because you flustered him, Soap, determined to prove his artistic prowess, pursued every opportunity to capture your essence on paper.

- Despite attending each modeling session and receiving your compliments, he couldn't quite capture the nuances—those wrinkles when you smiled, the sparkle when you ate, the delicate mole that graced your visage.

-Unyielding, he embarked on a mission of his own, drawing you ceaselessly between military duties, on the pages of his diary, and during leaves.

-Training, a familiar concept to a soldier, became his artistic discipline.

-You willingly played muse.

-The drawing sessions evolving into intimate conversations, forging a connection that extended beyond artistry.

-As your bond deepened, so did Soap's frustration.

- The elusive perfection he sought in his drawings continued to elude him, and he longed to express his feelings through his sketches.

- One day, returning to your darkened apartment, you discovered a trail of candles illuminating your path.

- Recognizing Soap's expertise with fire and explosives, you followed the flickering lights until the room burst into brightness.

-There, on the wall, an intricately arranged collection of sketches painted a portrait of your shared moments—coffee spills, date nights, and more.

-Overwhelmed by the domestic warmth of the scene, you couldn't help but murmur, "Shit, it's so cute."

-"I hope so, because I love you, baby. I want these sketches to continue, to wake up to you every morning, to draw you, to see you, to kiss you," Johnny confessed, closing the distance between you.

-A tender embrace and a heartfelt kiss followed. "I love you too."

-"Good, because it would have been hard if you said you hate me after I spent five hours gluing these sketches," Soap admitted, a playful smile gracing his face.

-Laughter filled the room, echoing the joy of two hearts entwined in love.

G H O S T :

-He confessed with a monkey wrench.

-You were tired.

-The life of a mechanic on the base demanded a toll, and today, that toll felt almost unbearable.

- Fatigue etched lines on your face as you toiled among the clattering tools, your hands weaving intricate dances of repair.

- The camaraderie with your coworkers, usually a source of solace, had soured into an unbearable weight on your shoulders.

-Amidst the clinks and clanks, a sudden snap echoed through the air, drawing attention like an unwelcome spotlight.

-Your favorite monkey wrench, a faithful companion in countless repairs, lay shattered in your hands.

-A surge of frustration coursed through you, and against all reason, tears welled in your eyes.

- It was an odd vulnerability, shedding tears over a broken tool, but the accumulation of stress had reached a breaking point.

-Then, there he was—Simon, the enigmatic connection born from his bad driving skills and your repairing of his vehicles.

- Your eyes met, and the vulnerability you felt intensified.

-"Don't pity me, please," you whispered, a plea tinged with embarrassment.

-"I don't pity you, love," Simon responded, his voice a balm to your wounded spirit.

- He knelt beside you, his presence a comforting anchor in the chaos of the workshop.

-"I... I must look ridiculous?" you stammered, seeking reassurance.

-"No, you look quite stunning crying on the dirty floor with a broken monkey wrench," he teased, a glimmer of humor in his eyes.

- Your tears mingled with laughter, a cathartic release in the midst of chaos.

-"Yeah?" you asked, a hint of uncertainty lingering.

-"Yeah," he affirmed, his gaze sincere.

-"Then Soap is the most stunning with his mohawk full of mud."

-"Hm, he can't beat you with your grease on the cheek," Simon remarked, using his gloved hand to wipe away a smudge.

-A quiet settled between you, broken only by the sound of tools and distant chatter.

-Simon extended his hands, a silent offer of support, and you accepted, rising from the dirt-strewn floor.

-"Thanks for... being here," you said, gratitude coloring your words.

-"I'm not always here, love," Simon admitted, a touch of vulnerability in his gaze.

-"But you're here when it counts, Simon. That's all that matters to me," you confessed, and with those words, you retreated to the solitude of your barracks.

-As you left, Simon watched you, and in that moment, an unfamiliar warmth enveloped him.

- It was the realization that he was enough—enough to be there for you, enough to be loved.

-The following day, a surprise awaited you in the form of a brand-new monkey wrench.

-A note accompanied it, bearing Simon's distinctive scrawl: "I hope to buy you more in the future."

- A subtle promise, a declaration beyond words.

- You smiled, for you understood—it was more than a tool.

-It was the promise of a connection that transcended the clangor of the workshop, a sentiment that spoke of a desire for something deeper. And for you, that was more than enough.

K E E G A N :

-He confessed with Happy Meals.

-After all, it was how you met. Keegan ordered 20 happy meals, and you were a worker for McDonalds.

-( Even though you began to write an essay about how happy meals and military men seem to be an issue)

- Keegan and you became close.

-Since you saw him each night during his leave after your shift.

-At first, it was because some teenagers were here, threatening the employees after their shift, so Keegan proposed his help.

-And after that, driving you back home became a routine when he was on leave.

-And when one night you decided to ask him to drop you somewhere else, and it ended up being a restaurant, he realized you were asking a date subtly.

-Slowly, it became flirtatious.

-Even though you still didn't know how he could flirt when you were covered in grease-smelling potatoes.

-But Keegan had rizz even at 1 AM.

-He could say the more cheesy lines while you're covered in cheddar and coke.

-That's why he wanted to confess in a cool way, the same way, his flirt could make you smile through the worst shift.

-At first, he thought of a Happy meal where the toy could be a letter saying "I love you" with a selfie of you two.

-But he wanted something fun, as fun as when Ghost ordered 40 Happy Meals just to have all the skeleton toys.

-So during one of his missions, he used his phone and ordered food for your flat.

-Surprised, you opened the door to the delivery guy, saying you hadn't ordered anything. But you noticed it had your name on it.

-You sighed and took the bags.

-The 4 bags.

-Which surprised you because, hell, you won't eat all of that.

-And then you opened the bag to see happy meals.

-20 happy meals. Like Keegan used to order.

-You chuckled.

-It was a good prank.

-You sent him a text.

-"Okay, good one, I'll take revenge, I swear"

-But then you notice the Happy Meal is empty.

-Except for one who had a little toy.

-A heart toy.

-You squeezed it like it said on it

-And the little toy spoke with a horrible voice. "I love you".

-The cheesy smile you had when you realized it.

-"fuck, you got rizz even miles away, uh ?"you texted.

- "of course" he answered.

-"well, Mr Rizz, I can't send you Happy Meals, but I love you too."

-"thanks, love"

R U D Y :

-He confessed with books.

-After meeting Rudy in the library and realizing he was one of the few readers following your books. You ended up meeting with him when he was on leave so he could be your beta reader.

-He was a good help, he was not always saying "good", he had good remarks and ideas.

-He was the one bringing coffee during your late writing sessions.

-Even when duty called him away on missions, he sent texts

-Texts traversed the ether, connecting your worlds despite the miles that separated you.

-In response, handwritten letters, carefully penned with the knowledge of his penchant for tangible memories, sailed back to him, becoming anchors of shared moments in his turbulent sea of duty.

-Thanks to his comments and ratings on sites, you slowly became more famous as an author, and you now live by it.

-Yet one day when you were writing, you were searching for one of the books you wanted to inspire your fight scene for, but...

-"I didn't order my library like that," you whispered.

-Your books, usually standing sentinel in perfect alignment, bore witness to an intrusion—an inexplicable disorder.

-But you had this habit of putting in order books in a certain way. But it seemed someone messed it up.

-And it would be so strange for a stalker to just break into someone's house in order to...mess up their library ?

-What kind of shitty villain could do that ?

-You sighed.

-The only one who could come in your flat is Rudy, and it couldn't be Rudy since the guy was kind of obsessive with it too.

-Not a soldier for nothing, after all, being clean is part of it.

-His library was impressive, he even gave advice to his local library about archives.

-So slowly, you pulled out one book, in order to put it back where it was supposed to be.

-You sighed, knowing it would take your night to do all the books.

-Until you noticed it.

-The letters.

-The first letters of each title were aligned.

-You stepped back, and you rode it.

-"I love you"

-You bite your lips and smiled.

-'Fucking idiot", you whispered, and you sent him a selfie with you and the books aligned.

-"Me too." you had texted.

-"I had thought you would never find it."

-"What do you mean ?"

-"It's been six months, it's like that."

-"What, no"

-"si."

-"Fuck, you-"

-"I thought you didn't want to address it before I realized you just haven't seen it."

-"I'm so sorry; fuck, you must have been stressed."

-"Not really"

-False. He cried to Alejandro one month after he did it, and you didn't answer. But you would never know that.

-"Well, now you know it's reciprocated."

-"Thanks, love"

-"Have a good night, honey".

He smiled. It'll definitely be a good night, now he knows you said I love you.

If you want more : my COD masterlist

And my whole masterlist

#call of duty x reader #cod x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #ghost simon riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #rudy x reader #rudy parra x reader #keegan russ x reader

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stararch4ngelqueen · 6 months

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domestic jason hcs? >:)

(this ask feels self-indulgent but i was VERY inspired by this one buff dude i saw on insta reels baking in a not-so-sexual way but like women in the comments are down bad and i cant really describe it im so sorry 😭)

imagine waking up to jason baking something (doesnt have to be anything could just be bread). you wanna help but the only instructions he gives you is to sit pretty, wearing his shirt and all. everytime he moves around the kitchen, he give u a lil peck on the lips if hes close enough to you. youre just sitting pretty like he asked, watching this man work and looking a little love struck cuz all you wanna do is pull him down and give him the fattest kiss for being so husband material

(dude, im yearning so much. thank u for writing a lot for jason 💞 ALSO ive seen u around in the cod tag so another thanks for ur fics there too 💞)

I’m sticking with the prompt cause I had unholy thoughts. An thank you! I appreciate your appreciation for my works ✨

This may be the tiniest bit suggestive 🌝

Time Written - 5:51 a.m

Baking at an early hour was somewhat new for Jason.

Baking at an early hour after an intense ending to an incredible date night was incredibly new for Jason.

His hands were occupied with an intriguing scene of soft dough and hard, rich yellow butter on a marble countertop. His muscles at work folding in the pockets of butter into the dough, pressing it with the heels of his palms.

“Morning, mama.” His morning voice held that early rasp in his tone that tickled you just right. You reciprocated his greeting as you walk into the kitchen, dressed in one of his shirts he aggressively yanked off the night before.

There he stood in grey sweatpants. Baking something delectable for seemingly no reason.

“What’s the occasion?” You question as you approach the counter, admiring his bed rugged hair adding onto his every attractive appearance.

“Cloudy outside, which means baking time.”

“Baking time?” The slightest glance at your cheeky little grin made him amusingly scoff.

“Baked goods,” he clarified with a head gesture behind him. “Coffee’s ready for ya, babe.”

Soon, the kitchen will flood with the warm aroma of browning butter and cooking sugar, invading throughout your home for a very long evening. Neighbors will get jealous over the smell of bakery air, hopefully helping them ignore the noises prior to the other night.

It was quite a sight to watch, his muscles flexing with a focused flare along his brow. You almost didn’t hear his insistence the second time towards the cinnamon coffee waiting in the pot for you.

“Gonna stick around? You’ll get first glance at what I’m making.”

“Which is?” You pry, watching him approach the sink to wash his hands.

“Crossiants,” he admits after drying his hands, giving the tip of your nose a peck. “With chocolate.”

“Look at you, my man’s a baker.” You smile while leaning against the counter, feeling your heart throb romantically from his chaste kisses.

“Not what you expected, huh?”

“What, my Red Hood busting skulls and baking? So many single moms would chase after you if they could.”

That comment has him unexpectedly laugh. Not the worst thing he’s been told, so he’ll take it. Poor single mothers, too bad he’s already taken.

“I thought you meant the chocolate would be inside?” You ask after peeking at the dough he wrapped up in cling wrap.

“No,” He shakes his head. “See, I thought that, but I like the idea of dipping them into melted chocolate a whole lot better.”

“Where’d you get the inspiration?”

“France,” he amusingly huffs with a shrug after approaching to take the packet you handed to him. “Thanks baby. Where else?”

He slips the packet of buttered dough into the fridge before turning towards the stove, almost running into you as you beat him to it, peering into a saucepan full of melted chocolate.

“Hey, hey.” Cool, clean hands gently grasped hold of your shoulders, gently nudging you away from his little workspace. “Easy on those eyes, almost knocked you into an accident.”

“Need some help with anything?” You offer, reminding him of when he used to ask his mother the same question. Happy little memories that brought embers of warmth in his heart.

“You can be of huge help,” He begins, calloused hands grazing down along your fingerprint shaped bruised hips before hoisting you up in his arms like a little doll.

“By sitting pretty, an’ letting me work.”

He plops you down on a stool he pulled out from the island counter, giving you a perfect little spot to watch him work. You slouch after he turns away, watching him return to his little objective on the stove.

“You just melt chocolate in the pan like that?”

“Sorta,” Jason tilts his head after grabbing a spoon, stirring the smooth, ganache-like chocolate concoction around. “France’s version of hot chocolate. Some milk, cream, a little sugar.”

You hum as a response, watching the muscles along the back of his left shoulder move as he enacts upon such a simple, minor task. Jason probably said something else, along the lines of not wanting such a beautiful body of chocolate boil on the stove, but it wasn’t much of your concern as it was his.

Maybe your main concern was how exactly did the scratches you left along his back didn’t break skin, clinging onto him for dear life as they flexed along your greedy palms.

He probably knew that, he was hiding a smile for all you could tell if you paid any attention.

“My girl want a taste?” He offers, his real gaze snapping your mind back into reality. You nod, anxiously sitting up in your seat.

He spoons warm, melted chocolate on the top of your tongue, watching it dribble down your bottom lip. The pink of your little tongue swiped up the remnants, all for Jason’s adoring gaze to witness.

Your reaction varies upon the subtle lack of sweetness from the chocolate.

“It’s not that sweet. Is it dark—?”

Your words are stolen when he kisses you, cradling your face within his two warm hands after carelessly setting down the spoon.

His heavy lidded gaze meets yours after breaking off the kiss, his cheeks flushed with affectionate warmth.

“Don’t know,” his glistening lips curve upwards after licking his lips. “Tastes pretty sweet to me.”

He turns away, as if he hadn’t committed such a crime in the first place.

You’re left watching once again, anxious nerves preventing you from sitting still. Fidgety fingers lingering in your lap, grasping along the lower hem of your shirt.

“Also coffee,” Jason pitches as if he forgot. “Added a little espresso to enhance the taste. You, uh… never got your coffee, babe.”

Oh. Right. The first thing he told you when you came in.

“Sorry,” you sheepishly admit, slightly shifting your hips whilst on the stool. “Got a little distracted.”

He chuckles, not even needing a detective’s mindset to understand fully why. “Did you now?”

Not giving you a chance to answer, Jason sets the saucepan off the burner before turning full attention towards you. Swooping you off the stool you sat, hoisting you ontop of a warm, clean counter.

His torso pressed against yours, keeping you comfortably confined between a marble surface and a hard place. His hands caress along your torso, thumbs trickling over your stiff nipples through your shirt, still sore from his teeth marks.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles against the shell of your ear. His lips press against your neck as you swallow, kissing down along your collarbone. “Figured you’d have stayed sleeping in ‘till I was done here. Guessin’ last night wasn’t enough for you?”

“Your fault for putting on a show.” You whisper, hooking your legs the best you could around his broad waist.

He chuckles against your neck, his excitement as palpable as his pearly smile expressed. “Your fault for watchin’, mama.”

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #dc jason todd #jason todd x y/n #there’s no unique reason I chose crossiants #just sounded fun 🌝#when the post nut clarity so strong you gotta bake your girl some goods #gotham knights jason todd #jason todd x #jason todd dc #don’t hate me

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ayyy-pee · 7 months

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Discord 18+ - Twitter - Kofi

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Female Reader

Summary: Following his mothers passing, Nanami inherits his family's rundown bakery. With the bakery on its last leg, Nanami reluctantly takes on the task of trying to save what his family has worked to keep for decades, but he can't do it alone.

Genre: Bakery/Coffee Shop AU

Warnings: Workaholic meanie Nanami, employee x boss relationship, but also enemies to lovers, death, grief/mourning, profanity, jealousy, fluff, angst, Nanami owns a bakery, parental loss, Nanami is bad at feelings, I don’t know if I’ll do smut for this one but sexual tension, mutual pining, Nanami is sort of an asshole here

Art by: Ilameys + (Unknown artist (right pic). I'd love to credit the artist so if you know who it is, please let me know!)

Chapter 1 - Inheritance

A/N: There's some Danish in fic that I hope I'm using correctly! (If not let me know) Nanami calls his mother "Mor" in this fic, which is Danish for Mom (according to Google lmao)

“Are you okay with this arrangement?” a stocky, bald man ahead asks. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, the beads of sweat forming on his head are apparent. He reaches up and swipes his hand across where his hairline probably resided at some point in time, but is now long gone. He clears his throat, repeating the question.

“Um-” he glances around at the other men at the table, dressed in bland, ugly suits. A bunch of blank faces that’ll be forgotten once this is over. The man behind taps his shoulder.

“Mr. Nanami?” He speaks.

Nanami’s brows raise as he’s brought back to the present and he looks around to find the men surrounding the table staring at him. He looks back to the bald man next to him. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

The bald man wipes his forehead again and Nanami hopes whatever paperwork and pen he is about to offer him is passed with his other hand. He resists shuddering in disgust.

“I was saying your mother has left her bakery to you in her will and testament with the wish that you continue to keep it open.”

Right. Nanami remembers now. His mother is dead - the only family he can remember having now leaving him alone in this world. He figured this would happen eventually. She was elderly and in declining health. He was truly surprised she lived as long as she did. To top it off, she wants him to keep the piece of shit bakery that’s been passed down generations in business.

Nanami didn’t get to see his mother often. He worked as a corporate executive so he didn’t have much time to allocate to visiting her and being forced into the kitchen with her. Instead, he opted to call her often and visited when he had the time.

The sensation of his bottom lip trembling pulls Nanami from his thoughts.

“I don’t want it.” He confirms, voice as even as he can manage.

The bald man glances around nervously before looking back at Nanami. “Mr. Nanami, I understand this must be a lot to take in and quite difficult for you. However, this bakery has been in your family for generations. Your grandfather left it to your mother when he passed and now your mother to you. Are you sure you don’t want to–”

“It’s a sinking ship”, Nanami cuts him off. “I’ve seen the books a few times. I know it’s bleeding money and has been for some time. What do you suppose I do with that?”

The man shrugs, not that Nanami truly expected him to have an answer. Nanami pinches the bring of his nose, his brows stitching together in irritation. He really doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s annoying and an inconvenience. He wants to coast by in his cushy corporate executive job until retirement, making loads of money and not worrying about the crippling debt brought on by selling baked dough in some sad, rundown family owned establishment.

His mind drifts back to the very last time he was at the bakery, remembering his mother kneading the dough between her shaky, liver spotted fingers. When the aches became too much for her, she asked Nanami to give her a hand. He always complied if only to keep himself busy for the moment.

“When will you settle down? Work won’t be there forever”, she would ask as she took a seat on her stool next to the confectionery ovens. The massive machines loomed over her thin frame and Nanami wondered how she did this everyday. He wished she would close up shop and live the rest of her days resting. He had offered many times to support her, each time being met with a hard “no”.

“I don’t have time to date anyone. Besides, they’d just end up leaving me anyway. I’m too busy to make time for anyone else.”

His mother hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, but you have to make time for them, Kento. A relationship is about compromise after all.”

“I don’t want to have to compromise. That’s the point of me not dating anyone right now”. His mother was always pushing for him to find someone. Asking for him to bring someone home to meet her before she met her demise - her words. She was always so dramatic, often prompting Nanami to roll his eyes in amusement.

Nanami molded the dough into an oval shape, grabbing the bread lame from the side of the table and quickly slicing leaf cut patterns into the dough - both his and his mother’s favorite. Carefully, he placed the dough onto a baking pan before gently shooing away his mother from her stool to slide the pan into the oven and turn it on.

“Kento, money comes and goes. You won’t have forever to live your life the way you see fit. And I want to see you get married before I’m dead and gone!” His mother sighed dramatically as she took Nanami’s large hard in both her smaller ones. “In all seriousness, sweet boy. I want to see you happy, living your life to the fullest.”

Nanami smiled softly down at his mother. He gently folded her up in an embrace. “My life is full as long as you’re here, Mor .”

His mother smacked him playfully in the chest. “Don’t try to butter me up with speaking Danish”, she scolded, though her voice held no anger. “Kento, take a break. Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.” She squinted her eyes to drive her point home. Nanami rolled his eyes playfully, looking down at his watch.

“I have to go back to work. I’ll call you later this week.” He bent low to place a kiss to his mother’s cheek before heading out through the front of the store.

The quiver in his lip returned and he let out a shaky breath to steady himself as the bald, sweaty man next to him slid over what looked to be a contract.

“If you’re sure, Mr. Nanami, we will have the bank take possession of the property. I’ll just need your signature here.” He extended his hand to give Nanami a pen and he fought the curl of disgust threatening to form on his lip when he noticed he held it with the same sweat-slathered hand he’d been using to wipe his head this entire meeting.

Nanami’s eyes roamed across the room. The faces of men he’d likely never see again surrounded him, just like every other day in this godforsaken boardroom. All dressed in some variation of the same ordinary suit and tie, talking amongst themselves about who knows what. And the lights, the fucking fluorescent lights threatening to trigger the same migraine Nanami found himself having everyday.

Life will pass you by before you know it and you don’t want to look back at your life to realize you wasted it sitting in an office rotting under those awful lights.

Nanami squinted just as his mother did that day, a wry chuckle escaping him. Fuck it. What did he have to lose?

“Actually–” he begins.

- - - - - - - -

Nanami is standing in the front of the bakery he now owns. It’s been about two weeks since he inherited this gaping wound bleeding out money every second it’s standing. He’s quit his corporate job, his peers whispering that his loss must have triggered a mental breakdown. They were almost right. The moment he signed the legal documents to take over the bakery, he felt free - as though the weight of the corporate world had been lifted from his shoulders. Now, as he entered the bakery and flipped on the lights, watching as a piece of ceiling tile tumbled to the lobby floor he felt his impending breakdown sneaking closer.

This place was a mess. He couldn’t blame his mother. She wasn’t able to handle the upkeep on her own and honestly, Nanami should have come around more to help out. Now, he was literally paying the price. It was no wonder the place was struggling when it was open. The furniture was worn, the decor was outdated and not in a trendy way. He understood wanting to keep the family memory alive, but the bakery was feeling more like a moldy old hole in the wall and not as welcoming as his mother believed it to be.

Repairs would be needed as soon as possible if he wanted to have a reopening for this place next month. He also needed to renovate the space and hire a baker who knew how the hell to run this place because he had no intention of doing it himself. No way. He fully intended on staffing this place up and collecting money from behind the scenes - the perfect retirement plan.

Nanami spent the day scheduling repairmen and interviews for the Head Baker position all within the next week. If he could find someone knowledgeable and adept, he could breathe easy knowing he would never have to be here unless absolutely necessary.

After scheduling the last interview, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. This sucked. He was putting in way too much effort already and it did not seem worth it. Only time would tell.

- - - - - - - -

The first interview was easy enough. A young girl who seemed exhausted but eager. She had prior bakery experience, but the way the bags hung under her eyes made Nanami uncomfortable. It was as though she had something clinging to her and if he were totally honest, it gave him the creeps. At the end of the interview, he wished her well, advised her to try to get some rest and maybe see a medium about whatever strange aura was following her.

The second interview was an odd man with tattoos all over his body that looked something akin to stitches. He was young and lively, but it was apparent the moment he entered the bakery that he lacked basic hygiene skills. His long, gray (how old was this kid?) hair hung messily around his shoulders and the stench…Nanami could not describe the stench. If he absolutely had to describe it - like gun to the head, forced to recall the smell - he'd compare it to something along the lines of a sewer rat dipped in rotten eggs and left in the sun to bake. There was also the awful vibe Nanami got from him. He had a feeling if he hired this guy, Nanami would come in one day to find the entire bakery empty, the only thing left behind being hand soap since this man definitely didn’t wash his hands after using the bathroom, or shower, or brush his teeth or–

The third interview was annoying, but by far the best. Nanami sat at a table in the lobby as his eyes skimmed over the resume in his hands. A previous position as a Head Baker already, excellent. This resume even included custom recipes and pictures of their creations which he could not deny looked delicious. Nanami had to admit he was already impressed.

The door to the bakery opened and Nanami stood. Your eyes roamed around the lobby until you spotted him. You offered him a wide, friendly smile, holding your hand out to him as you approached. He asked your name, to which you confirmed and he shook your hand. Professional already. He liked it.

You both took a seat across from each other as Nanami went over the interview questions he had prepared. The usual - tell me about yourself? Tell me a time when…How would you handle…

Your answers were professional with enough of your personality shining through to let Nanami know you were a likable enough person. Nanami especially enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you went over how you came to write your recipes. Clearly you were passionate about baking, something his mother would have appreciated. As you explained to him how you once created a cake made of broccoli for a child’s birthday party that had not a single crumb left by the end of the night, Nanami couldn’t help but think how much his mother really would have liked you. He shook the thought away as he watched you take in the bakery again. He suddenly felt ashamed of its condition.

“I apologize. This place is an absolute dump, but I’ll be renovating soon enough and will be sure you have top of the line equipment should you get the position.” He muttered, rubbing his temple to ease the migraine that had been slowly creeping up on him since his last interview.

You shot him a look of confusion, tilting your head to the side. “What do you mean a dump? This place is gorgeous !” You beamed. “I mean, look around. There’s so much character in this building. You can tell whoever ran the place loved it. It looks like it really met its purpose.” You ran your hand across the worn wood of the table and sighed wistfully.

Nanami scoffed. “It appears outside of baking, you have questionable taste.”

“How can you look at this place and see a dump?” You questioned, genuinely curious.

“Because I grew up in this bakery and it didn’t used to be a dump and now it very obviously is.” Nanami said easily.

Your grin faded into a scowl. “Mr. Nanami, with all due respect, you seem to be looking only for flaws here.”

You stood from the table and pointed behind the front counter to the kitchen in the back. “Do you mind?” Nanami shook his head, sighing as he stood with you and followed you to the back.

Your head whipped around as you entered the kitchen, taking in the worn down appliances, pans, tools and other materials. You didn’t touch anything, only a small smile gracing your features as you observed everything.

“I love bakeries like this personally. I love to be in a space that feels like lots of love and care was put into the end product. Anyone can throw flour into a pot with some eggs and sugar, but what makes one bakery different or better than the next?”

You watched Nanami intensely, not speaking. Oh. Was he the one being interviewed now?

“How much money they make.” He answered confidently. You snorted.

“Loud and wrong”, you stated. “It’s love , Mr. Nanami.”

He rolled his eyes and you burst into laughter. Nanami was now slowly becoming convinced you were a crazy person.

“I’m joking…to an extent. But if you put in the time, the effort and the care into your baking you’ll gain so much more than you ever thought possible. The fancy furniture and stupid bright lights won’t make a difference if you just slap whatever dry, shitty bread onto a plate and sell it.”

Nanami stared blankly.

“What’s your favorite memory here, Mr. Nanami?” you asked suddenly.

“Irrelevant to this interview”, he replied instead. You scowled.

“Come onnnnn, indulge me”, you pleaded.

“No.”

You folded your arms across your chest stubbornly. “Will you always be this difficult if we work together?”

Nanami’s brows shot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Will you always be this difficult if we work together?” You repeat, a little more slowly this time.

“I am not difficult”, he lied. He knew he was being difficult at this moment, probably sounding like a child arguing back. He could have just answered your damn prying questions but…he didn’t want to. Okay, yes he was being childish. Regardless, he continued.

“Why should I give you this job?”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it absentmindedly while you thought about your answer. “Because I love baking. I love baking more than I love breathing and I could work a boring office job like anyone else, but I know I’d hate myself for it. This place needs a little help and I want to be here to make it into whatever you need it to be.”

Hating yourself for working an office job, huh? Nanami could relate. He was in this position mere weeks ago. You were sort of annoying always trying to see the bright side - rainbows and butterflies and shit - but maybe he could look past that. He did need a baker after all and his only other interviews were not exactly what he was looking for. But, he needed to establish some ground rules first.

“If you accept this position, I will be your boss and you will respect me. Please don’t misinterpret this relationship. I am not interested in establishing a friendship. I simply need you to run this kitchen and make sure your desserts are up to par.”

You stood up straight, your demeanor shifting to strictly business. “Noted.”

Nanami sighed, feeling relieved that he was able to establish who the boss was around here before things got out of control. He squared his shoulders, looking at you from across the kitchen.

“Now, I am formally offering you the position of Head Baker. Do you accept it?”

“Absolutely”, you said with no hesitation before continuing. “But if you’re standing in my kitchen, I demand respect too”, you spoke up. “My desserts will never not be up to par, Mr. Nanami but please don’t misinterpret this relationship either. When you step into my kitchen, I am in charge here.”

You moved across the kitchen and held your hand out to Nanami, who shook it quietly as he assessed you. You were passionate, spoke your mind, demanded respect but you were also annoyingly way too positive. It would be an adjustment for Nanami to work with someone like you. He was used to the drab routine of office work and the bland personalities that came along with it. This entire process was going to be an adjustment for him.

Nanami walked you out of the bakery, giving you a start date of next Monday to go over recipes for a soft reopening. He watched you go, a small skip in your step and for the first time since losing his mother, his lips curled up into a tiny smile.

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littlemarianah · 1 month

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Okay, just a crazy headcannon about death

Peeta dies very young. At 67 years old.

In the early 60s he began to occasionally leave the door open. Forgetting bread in the oven until it turns to ash. Forgetting Katniss's birthday. He even forgot to take his medicine, which he was always so precise about.

Katniss always denied it. "He's just old... He's just tired..." she used to say. Until in a hot summer, Peeta asked her if the reaping was coming. She didn't believe it, She thought he was just playing with her.

Then Peeta started complaining that the kitchen table couldn't get dirty. "You know my mom doesn't like that." he said. But his mother had been dead for 40 years. Every time they walked down the street he asked Katniss where the old Mellark's bakery was.

"The bombs, dear. Do you remember?” Katniss said.

"Oh, of course, the bombs..." Peeta murmured, pretending to remember.

Katniss wished every day that he would only forget the bad things, but he was slowly forgetting only what she wanted him to remember. He forgot how Willow liked to sleep on his chest when she was a baby and how Rye liked to eat bread dough.

Sometimes he just had a scared, confused look. He whispered in one of his children's ears: "Don't trust Katniss, she's trying to kill me." Other times he would cling to Katnis and beg her not to leave him. And he asked a million times if she really loved him. He asked if she was hungry, he asked if Willow was already sleeping in her crib, he asked if Katniss wanted to leave the bakery closed tomorrow because he was feeling so tired.

"Of course my love. Let's keep the bakery closed tomorrow." she responded with tears in her eyes, knowing that they hadn't opened a bakery in at least 10 years.

At least at night, Katniss was still able to sleep on Peeta's chest, and if she had nightmares, he would squeeze it and say. "I'm here, Katniss. It's jsut a dream." He continued to care for her until the end. He kept asking her to stop crying, that he was okay.

When they were young he had promised her that he would only die when she was already dead, not to make her suffer. But it was not the case. In the end, he seemed to realize he was about to go. There were some lucid moments. He pulled Katniss close and begged her, whimpering.

"Promise me that you will live for more many many years..."

"I promise." she said.

Then Peeta is gone, but his clothes are still in the closet, his cane in place in case he wants to come back. Katniss wishes she had gone crazy, but she remains completely sane. Every day, she wake up and knew exactly where she was and what had happened. Her only moments of madness were when her youngest son entered the room, tall and with blond hair. She almost exploded with happiness until realized that it was Rye and not Peeta.

She lived many years as he wanted, but she did not live the way he would have liked. It was a good thing their children were already grown up because she didn't have the strength to do anything other than eat and sleep.

After Peeta died she stopped having nightmares and started having dreams. A warm house, smelling like bread, with a Peeta who never went to games waiting for her. She began to find comfort in the fact that he didn't had to see her die. Being happy that at least it was his body that decided to get sick and die, not being forced to go. She found comfort in what she could until death took her to him again.

Many years later, when her grandchildren are reunited, she tells him an old story. About a hungry orphan girl and a baker boy with a loaf of bread in his hands.

#the hunger games #thg #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark #sad ending

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warnersister · 4 months

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How the Peaky boys react when you tell them you don’t want children (and they do) -> headcannon📽️🎞️

Tommy🪖

🪖He almost thought he hadn’t heard you. He was driving you both back from a family event in which his nieces and nephews had attended, momentarily leaving you throughout the evening to bond with the young children and get you accustomed to the toddler-side of motherhood, subconsciously assuming that you winked be pregnant with your first by the beginning of autumn this year.

🪖“So, did you enjoy spending time with the children this evening?” He asked, flicking the dead bluntness of his cigarette out of the window, satisfied with the nicotine intake he had received. “Yes they’re lovely, parents must have their hands full.” You say, agreeing with his comments on their admirability.

🪖He put his hand quite far up your thigh and smirked, taking his eyes away from the dirt road momentarily. “When would y’ like to start trying for one of us own?” He asked, expecting excitable gasps but all he could hear was a deafeningly tense silence as you almost wordlessly rejected his question.

🪖“Well?” He creased his brows. You looked away and out of the passenger reader “I hadn’t put much thought into it.” You speak small and quiet, presumably nervous to hear his response. “Well we can start trying as soon as we get home, how’s that sound?” He suggested, lightly tapping your thigh to which you squirmed in the leather seat uncomfortably. “Tommy I don’t think I want children.” The car was suddenly lurched sideways and you were grateful the road was private so your husband was unable to cause a crash. “You what?” He asked, car now stationary and his body turned towards you; understandably dominating the situation.

🪖“I don’t want to be a mother.” You say again, voice a bit more quiet this time but still trying to maintain your confidence in your decision. Tommy examined your face to try find some humour, that you were joking with him. “What do you mean you don’t want to be a mother?” “Well Ada gave me her child and I just didn’t want to hold it” “her” he corrects. “Her. I don’t have any maternal instincts I felt nothing, no admiration, no desire, no want. All I wanted was for Ada to take her baby away.” You tell him, spinning the wedding ring on your finger and biting your lips nervously. “No one knows what to do, no one knows how to handle children” he says, assuming you’re just scared “it’s normal to be scared or apprehensive. Heard that’s just a part of parenthood” he restarted the engine.

🪖“Thomas-” “we’re trying for our child when we get home and that’s final.”

Alfie🧸

🧸You owned a bakery; where you and Alfie had met - he’d walked in off the street one day and surprisingly, you must’ve been the only person in Camden not to recognise him. You’d simply greeted him with a large grin, excited to get a customer while he chatted with you and admired the adrenaline fuelled step as you dashed around your little shop - enjoying the appearance of your youth, definitely him being notable few years your senior. He’d ordered some treats, you even had some treats to offer Cyril who you’d asked wait outside for hygiene reasons. “This, yeah, this thing love, it’s bloody lovely it is… hands of an angel you have” he’d charmed, praising your baking abilities as he enjoyed your bakes. Admiring the blush on your cheeks as he serenaded you with words.

🧸He’d left that day leaving you with a sum heftier than the goods had actually been valued at and promised to return. And return he did, every day without fail at 10 in the morning to treat himself and his pup, offering reiteratively to teach you to make some Jewish deserts as the religious population in London was growing. Until the day you’d agreed, both in the back while you were simultaneously running out to greet customers and back to Alfie. You were kneading dough when you heard the bell chime “you’ve really gotta get your fingers in love, yeah, I’ll show you yeah” and he’d towered over you from behind you guide your hands through the mixture. Then a baby’s cry. “I’ll be back.” You say, hurrying out to greet your guest.

🧸A woman stood with a newborn in pram, looking over your selection. The baby wailed. “Can I help you lovely?” You asked with a gentle smile, not noticing Alfie leant against the doorway behind you, sleeves rolled up and caked in flour as he watched you engage with the customer. “Yes, I’d like-” the baby cried louder “erm” she was evidently frantic, opting to pick the baby up and try to sooth him.

🧸“Oh im sorry i cant think straight.” She apologised, cringing at the noise from the baby. You inhaled, not believing what you were about to do. “How about you pick something, and eat it in and I’ll hold him for you to give you a rest.” You suggested and he nodded almost too quickly. Choosing a dessert and you swapped the sweet treat for money and the babe.

🧸You bounced the young child on your hip as he cooed, enamoured by the new face and was now too distracted to cry. The mother relaxed into a chair in front of the counter and savoured the moment of peace, eventually taking the sleeping boy back and leaving incredibly grateful, Alfie almost unable to contain his love protruding from his chest as you turned back around to continue baking. “Back to work” you joked, walking past him to continue on the dough.

🧸“You’d be a great mummy, y’know sweetness?” He muttered, suggestively. You huffed slightly. “Perhaps” your lips pursed and he stopped you kneading. “What’s ’perhaps’ mean, poppet?” He asked you. “Well I just don’t think I want to be a mum.” The man laughed, assuming you were joking. “What do you mean you don’t want to be a mum? I’m getting old now treacle, I’ve not much time left to have little ones and I’d want them to be yours.” He said, holding your hands in his as you refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Maybe. Not yet.” You mumble, trying to return to work.

Arthur🍺

🍺Arthur had Finn on his shoulders, drunk off his head as he happily paraded his young brother around the Garrison as the party of success roared, Arthur having one too many to drink and now easily excitable.

🍺Finn was happily playing along, bouncing on his brother’s shoulders and clapping to the music drowning out in the background, enjoying the attention he was receiving from the majority of the pub’s inhabitants. Arthur saw you watching the ordeal, bounding over to you to plant a smiley kiss on your lips and you reach up to ruffle Finn’s hair, hidden under your husband’s cap.

🍺“Could have one just like this, what d’ya say love?” He asks, grinning ear to ear but expression faltering when he saw the distaste written all over your own face. He gently took Finn off his shoulders who ran over to John, who processed to spin the body around - scolded by his own wife for nearly pulling the undeveloped youth’s arms off his body.

🍺“Our own little one?” Arthur suggests. You shake your head, small smile. “Not when you keep coming home in a state like this.” You say and his face drops entirely now, sobering up enough to understand the ultimatum you were offering him.

🍺“I will not have children when you come home every day too drunk to think. I will not let our child see his mother carry his father up the stairs because he forgot how to use his own two legs.” You say, pecking your husband’s cheek and offering a disappointed smile before you wondered off to find Polly.

🍺Arthur pondered your words for a moment, before pulling you and grabbing you back towards him, falling to his knees as he promised for stay sober, to get off the drink, he just wanted you to bear him a child.

John🥃

🥃You and John had just gotten married, a marriage you were both unaware of until you were knelt at the alter but still - the two of you had just gotten married and the wedding bells were playing. Neither of you could say you were annoyed with the outcome of this arrangement, neither finding the other unattractive and prepared to attempt to progress in this diversion of your lives.

🥃The reception was a grand festivity, dancing, drinking, celebrating and toasting to the pact and ceasefire between two rivalling families with conflicts decades old. You and John had your dance, him whispering sweet nothings into your ears as if he’d known you all him life and you’d just giggled and blushed and required his advanced with a giddy look upon your faces - like two teenagers in love.

🥃As the evening died down and you’d been escorted to your shared accommodation to last you the night, you finally had a moment of peace and clarity to be able to come to terms with the events of the day, after all, a mere 24 hours ago you were a single maiden merely dreaming of your eventual wedding to a man you’d become enamoured with someday, not a gangster peace pact, but there you stood; having assistance unzipping your dress from your husband John Shelby.

🥃He kissed along your shoulders, to your neck, spinning you around to eventually kiss your lips and continue to consummate your marriage. “How many kids you thinkin’ the ? Five? Ten?” He asked as you lay naked in his arms, a hand drawing gentle cyphers into your skin. “None.” You whisper and his drawings halt and he pulls away from you slightly to be able to look right at you. “That’s not gonna work w’me love. Wanna be dad.” He said, studying the expression on your face. “It’s not that I don’t want to be a mum,” you say - averting his gaze but he caught your chin and drew you back to be unable to look anywhere but him. “But,” he encouraged you to continue. “But my grandmother died in childbirth, as did my own mother. And my sister is coming to the end of her pregnancy and it isn’t looking positive for her either. I don’t want to leave my children without their mummy and my husband without a wife.” You almost whisper, voice cracking as tears gathered in your eyes. John drew you in to offer you a tight and reassuring embrace. “Is it hereditary?” He asked after a while and felt your head shake against his bare torso. “I don’t know. Either genetic or just bad treatment.” You stay in silence for a moment.

🥃“But I’d be willing to try if being a dad means that much to you.” You say, peering up to your new husband whose eyes soften at the admittance. “Well I’ll tell you what, if it was bad treatment no woman of mine would lift a finger while pregnant. You’d stay in bed and I’d cater to your every need, carry you to wherever you need to go. Pay for the best doctor and the best hospital to make sure my woman and my child both leave the hospital alive and well.” He leant his forehead against yours. “I’ll take good care of you if you let me.”

Bonnie🥊

🥊Bonnie always wanted to be a father. Be a dad. Raise his children the true gypsy way with his wife by his side - let them in the audience when they’re old enough to appreciate his fights, falsely tussle with them and let them win as he begged them for mercy and heard their victorious giggled. Oh he couldn’t wait for the day you’d bear his umpteenth child. That day couldn’t come soon enough.

🥊And when he joined the Blinders, he’d fallen head over heels for the young florist who worked tirelessly across the road from the Garrison, carrying Arthur home as Harry locked up shop and he’d still see you working on a bouquet you’d needed for a client the following day. He admired your work ethic and the old fashioned part of him couldn’t help but imagine you working as furiously in a kitchen while you tickled your children for interrupting your cleaning. You’d make a fine wife in his eyes.

🥊And against no wish of his own, one day Isaiah had forced the young lad into the shop with a laugh and you’d peered up at him form over the counted, cutting the final stem off of the roses you were working on before asking how you could be of assistance and you’d be lying if your breath hadn’t caught in your own throat, also - seeing him to-ing and fro-ing from the Garrison with the rest of those Blinder lads and finding his look rather endearing.

🥊“How can I help you?” You asked with a stressed but gentle expression on your face. “How much do you make an hour?” He asked. “I beg your pardon?” You retort, eyebrows creasing at the nerve of the man and you began to question whether your initial judgement was correct.

🥊“Sorry, no, I meant how much would it cost me to steal you for a few hours for a date without you loosing profit?”

🥊And the rest was history.

🥊He’d taken you to his fights, to restaurants, to his home with the travellers, even to a couple of family meetings as you’d already been acquainted with the Shelby men buying apology flowers for their spouses for coming home battered and bruised with no contact for a few days.

🥊It was a Tuesday, business was slow but you still had a few orders to finish and being not-bust himself, Bonnie was there to offer a helping hand to his lady. The door chimed but you couldn’t see anyone, confused; you leant over the counter to see a young boy, no older than seven stood there. “Please may I have a flower for my mummy? She’s very sad.” The boy pouted. You hummed. “What flower would you like to give your mummy?” The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out two coins, a button and some lint “whatever flower this may get me, if you please miss.” You nod and hand the boy a small bouquet of daisies with a bow to hold them together. The lad grinned and thanked you, offering you his pocket change and you shook your head. “All you owe me is your mummy a smile.” You say and he promises, running back out of the shop.

🥊Bonnie came up and hugged you from behind, leaving a long kiss on your cheek. “You’re awfully good with children, darling girl” he compliments and you scoff. “Yeah sure.” You roll your eyes and go back to your previous activity. And Bonnie’s dream world came crashing down around him as he realised your intentions.

🥊“What? Don’t want little ones?” He asked, keying as to why you’d be unable to offer him an heir. “No because I can’t deal with sick, I can’t deal with whining, I can’t deal with crying and I can’t even take care of myself for crying out pigs. How do I take care of a child?” You shake you head, as if the man was daft.

🥊“But with our child, it would be different.” He says and you look up at him noting the sincerity and desperation in his look. “Maybe when we’re married or something.” You disregard. He shakes his head. “Why not now?” “I have a flourishing business and I’m not just leaving it all to be a wife and mother and traveller.” You say, inhaling sharply and he frowns. You will come around eventually. He bargains with himself mentally.

Isaiah♟️

♟️You and Isaiah were upstairs in the Shelby household, getting a few moments of blissfulness together before the rest of your family returned. Especially your twin Finn, who was still unknowing about the blossoming relationship between you and Isaiah.

♟️Isaiah was kissing all up your body, a starved man delving hungrily at his first meal in weeks, leaving piercing bite-sized bruises in places for his eyes only. Places he’d see when he’d draw you a bath after you’d finished doing the Devil’s bidding in your frequenting sinful tango.

♟️The boy thrust into you at a desperate pace, eager to fuck you out in a matter of minutes and prove just how desperate you could be for him, just how quickly he could make you cum under the pressure from his cock and his thumb rubbing quick circles around your clit, mouth silenced by his own as he kissed you passionately.

♟️He pulled back, clawing his fingers into your hips as though you were trying to get away from him - but if anything you were trying to get closer, go reach that release you so desperately craved. “Going to fuck my baby into you. Fill you full with my child.” He promised, thrusting deep and skilfully. You shook your head. “No Isaiah.” His pace didn’t falter but he looked up at you, grabbing your jaw and squeezing your cheeks as if fucking you dumb. “No?” “No.” You say between smushed cheeks. “Don’t want no kids.”he chuckled. “Too late.” And he continued working on his promise, and you were too high on pleasure to argue any further but when he came inside you it seemed all to real, his hand over your mouth to stifle your cries as you came all over him and him inside you.

♟️“Isaiah I don’t want children.” You say in tears, trying to catch your breath but his weight on top of you was too much and he was still buried too deep, desperate not to waste a drop.

♟️“You’ll bare my children whether you like it or not, doll.” He says, stroking your cheek. “Then they’ll have to let me marry you, won’t they?”

Michael🎱

🎱Michael loved parading his fiancée. He’d proposed in a place so public, so romantic, so endearing… how could you ever say no to your charming Michael?” The rock on your finger was substantial despite the promise you’d made him make to not waste his money on some piece of jewellery, but he’d argued that piece of jewellery showed what was his so he’d have to make his as obvious as possible.

🎱And one afternoon he’d found himself free from any Blinder work, able to take you out and dined you at the finest afternoon tea he could find, drinking as his hand lay comfortably on your thighs as you engaged in wholesome chatter about your future together. Discussing a home in the country, him leaving the family business or at least doing the work needed to be done in the green hills of the Peak District.

🎱“-and you’ll make a lovely mother-” he continued but you stopped him “wait, mother?” You cut him off and he nods, nearly confused. “Well yes. Once we get married you’ll leave your job and I’ll lay for that pretty little house you want and you’ll cook and clean and you’ll bare my children.” He instructed, as if reeling off some old fashioned fairytale his adoptive mother had told him of as a child.

🎱“Michael I don’t want to be a mother.” You say, nearly afraid of him. “Well we can start small. Have one and then we can decide how many more we want from there.” “And if I don’t want more” “then we’ll settle with a son. Raise him.” “And what if it’s a daughter?” You ask. “See.” He grits his teeth. “Already thinkjng about gender. You obviously care. You’re just scared.” “Michael-” “you are my woman. You will bare my children and do your duty as a lady. End of discussion.”

Finn🎞️

🎞️Finn was head over heels in love with you since you’d started working at the Garrison that one evening in late June. Harry had hired you after you’d lied about your age, and at this point you’d guessed he’d figured it out by now: he was a smart man, but you’d ran away from home and this job was the only form of income or stability you had supporting you and this crumbing life you were trying to withhold. Well, that and Finn’s arm constantly around your waist - ignoring your numerous rejections until eventually managing a date with you.

🎞️The young Shelby smirked at you from across the room, enjoying the sight of you limping around the bar - sore from last night antics. You were staying with the Shelby family, in Finn’s room, where he was determined to take your virginity and bed you in some dark, twisted fantasy. Pump you with his heir so you couldn’t deny him once more, plus the thought of you plump with a child was mouthwatering and he couldn’t wait to see it.

🎞️You’d started the evening quickly, desperate to rip each other’s garments of and clothes pray after you’d sinned to the devil, advocating for his anti-christian tango as Finn fucked you fast into the sheets. You’d done it iteratively, falling asleep only to be woken up by the boy kissing down your back only to lazily thrust into you again with tired eyes. He’d done it three or four times, until the morning when you’d woken up, his cock still buried deep in your velvety walls, a mixture of both of yours productions pooling onto his bed as he tried to act as a cork to not waste a drop of his productivities.

🎞️So he thoroughly enjoyed the sight, and the falsely-annoyed side glances you’d shoot his way when you were presented with the opportunity.

🎞️It wasn’t out of the ordinary to see new faces in the garrison, well they came every day; whether they be travellers passing through Birmingham or illegal businessmen there to drink and tussle before being thrown out. It was a nightly occurrence. And you expected nothing less this evening.

🎞️It was eight o’clock in the evening on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffling in other than the Shelby family who had already been seated an hour prior. “What’re you drinking?” An unidentifiable voice asked and you spun go see a man you didn’t recognise, age substantially your senior as he grinned rotted teeth at you.

🎞️“I’m not drinking. I’m serving, however may I offer you Shelby Gin?” You offer, trying to be polite. “I’ll take whatever you’d recommend. I’ll have you if you’re on the menu.” You grimace and poor him a glass, attempting to move on with your shift, unbeknownst to your dance partner seething with rage at the conversation and seeing red fury at a man trying to converse with a Shelby reserved girl.

🎞️He’d asked for a refill, and when you were topping up his drink, he’d reached across the bar to grab your bosom. And before you’d managed to fathom the situation, Finn had lurched across the room and tackled the man, who was laying on the floor clutching his bloodied, broken nose adjacent to Finn who’s knuckles were bruised and dirtied. “How dare you fucking touch her? Touch my pregnant missus? I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’piece of shit.” And after a few more rough punches and kicks the man was kicked out into the blistering cold of a harsh Birmingham winter, Finn rounding the bar to hug you and calm down slightly.

🎞️Soon everyone was congratulating your pregnancy and asking when the wedding was and after a while you’d managed to pull Finn to the side and question these praises “why did you say I was pregnant? I’m not. And even if I was you know my views, I’m not keeping it.” “I had Polly read your leaves when you had tea this morning. Fucked ya again and again to make sure of it. You ain’t leaving me when you’re pregnant and you certainly ain’t killing my child.” He said, kneeling to kiss your stomach with an evil glint in his eye.

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mommieswithmuscles · 4 months

Text

EllAbs x Baker!Reader

Free Palestine, don't support Neil

No Minors and No men

CW: Joel lives, Abby leaves the WLF and winds up in Jackson, slow burn, eventual smut, world and relationship building for the first few chapters, read the poll prompt tagged here for context

Title: Sugar Free (1)

You watch Ellie and Dina rush down the street with a few other scouts. You were on your way to the cafeteria to drop off the lunch bread before starting the dinner load when they tore off. "What's going on?" You park the lined wheel barrel with Maria and the kitchen cooks.

"Joel and Tommy went missing." Maria braces herself on the counter. You pass her a special bag from your pack. She takes the bagels graciously.

"I hope they come home safe." You help the kitchen staff unload the still warm loaves and bagels. You then run back and grabbing the birthday fruit pies you made for a few of the kids' birthdays that landed on this day. You wanted to be sure their families had a good time with them.

You always keep a pot of hot chocolate ready for the local kids running around and playing in the snow. A few run in and laugh, calling out to ask if you're in. You bring out the coco and fresh soft pretzel snacks you try to keep on hand. They thank you politely before taking seats Ellie helped you restore at the newly stabilized tables.

"Are you staying warm?" You bring in little cups of freshly done cheese dip. A recipe one of the mother figures from your old settlement taught you.

"We try, then Ellie and Dina rough us up," one of the boys pouts. You brush the snow off his cap.

You clean up after the kids, starting your last batch for the day. Ellie special requested bagels. You take the small hike back to your house down the street from the bakery. You clean with soap and warm water, running your cleaned glass shard over the fuzz starting to come back over your mound. One last wash and rinse before jogging back to the bakery in a clean change of clothes.

You start the dough, thinking of Ellie's boobs as you knead it. Yes, you were jealous of the kiss she shared with Dina, but you knew she would always come back. She was as addicted to you as you were of her. She wouldn't ever admit it, but the way she lets you pin her against the wall in your bedroom says more than enough.

You shape the dough into rings, yank your pants down, spread your juice on the dough, then drop them on the baking shovel before putting it back in the stone oven.

It's dark when they get back. You shut down the shop and left the bagels on your counter for Ellie to collect. You were waiting in the seating area when she rode up, Shimmer waiting patiently as she retrieved her goods. "We have a new girl. WLF escapee."

"That sounds interesting. Where did you find her?"

"Joel and Tommy picked her up from a hoard. We helped clean up." Ellie smirks, shrugs like it was nothing. "It was awesome."

"I bet you were awesome," her cheeks flush and you fix her ruffled collar. "So, you and Dina?" Her head tilts, the smug look gone.

"So uh, you saw that, huh?" Her feet shuffle.

"I did. Was it a one off, or are you taken now?" You cup Ellie's cheek so she keeps her eyes on you.

"It was a one off. I um, I liked it, but her and Jesse are probably getting back together. So um, yeah." Ellie scratches her jaw. You watch her long fingers pick at the skin.

"I'll make you breakfast. Early shift?"

"Sounds- Yeah, sounds great!" Her lips tug upward, but you can tell she's forcing the smile. You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her cheeks are red again.

"See you then cutie," you wink, drop your hand so it slides down her shoulder and bicep, and let her leave flushed.

Ellie comes in as you're working on the breakfast bread. You made her a special loaf to munch on for the road. Behind her is who you assume is the newbie. "Goodmorning ladies," you greet politely. Ellie takes her bread with a wave, running to her horse and Joel.

"Morning," the tall blonde greets. "I'm Abby." You offer your hand, she shakes it firmly.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl," you smile. She's taken a back, scoffs.

"Shut up," she turns, but you catch the blush on her cheeks.

"Make me," you challenge. She glares, but says nothing. "Come sit, have something to eat. You must be starving, you got here long after the kitchen closed." You bring her a fresh loaf from the heated stone.

#no men allowed #no minors allowed #abby anderson #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby tlou2 #abby the last of us 2 #abby x reader #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie tlou2 #ellie the last of us 2 #ellabs x reader #ellabs #ellie x reader #from the river to the sea palestine will be free

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gloomwitchwrites · 5 months

Text

Burnt Bread

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, family issues, established relationship, alcohol

Word Count: 2.4k

After being left to fend for yourself in your father's bakery, you end up making a massive mistake that earns his ire. Fleeing, you find comfort with the one person who you're utterly safe with.

A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”

You glance up from the sticky dough beneath your hands and find your father near the door. He sways on his feet slightly as he attempts to tug on his coat. “I’m leaving” is just another way of telling you that he’s off to drink, and by the look and smell of him, he’s already started for the day.

It wasn’t always like this, and it’s only become worse over the years. Following your mother’s death, your father’s reliance on mead has become a crutch, a vessel for his loneliness. It doesn’t matter that you are alive and here for him.

While you don’t entirely resent him for falling into this state, the frequency of it does worry you. Worse, it’s driving a wedge in your relationship with him. He’s becoming distant and detached. His frequent disappearances leave you alone to take care of the shop and everything that goes along with it. It’s not difficult, and you enjoy the work, but when the shop is busy, you can’t always keep an eye on things.

You’re starting to grow tired of this, and you don’t want to feel resentful of your father. You’ve always loved him, even on the days when he comes home stumbling.

“For how long?” you ask flatly, trying not to sound upset that he’s departing yet again. This is the fifth day in a row your father has left the shop in the morning to drink. You fail, a little indignation creeping into your tone.

Your father hears it because he scowls in your direction. “Don’t know,” he mutters, as he teeters toward the door.

There is no final goodbye or backward glance. The shop door slams shut, and tears begin to form in the lower lids of your eyes. Brushing them away with the back of your hand only dusts your cheeks with floor.

This constant distance is tiring.

Putting all your frustration into kneading the dough on the table, a little bit of that steam begins to cool. Once you’ve had enough, and your arms ache, you cut and shape the dough, setting it aside to rise.

The bell above the door rings as the first customer of the day steps inside. And then it begins.

This is why you miss your father in the mornings. Everyone loves seeing your face. They appreciate your kind smile and helpful attitude. Most days, your father is nursing a hangover and keeps to himself, leaving you to take care of everyone that walks in. But without him, you’ll need to do both.

The front of the shop quickly packs with people. You’re so busy taking orders and wrapping bundles of freshly baked bread, that at first you don’t smell the slight hint of char in the air. It’s only when you finish helping a customer that you catch a whiff of it.

The older woman’s nose crinkles in confusion, and while she says nothing, her reaction gives you pause. Inhaling, you consider the scents in the shop, grouping them into different categories. There’s sugar, butter, and—

Your eyes widen, and then you’re rushing to the large stone oven at the back of the shop. “Oh no. No no no no.” Grabbing the large, wood paddle off the wall, you hurriedly scoop up and toss the bread onto the nearby table.

Some are perfectly toasted but others, like the ones closest to the fire, are charcoal. You slide the paddle in and retrieve a loaf that is entirely on fire. In your surprise, the paddle and bread fall to the floor.

They both clatter loudly and you drop to your knees, using your apron to smother the burning bread. The tears fall easily, and the heat from the apron is hot and irritating, but you put it out. You’re so absorbed in trying to salvage what you can, that you don’t realize where the wide part of the paddle is.

Your hand goes out and connects with it. You jump back with a light cry, cradling your palm. The paddle is wood and not metal, which is some comfort, but your left hand is throbbing.

The bell above the door rings, and you glance up, eyes wide and frightened like a deer.

“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.

Your father is back, and you can smell the sourness from here. He half-sways, half-limps around the counter to where you’re kneeling. His pupils are wide, and he has to lean on the countertop for support. That yellow gaze roams over you, to the burnt bread on the floor, and then back to you again.

“You stupid girl,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “You stupid stupid girl!”

This is the part of him you dislike the most. When he’s deep in his cups, all kindness is gone.

“I’m so sorry, father. We were busy and I didn’t realize—”

“Do you know how much you’ve cost us? This is two dozen loaves.” He picks one up and throws it at your face. His aim is terrible and completely off. All you have to do is bend a bit and it sails right over your head.

“Father—”

“Do you do this to me on purpose?”

“Father. Please—”

“Every day I have to look upon your face and see your mother. A daily reminder that she is gone!”

“Please,” you beg softly, staring down at your hands.

“Get out!”

You bolt up and rush out the door, nearly knocking over an elderly woman about to walk inside. You run and run until you pass through the gates of Edoras, stopping only when you make it to the burial mounds of the kings. You fall to your knees and then onto your back, staring up into the sky.

It’s morning, but overcast, the clouds a stormy gray like they’re ready to cry and join you in your sorrow.

There is only one person who could give you comfort, but he is not here. He is gone, expected back today but you’re not sure when. Even if you were to wait for him, you’re in no state to greet him. Éomer should see you happy when he returns, not tear-stained.

No one holds vigil at the burial mounds. This will be your respite. This will be your chance to slow your racing heart and dry your eyes. Once you’re calm, once you’re no longer wishing to flee from this place, you’ll hold vigil at the gates until Éomer arrives. Going back to the shop to face your father is out of the question.

The grass is a soft bed beneath you. Closing your eyes, you press your hands against the earth, splaying your fingers wide, focusing on the individual blades of grass under your palms. This will be your anchor until you can find a bit of peace.

“What are you doing on the ground?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to the right, meeting the amused smile of the man you love.

“Éomer,” you breathe, sitting up to grab at the front of his leather armor. It doesn’t matter that your hands sting, you pull him down onto you wanting his closeness.

His gentle laugh is perfect, and when your mouths meet, everything slips away. Éomer settles between your legs, his forearm resting by your head while his other hand reaches back to grab. He meets bare thigh, and the contact is exactly what you need.

Éomer is real and whole and with you.

The kisses that start with soft excitement quickly become deep and heated. There is a slight harsh bite to his breathing as the two of you presses closer. Your hands slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, but as they crest over the lip of his armor, the tender flesh on your palm screams out.

Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.

Éomer stills and then pulls away from your lips. His head tips downward, glimpsing the burn before you can hide it from view.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone tipping toward concern.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, as the memory of your father comes roaring back.

“It’s not nothing,” he replies firmly, his brow creasing. “Show me.”

Slowly, you unfurl your fingers, revealing your palm. Of everyone in your life, Éomer is the safest.

Éomer’s mouth forms into a deep frown as he clutches your wrist, drawing your hand closer to his face as he inspects the burn. “Did someone do this to you?”

You shake your head. “No. Just grabbed some hot bread. That’s all.”

Éomer sees right through you. “You’ve been crying.”

“It hurts.”

Éomer sighs, gently guiding your hand down to your chest. When he releases your wrist, Éomer reaches out to trace the backs of his knuckles against your cheekbone. “You can tell me if it was your father.”

When the tears start to accumulate in your eyes again, Éomer leans in and lowers his voice. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head. “Not with his fists.”

Éomer’s exhalation is shaky, like he’s trying to calm his own anger. “You’re coming with me.”

“Éomer—”

“You are coming with me,” he repeats. “We will talk, and I will tend to these burns.” When you open your mouth to argue, Éomer shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”

He slowly sits back on his heels and helps you come to sitting. Then he’s on his feet, bringing you with him. Éomer;s horse, Firefoot, grazes nearby.

Éomer’s hands lightly brush away the blades of grass that cling to your skirts. “Would you like to walk or ride back?”

You love Firefoot dearly, but you’d rather take your time arriving to Edoras’ gates. You’re still not calm, and a slow walk with Éomer at your side might just help you find some peace.

“Could we walk?”

He nods. “If that is what you wish.”

Éomer leads Firefoot by the bridle with one hand, and with the other, he clasps yours. He does not push or dig around, but instead moves at the pace you set. Éomer knows your signals without you having to say anything. Instead of inquiring about your father or what happened, he talks about his time away. It gives you a chance to shift mindsets, to focus on him and nothing else.

When the two of you are in his private room, Éomer guides you over to the hearth. He lays out a small nest of furs and gently helps you down on them, taking care not to accidentally brush against the burn. Once you’re seated, Éomer moves to a far corner of the room to remove his weapons and a few heavy pieces of armor. Then he comes back to you, sitting beside you in front of the fire.

“Show me your hands.” Reluctantly, you present them. Éomer frowns down at them. “Tell me again your father didn’t do this to you.”

“He didn’t. I promise.”

Éomer sighs heavily and his hands wrap around your wrists. He gently guides your hands closer, inspecting the burn. It’s only on your left hand, and Éomer slowly releases the one that’s fine. “I’ll have someone fetch some ointment for this and bandages.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.”

You snort and Éomer’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Think I’m incapable?”

“A strong warrior like you capable of such tenderness?” you tease.

His smile softens. “What about all the times I’ve been tender with you?”

Your cheeks heat with the memory. “Not in that way,” you mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“Would you prefer that as well?”

“Perhaps later,” you breathe, heart quickening in your chest.

Éomer lifts your wrist to his mouth, placing a kiss on the pulse point. “I’ll return shortly.”

When Éomer acquires the correct ointment and bandages, he sets to work. He cleanses his hands, scrubbing his nails and between his fingers before he begins. Then, with purposeful slowness, Éomer lifts the injured hand and begins rubbing the ointment into the surface-level burns. They likely won’t blister but they’ll sting for a week or more.

Once the ointment is applied, he unwraps the bandages, guiding it over and around your hand to keep the ointment in place. He ties off the extra and cuts it off with a clean blade, tucking the little bit left into the wrappings. Éomer is overly cautious but it’s sweet.

He is always so gentle with you.

“You spoil me,” you murmur.

“I enjoy it,” he replies, turning your hand over to double-check his work.

A soft sadness creeps in. “One day you won’t.”

Éomer glances up. “How so?”

You shrug as if the words don’t mean anything. “You’ll marry a princess. She’ll beautiful and fair. The people will love her.”

Éomer shakes his head. “Why would I ever want such a thing when I have one right here.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.” Éomer kisses your fingers and gently guides your hand to your lap. In a move so delicate it momentarily steals your breath, Éomer cups your cheek and leans in close. “All I ever want. All I ever need. Is right here.”

Éomer stands before the back door of the shop your father owns. He’s still fuming, but not nearly as much as when he saw your hand. For some time, Éomer has wanted to give this man a piece of his mind. You are precious, and more importantly, you don’t deserve his ire.

The man is a drunk, and everyone knows it. Most show him pity because it all started with the death of his wife—your mother. But that was many years ago, and any pity Éomer felt for the man has long since evaporated.

Squaring his shoulders, Éomer pounds on the door like he’s trying to splinter the wood.

You are still in Éomer’s chambers, curled up in the pile of furs he created in front of the fire. You are sacred to him, the woman he wants above all things. One day, you will be his, and will no longer have to answer to your father.

The drunkard swings open the door. “What?” he growls before he realizes who stands before him.

His eyes widen, and he straightens up, smoothing out the rumbled apron. He fumbles over his words and Éomer holds up a single hand, silencing the man.

“I’m not interested in excuses.” Éomer takes a step into the shop, towering over the man. “If I ever see her in tears again because of you, understand that my next visit will be much less pleasant. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Éomer wants to stay more, but he draws back his rage. He nods curtly, and exits, only wanting to return to you.

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

Text

Forget-Me-Not 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki

Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You spend the night on the couch. You don't go further than the bathroom. You can't bring yourself to check her bedroom or the one you left behind.

You go out to get your bag and change in the yellow haze glowing behind the faded curtains. You check the time. Jan is expecting you in an hour.

You emerge into the dewy morning and tramp down to ground level. You get in the car, reversing out without looking back at the dingy house. The final farewell can't come soon enough for the slanted walls.

Jan is out in the yard, hammering a pineboard as you drive down his lot. His white hair curls with the sweat beading on his skin. He stills the hammer and wipes his forehead as you pull up.

You get out as he greets you in the way all the villagers do. A manufactured friendliness that cannot erase their true judgement. They smile in face just as easily as the mutter your name under their breath. You mother harboured little good will in Hammer Ford and blood is sacred here.

“Sorry to hear,” he says.

“Matter of time,” you shrug dismissively.

“Isn't no way to come home,” he shakes his head and coughs into his fist, “walnut,” he points the hammer over his shoulder, “like ya said.”

Walnut, like the dining table. Where she sat and drank herself into that box. You nod and follow him over to the casket. The hinges are brass and the finish is rough. What does it matter? It's just going into the dirt.

“Got cash,” you say. Jan doesn't deal with the bank, everyone knows that. Funny the little things that stick with you.

“Thanks,” he accepts the bills as you count them out. So much for a rainy day. The sun shine bright as if mocking the grin affair beneath its watch. “I'll have it taken down to Norn's.”

“Yep,” you agree, “she's there.”

You head out without further niceties. Neither of you uphold those. Better to say what you mean and nothing else.

You get to the property line and idle. You turn away from the woods. You're not ready to go back yet.

You stop by the church first. Father Oswald sits with you to discuss the ceremony. You'll say a few words at the grave site. You don't think anyone would come to a wake. You don't want them to.

You set off again, still reluctant to retrace your steps. You drive to the spare core of the village and park outside the library. You cross the street and peer in through the window of the bakery. It wasn't there when you left.

You venture inside and peruse the sweets behind the glass. You order a black coffee and a cinnamon bun. You pay the woman behind the counter, vaguely familiar. You're certain she was a few years behind you at school.

You sit and pick at the glazed dough. You don't have much of an appetite. You don't feel much of anything. You're just wading through, try not to get lost in the tide.

You sip the coffee. Bold but rich. Not bad. Better than the instant powder gone stale in your mother's cupboard.

The door opens and shuts, several times over as you stare at the table. The city taught you apathy. You don't let the noise bother you.

The chair across from you slides out and a figure plants themselves on the seat. You raise your head, your vision narrowing to make sense of their features. You turn your head to gaze out the window as Loki blows over the top of a mug.

You slide out your phone, a defence mechanism. Still no reception. You put it down and keep your attention diverted. He clears his throat and taps his toe next to yours.

“You know, I do have an important matter to discuss with you,” he says.

You don't react. You know that's what he wants. That's why he showed up the night before. He undoubtedly insisted on being his clan’s representative.

“You've sent your condolences.”

“Mm, yes, but that isn't what I mean,” he traces his finger up the handle of his mug. “The house.”

You lower your brows and keep your eyes beyond the window. The village moves slow as ever. Not like the endless flow of the city streets. There's no where to hide here.

“My father has an offer. The property has value.”

You check your cup, almost empty. You swig the last of it. You stand and gather the cup and unfinished dessert. You put the porcelain on the counter and toss the cinnamon bun on your way out.

The door doesn't close behind you. He's following you. Your heartbeat piques. In an instant, you're hurled into the past. You're running through broken twigs as he snickers behind you. You ball your hands as your breath hitches.

You cross the street without looking, only just dodging a bumper. You go to your car, fumbling with your keys. Before you can stick them in the slot, there's a snare around your arm.

You spin and shove Loki off of you, biting down on a shriek. You glare at him and point the key at his chin.

“Not interested.”

“My father will give you more than the bank,” he counters.

“Don't care.”

He sniffs and quorks his head, “is this because I never called?”

You choke on a scoff. You turn and ram the keys in the slot and twist. You open the door as you step around it. The edge hits him as you swing into the driver’s seat.

“The house is worthless. The bank will give you pennies for the land.”

“Go tell your daddy you failed,” you sneer and yank the door shut, hitting the lock with your fist.

You start the engine without a glance in his direction. You pull put as he barely avoids getting his toes run over. Just as ever, this village belongs to the Odinsons. They won't have to pay the bank much to get what they want but you will never sign your name next to theirs.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #drabble #au #backwoods au #series #thor #avengers #mcu #marvel #forget-me-not

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kangnina · 11 days

Note

I read the drabble it was amazing but can I get a longer one please like I said 🥺🫶🏻

Sure. I hope you like it! 😁 Drabble based on this request.

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When Jake suggested baking treats at your bakery for Mother's Day, you couldn't resist. The guys all set to work following your instructions for the perfect cookies. Everything is made from scratch. You watched Jake struggle to get the consistency of his batter just right. His veiny hands kneading it softly. Deft fingers, pressing the cookie cutter into the doughas he casually chats with Jay about a hilarious video he saw on Tik Tok. You didn't even realize you were staring at his hands until he waves one in front of your face.

"Is anybody home?" he jokes, as you snap out of your spell. He reaches around you for the rolling pin. His hands brushing yours as he asks if he's doing it right. Even laying his hands on top of yours are you knead your own ball of dough. The rest of the group eventually leaves their creations with you to be baked in your industrial oven. Jake offers to help you put the finishing touches on everything and clean up. Pink frosting on his finger tips. "I'm so messy," he says turning to go wash his hands. You stop him, taking his hand in yours "Let me help." You pull his hand to your lips, licking the frosting off his fingers, slowly. One by one. Your eyes locked on his. "Fuck," Jake whispers, his eyes widening as he bites his lip. "Your other hand looks a little lonely," you say, grabbing it and putting it on your breast. Not caring that he's covering your blouse with icing. He squeezes it. Jake swallows hard as you moan around his fingers. He picks you up and puts you on the countertop.

You spread your legs and he pulls your panties aside with his right hand, slipping two fingers into your wet pussy. He reaches for the bowl of icing with his left, scooping a dallop onto his fingers before sticking to fingers back into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them and he pushes them deeper into your mouth. "You like having your holes filled with my fingers, don't you?" You nod. Pussy clenching as drool runs down your chin. Jake speeds up the hand currently abusing your pussy. He sinks another finger in. Bending them to beckon your orgasm. You moans turn to gags as he begins finger fucking your mouth at the same pace. "That's it. Good girl. You're so close. I can feel it." He coos. Your body is trembling. Mind turned to mush as you cum on his fingers. Jake smiles removing his fingers from your cunt. He greedily licks them. "You' definitely taste much sweeter."

#Jake smut #enha smut #enhypen smut

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mysteria157 · 4 months

Text

Chapter 5

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Word Count: ~4.3k

CW: Profanity, mentions of mental health (anxiety)

Summary: You want nothing to do with him. Nanami wants to make the right decision.

Notes: Hi! Thank you all for taking the time to read. Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated but not necessary <3 I hope you enjoy reading!

Divider: @cafekitsune

Previous Chapter | Ao3 | Next Chapter

It Had To Be You Masterlist

“Uncle Ken don’t ruin the bread! Daddy made it special!”

At four years old, Aiko Haibara was full of wit, attitude, and a curiosity about the world that would rival anyone else her age. While she inherited her mother’s hazel eyes, they were large and full of passion just like her father. She was his carbon copy in almost every way, always fostering his outgoing behavior and never leaving his side. She hung on her father’s shoulders; small chubby hands buried in deep brown bowl cut locks as a tether. Her father studied Nanami, his normally bright and wide smile subdued and apprehensive.

Yu Haibara was the epitome of happiness, joy, and confidence. Even though a few inches shorter than Nanami, his personality compensated for the difference. He was everything Nanami wasn’t. Cheerful and extroverted in a way that would make most nauseous, it should have made someone like Nanami feel the same. Since high school Haibara stuck to him like glue, always interested and questioning, always wanting to know about his family and his hobbies or why he parted his hair in such a harsh way that would surely garner teasing looks from others.

“But its like you make yourself look broody on purpose!”

It never made sense. Haibara never made sense.

But he was kind and perceptive in a way that made him the perfect person for judging character. Nanami had always thought there was an ulterior motive; maybe become his friend to get closer to Gojo and Geto for popularity gain. It had happened to him before with countless others.

But eventually he realized that Haibara was simply…a good person.

So they formed a solid friendship as they matured through high school and college. Haibara used their mutual love of food and reality tv to his advantage with the entire collection of Chopped and Jersey Shore in return for becoming roommates. He became Nanami’s moral compass when faced with tough decisions; always a sharp reminder to not be so pessimistic about life.

He was there for Nanami through every breakup, every argument with his parents, every promotion throughout his career. And in turn, Nanami remained by his side as Haibara navigated through culinary school, becoming a willing test subject for new breads and desserts until he was confident enough to open his own bakery. He was Haibara’s best man, the godfather of Aiko, and his very best friend. He had wormed under Nanami’s skin and forced himself to understand the blonde. And it worked.

So Nanami tried to ignore his friend’s stare as he picked at his sweet bread, long fingers pulling apart the soft and sticky cooked dough as he ate piece by piece in silence. The pastry was featherlight and still warm, his favorite snack always crafted just for him and yet he was allowing it to fall apart on the glass table all three of them sat outside of Haibara’s bakery.

“Uncle Ken! The bread!”

Aoki’s sharp voice pulled him out of his thoughts as he offered her a small smile, shoved the rest of the treat into his mouth and yanked her from atop Haibara’s shoulders before pressing sticky lips into her cheek and blowing hard. She squealed loudly, arms flailing and giggles pealing into the Fall air.

Haibara’s cheerful voice was soft, concern laced between syllables as he watched Nanami and his daughter interact.

“Aiko, can you go check on Mommy for me?”

She grumbled but conceded, letting Nanami drop her to the ground before sprinting away on small, unsteady legs. She disappeared into the small bakery, the glass doors shutting softly behind her before Nanami directed his attention back to his friend.

“Tell me or I’ll remove sweet bread from the menu indefinitely.”

“Threatening me won’t work.”

Haibara didn’t respond, dark brown eyes unrelenting as he gazed playfully at his best friend. Nanami should have known to give up; Haibara had long ago unlocked his weakness for sweet bread. The recipe was personally crafted, weeks of different versions forced down Nanami’s throat until one day Haibara recognized his golden ticket when his best friend finished the entire treat without complaint. He refused to give Nanami the recipe and it was probably for this exact reason right now.

A trump card.

Nanami exhaled slowly, trying his best to ignore the curdling of anxiety in his gut.

“When you and Kaya were expecting, how did you react?”

Haibara tilted his head in confusion, a hand scratching the side of his scalp before he chuckled shyly.

“Why? Am I going to be a godfather?” The glare that Nanami shot his friend’s way could have cut through glass, hard and unyielding but covered in a veil of nerves that made Haibara give up teasing any further.

“I wanted a family. Even in high school, it was something I always envisioned. But when she told me…I didn’t exactly have the reaction she was hoping for. Probably not my proudest moment. But I was terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Failing.” Haibara absentmindedly traced patterns into the crystal clear glass of the table they both sat at. “Not being mature or intuitive or just…there for her. It terrified me but at the end of the day, when I saw Aiko for the first time, nothing else mattered. Things kind of fell into place—at least they did for me—as I watched Kaya grow something we both created.”

Nanami hummed in reply, trying and failing to ignore the wrecked state of his mind. It had been a long time since he last felt this way. Out of control of his life, confused and helpless.

Scared.

He was normally so put together and aware of everything around him, capable of thinking rationally in a way that would leave no room for error. He was an expert at separating the intricacies of his personal life with the demands of work life. He had perfected it years ago and it served him well, helped him get to where he was now.

But in the course of six weeks, his entire life had turned on its side.

“Kento.” Haibara’s voice was more insistent as it echoed in his ears, slicing through the wind as the cool air wrapped around them. “While I love pestering you until you have a fit, I’m worried.”

Nanami bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to make his brows furrow in pain, the faint tinge of copper exploding on his tongue. He knew Haibara wouldn’t judge. It wasn’t in his nature.

It took Nanami many long tortuous seconds to speak, but when he did, it all came out. His mouth spilled every detail of his encounters with you, every argument and disagreement, every detail of how you carried yourself at work, his frustration at your eagerness to not let things be, and the confusing attraction he held for you within a matter of hours after first meeting you. You had a tenacity that others around him lacked. You weren’t afraid to speak up or challenge those around you. It pulled him closer just as much as it drove him insane.

You both clearly held a sort of intense lust that had been dampened with every interaction until alcohol had lowered both of your inhibitions enough to give into temptation.

And the result had Nanami in shambles.

“Is this something you want?”

Despite the circumstances of how this came about, there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to be a father. He had never given it much thought as to how he would go about it. Marriage had been a vague dream. Working until he had enough spare income for a quiet life on an island was his ultimate goal. If a partner fit into that equation, then he wouldn’t turn it down and the same went for a child.

“It is. But she won’t answer my calls or messages.”

You had every good reason not to. You truly did.

“Give it time. I’ve never met her, but from how you describe her, I don’t see her as someone who would keep you out of the picture the entire pregnancy. She’s upset, give her a little space before reaching out again and go from there.” Nanami could feel the subtle pricks of a headache manifesting in the back of his skull. Haibara was right, he knew he was.

“I’m going to say something, and I want you to actually listen…I know when it comes to your work, you try to keep things as they are to avoid what happened with Yuji in the past. But it’s not your call to decide the direction of the company.” Nanami opened his mouth to protest and was immediately interrupted. “Just because people who want the best and work hard to be the best does not mean they have an ulterior motive. That’s not how everyone thinks. You’ve just had shit luck.”

“Yu—”

“You’ve spent your entire career doing only what’s strictly necessary to make your day easier. That doesn’t mean that those who want more are wrong. To me it just sounds like you’re doing something you hate just to exist because the perks are nice. Yuji looks up to you, and the last thing you would ever want to teach him is to simply ‘get by’.”

Hearing the words come from his friend’s mouth brought a sharp pang of something he had been trying to ignore for weeks now. He was wrong and had immediately judged you based on past experiences. He had pulled up a wall to keep you and everyone else before you away to avoid making his work life harder and hurting Yuji again.

He thought it was necessary, he wanted to prevent another mistake.

How big of a mess this all was.

The bakery door burst open, the patter of Aiko’s footsteps hitting the pavement hard as she crawled into Nanami’s lap. She held up a small juice box, the straw still encased in clear plastic and glued to the box as she pushed it harder into Nanami’s chest. His chest fluttered as he looked down at her, imagining a daughter with deep brown eyes staring up at him instead, her mother’s loose curls framing chubby cheeks.

“Make things right with her. It’s going to take time, but you need to try.”

Nanami nodded, not looking up at his friend as he took the juice box from Aiko and assembled it for her. Her sweet voice thanked him, grabbing the beverage before she nestled her back into his chest and laid her head against the soft fabric of his shirt.

“You’re miserable at that job. Do something you love for once Kento. Come work with me. You love to bake. I could have you as a co-owner in days.”

Nanami didn’t respond, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he tried hard not to entertain the thought. He could do it. He could finally give into his dream and just do something he enjoyed for a living.

“I’ll give you the sweet bread recipe?”

He snorted, shaking his head as he combed his fingers through his goddaughter’s hair.

***

It took you a week to acknowledge that being back in the office was making you bitter. You were still involved with the joint project with Tokyo, but without the co-lead position, you had become a usual blur in the background. You would only be involved at certain stages in the project that warranted a marketing specialist.

Even though you had worked hard, it still wasn’t enough. You didn’t have enough experience like other specialists.

Always so close to something and still so far away.

Jin had apologized profusely for the fiasco in Tokyo, his eyes particularly soft as you offered him a calm but straight expression. Even though you knew the decision to remove you was not his, the sight of embarrassment etched into his features as he apologized made you feel a little better.

You requested two weeks off as soon as Jin stopped talking. He was shocked at first, but from the look of resignation on your face, approved the request instantly.

Yoyogi was a two hour train ride from Sendai and home to your uncle who was the only extended family you had in the country. He was ecstatic the minute you informed him you would be in town and had insisted you stay with him. It would be nice to get away and just not think about everything else for a week or two. You hadn’t taken a vacation in years, content to work and work and work to get where you needed.

A lot of good that was doing.

The gentle buzzing of your phone made you blink, your eyes pulling from the tress that were quickly passing by the train window.

1 Unread Message- Nanami Kento

Nanami Kento: Are you available? I would like to talk, if you’re willing.

You locked your screen and shoved your phone back into your purse. An entire week since your hurtful argument with Nanami and a satisfying slap later, he had called over 50 times and left just as many messages.

You ignored every single one.

You knew you couldn’t keep this up. Despite how angry you were…you didn’t have the animosity to ignore him like this for the next nine to ten months.

You would answer him eventually. Until then, every alert would go unanswered unless he was at death’s door.

Your uncle wasn’t home when you dropped your things off. He had a modest house in a small suburb in Yoyogi that was decorated in an eclectic style that echoed his personality.

Various styles of art scattered his walls from artists all around the world; paintings, photographs, and even textile pieces. The forest green sectional in the living room was covered in throw pillows of different colors and textures. His window nook which had always been your favorite place to read as a child was filled with thick pillows and blankets, ready to be used.

Tables with curved corners, a kitchen with backsplash that traversed the entire wall it rested on, a gas oven painted a sharp navy blue, and plants of almost every variety made up the home of your Uncle Rory.

When he wasn’t home during the day, he could be found at his ceramic studio just a few blocks away from the neighborhood and breaking into the city.

It had been open since you were a child and was one of the few places you spent your time in the summer. The entire studio was filled with crafts of his own over the years and even some that had been gifted to him. His work was vast; terracotta statues, stoneware bowls and cups, bone china dishes that had been painstakingly painted. This entire place was his pride and joy.

The man himself, was wheel throwing, his broad form hunched over a spinning metal wheel as his dark hands molded itself around the beginnings of a vase. His long two strand twists were tucked into a low bun in an effort to stay out of his face.

“Can I finish it?”

He looked up at you, genetic brown eyes catching before he smiled softly, the faint hints of crows feet showing on the sides of his lids.

Rory moved away while the wheel still spun. You pulled on an apron and rolled up your sleeves before slotting yourself in the now vacant chair, your small hands beginning to caress the wet clay as the muscle memory of molding took over.

You both talked idly as you worked, adjusting the motor of the wheel intermittently and using your wet hands to press into the clay softly, watching it carefully as it gave under pressure and began to bend with the direction of your hands.

It had been so long.

Before work took over your life and all you wore were pencil skirts, blazers, and crisp blouses, you used to have the extra time to throw on well-worn baggy pants and shirts and hunch yourself over a pottery wheel or painting easel for hours at a time.

“I’ll make curry tonight.”

He didn’t leave any room for argument in his statement. He knew it was your favorite and would make it for you in the summer on days where the anxiety was too heavy on your bones. Or when your mother never stopped calling to ask when you were coming home. Or even during that terrible month after your longest relationship fell apart.

Curry was always an antidote to make you smile and open up. Unlike your mother, he could read you like a book.

You sighed, dipping a soaked sponge into a small bowl of slurry water next to you before you gently pressed against the clay, watching the material slowly start to shine again.

“You’re gonna judge me.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat, ignoring the way it pressed against your esophagus as it slid back into your belly, melting and brewing into nausea. You didn’t look up at him as you began to talk, pouring all focus into your work as you used a wooden rib to shape the sides of the vase a little more smoothly.

He listened intently, passing you tools and watching you slowly craft the vase into something of your own creation. You blinked away the tears before they could bubble and fall over your lashes, the disappointment and anger at Nanami resurfacing as you wrapped up the most recent events with him.

He spoke up immediately. “As my sister, I love your mother. It’s a connection that I am glad to have…but as a person, I don’t really like her.”

You slowed the wheel, looking up at him. You weren’t expecting that to be his first response. To be honest, nothing Rory did ever made sense. He went with the flow of everything. He says what he wants in ways that doesn’t hurt others, does what he wants when the desire hits him, and pushes away expectation with an art you had always envied.

“Your grandfather wanted us to be the pinnacle of good breeding. An African American family filled with only successful people, wealth, and status that we could pass down the line. We went to the best schools, had the most expensive tutors, ate what he wanted us to eat, did what he wanted us to do. It was maddening and I always rebelled. Every chance I could take, I fought back, and he despised me for it. Your mother did everything he asked and eventually when I looked at her, he was all I saw.”

“You’re like a daughter to me and as you got older, I saw your mother in the way you did things. The college you went to, your career, all of it. But I didn’t want to stop you, you’d hate me.”

He paused, distant eyes on the slowly spinning pottery wheel.

“Honey, it’s fine to just be content in a job. I’m sure to most people it’s not ideal. I agree that how he went about pushing you away was wrong, but it sounds more like you’re disappointed that he didn’t value you and your work specifically.”

“You’re a bright eyed marketing specialist that just wants to be seen.”

“The value you place in your work is not a representation of who you are.”

The words should have been calm and reassuring, but they only felt sharp and painful as you turned on the electric motor, watching the wheel begin to move and roar back to life. He waited a moment longer before speaking again.

“I have been with you for almost every milestone in your life and I love how hard you work. But there are tons of people in this world who are incredible at what they do and hate every minute of it.”

You shook out an unexpectant laugh, shaking your head with a grimace as you began to remoisten the clay with your wet sponge.

“So what do you expect me to do? Quit my job and dedicate my life to pottery and painting? I may love it, but there’s no money in it.”

You bit your tongue as soon as the words left your mouth, shame sliding down your spine as you avoided eye contact with him. You knew you were wrong. Rory was the perfect example in your life of someone who turned their passion into a successful business. He woke up and went to sleep doing what he loved. But your fear of never reaching that same level of success kept you subdued and complacent in something else.

Rory simply chuckled.

“That’s another stupid thing to say.”

You smirked softly as you smoothed your fingers along the top of the vase, shaping the lips in the way you wanted.

“What’s important now is that you talk to Nanami. I understand that you’re upset but you can’t let that fester. At the end of the day, this is about your child now. No one is asking you to move in together, but you won’t know how he feels if you don’t pick up the phone.”

You acknowledged his words in silence, picking up the wooden rib to pull the vase’s walls higher.

The sound of the doorbell later that night startled you, jerking you from your book that you were fully immersed in. Your ears vaguely picked up voices, Rory’s and another that was masculine but too low to distinguish. You didn’t get to turn back to your book when you heard your uncle call out for you.

All thoughts of finishing your novel dissolved immediately when you saw him. Rory looked perfectly fine, hands in his pockets as he held his front door open, stepping to the side to give you a good view of who it was.

The soft brown eyes of Nanami Kento caught yours instantly, the sight making ice cold water douse your veins.

Rory excused himself, rubbing your shoulder as he brushed past you and down the hall, casting the room in silence.

Nanami looked incredibly ruffled—as if he had rolled out of bed unexpectantly. His normally slack covered legs were instead clad in dark jeans, a white hoodie covered a muscular torso and his hair wasn’t parted in its signature style. It was loose, askew as if he had been running his hands through it over and over, wild with bangs falling in front of his eyes. And those eyes were filled with an emotion you had never seen on his face but were familiar with yourself on a personal level.

Anxiety.

Even when looking like a complete mess, he was handsome in a way that made you curse inwardly.

It all clicked together instantly. The quick put together ensemble, untamed hair, shaky features and the fact that it was almost ten at night. Someone told him where you were, and you only needed a second to realize who.

You were going to kick Ome’s ass.

“I tried to contact you…”

It was soft even for him, his voice unsure. His hands were limp at his sides, large pale fingers fiddling with the material of his jeans idly.

You shrugged, crossing your arms over your robe covered chest as you pulled your gaze from his, choosing to focus on the dark wood floors beneath your sock covered feet.

“I didn’t really feel like talking. I’m sorry.”

You wanted to kick yourself, wrap the strings of your robe around your ankles and drag yourself down the pavement as you tried to push away the grimace.

Why are you apologizing to him—

“Please don’t apologize.” Even though you weren’t looking you could feel him fumble for words. “I shouldn’t have—I just wanted to—” He paused, pulling in a shaky breath that made you look up at him. His dark blond eyebrows were furrowed, the skin between them pinched. “What I’m trying to say is that you have every right to be angry with me. I needed a few days to…get over the shock I suppose.”

You dug your fingers into your arms, blunt nails pressing into your skin as your mind flashed with images of his shocked face when you broke the news that day.

“I had my OB-GYN put in a referral for a paternity test if you wanted to be sure.”

“I don’t need that.” He sounded almost angry as he spoke, eyebrows furrowing deeper before what looked like embarrassment colored his face. “I know that you’re not too fond of me right now. But I would like to be involved in this—in the pregnancy. In whatever way you’ll allow.” He cleared his throat weakly, shifting from leg to leg. “Please.”

The ruddiness on his cheeks made him look incredibly shy. He was uncomfortable; ashamed of himself and his behavior and now he was facing the consequences in the form of a beautiful woman that he had judged and hurt to the point where he wouldn’t be involved in his own child’s life.

You could cut through the air with a knife with how thick it was. Tension radiated off you both as you stood in front of each other, not moving, not speaking. The subtle ticking of a clock in your uncle’s kitchen was the only sound in the room.

“Make things right with her. It’s going to take time, but you need to try.”

“At the end of the day, this is about your child now.”

You spoke first, the freezing feeling in your blood melting with each word that slid from your mouth.

“I have a checkup in two weeks. I’ll text you all the details and you can come if you want.”

An olive branch. Skinny and bent with weak spurs, but still an olive branch.

You watched as the tension evaporated from him faintly, his shoulders sagging beneath his hoodie in relief. He blinked twice, blonde lashes fluttering in relief before he swallowed loudly.

“I would like that.”

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typ1calaizetsu-lover · 11 months

Text

zohakuten x gn!reader

❗️ PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING FIRST

❗️ pairings: zohakuten x gn!reader

❗️ warnings (?): sleeping problems, cussing, brief angst between two random unnamed (unless you pick the name) characters, breakup, and maybe fluff.

❗ cuss words will be crossed out.

❗️ characters (briefly/fully mentioned or appeared): zohakuten, sekido, aizetsu, urogi, karaku, muichiro, mitsuri, obanai

❗️ context: y/n (your name) becomes zohakuten's play date.

❗️ extra information: y/n will be 13 years old while zohakuten will be 12. they go to the same middle school and are technically neighbors, but they don't exactly interact.

hantengu will be briefly mentioned, sekido is 19, karaku is 18, aizetsu will be 17, and urogi will be 16.

please excuse my way of writing, if there is grammar errors or i have worded it offensively, tell me IMMEDIATELY.

the characters speaking will be color coded.

y/n will be using they/them/their pronouns so there won't be any problems.

(i am SO SORRY IF U SEE THE C-WORD!)

[r/b/n] (random boy name) is zohakuten's friend who was dating y/n's best friend, [r/g/n] (random girl name]

y/n's eyes fluttered open.

the bakery of their family's was put into view; they saw how bright the place was, how the scent in the air reflected cinnamon and flour, and even sometimes chocolate.

their heart softly beated as they flattened the dough with the roller pin, their forehead wrinkled and their eyes slightly wide to possibly decrease their desire to sleep.

y/n always stayed up late to read their favorite books or to write, and would sleep once they were satisfied with everything. but that has always been a problem, because they'd tend to lose focus and doze off at the wrong time.

their father, obanai kanroji, was always scolding them of this.

obanai is a strict, but a caring father. he was the one who mostly talked to y/n and would listen to their problems, if they had any.

he believed the lack of sleep was due to not going out much unless at school, and he didn't want anything bad to happen to his child.

so he went to talk to his wife, y/n's mother, mitsuri kanroji, about the problem.

"n/n has been suffering of sleeping late, and they can't get anything done right before drifting off to sleep!"

mitsuri is a kind mother, she would do anything, at least one, to make sure her family isn't crumbling.

so the night before, mitsuri had spoken to y/n.

"oh my sweet, i know you love reading and doing the things you adore most at night, but you are lacking sleep, and it's unhealthy, dear. so tomorrow, we will arrange you a playdate, if that's okay with you?"

y/n was amused by this, and hadn't minded at all, though they were also against the idea of having a playdate, but it was too late to protest.

they used to have a playdate; it was a 14 year old by the name of muichiro tokito.

he also went to their school.

soon enough, mitsuri came out from the front desk of the bakery and tapped her child on their shoulder, "y/n, dear? your father will take care of your chores, i'll be taking you to your playdate!"

great.

y/n hummed in response, and then set the roller pin to the side and went upstairs to change.

they just wore a white crop top and brown shorts and moon jelly crocs.

they also brought a bag with them, just in case.

mitsuri and y/n walked down the street from their bakery and stopped at a pretty cool house.

just before their mom knocked on the door, y/n saw a glimpse of the backyard, and was flabbergasted to see a boy, who looked to be 12 years.

he had brown-ish skin, short black hair that spiked upward around his head and narrow gold eyes, he was also wearing a white oversized shirt and black shorts that reached to his knees.

he looked vaguely familiar…

he saw y/n too, and seemed to be as shocked as them.

y/n looked away from his eye and watched their mother speak to an old man whose hair was balding and seemed to have a massive bump on his forehead.

mitsuri waved at y/n and walked back to their bakery, with them just awkwardly entering the home of their playdate.

the old man had gone, but he had given them permission to wander around just before he left.

but as after y/n removed their crocs, four guys appeared from the living room and waved, except for the red one.

one was blue-eyed, one was yellow-eyed, and one was green-eyed.

and behind them was the boy from the backyard.

their playdate.

he was staring at them with his still narrow eyes.

"eyyyyy~ zo, you have a kid older than you as your playdate!"

the green one said, patting y/n on the back and forcing them into the living room.

"it's been sooo loooonnngggg since you even interacted with little shits like them, huh, zo~?"

the yellow one cackled, giving y/n a dabbing hand gesture, to which they returned.

"err.. guys, shouldn't we… you know, introduce ourselves..? it'd be embarrassing.. to not know.. their name… v- very pitiful, indeed.."

the blue one softly spoke, looking sorrowful. the red one rolled his eyes and stepped forward.

"i am sekido, this is aizetsu," he gestured to the blue one, his voice growling. "i'm karaku~" the green one added after.

"and i'm urogi!" the yellow one cheerfully said.

the 12 year old didn't say anything.

after a while, sekido finally said, "introduce yourself, you cunt!"

"i'm zohakuten." he muttered, crossing his arms and looked pissed at sekido.

y/n's eyes became wider at the boy's voice. (and also the fact sekido called him a "c u n t")

it was deep, even for someone one year younger than her! and raspy too.

no wonder he looked familiar; they went to the same school and are in the same grade.

".. i'm y/n."

y/n said with a blank face, looking into zohakuten's glare.

zohakuten stared back.

it was a really tense moment.

they both knew each other, not that they communicated much, but they used to hang out because of y/n's friend's bf being zohakuten's friend.

zohakuten gave them a look of 'don't tell them' which could've meant that don't tell the older ones that they knew each other.

y/n didn't understand why, but they didn't bother telling anyway and gave him a reassuring look.

"soooo, what'cha gonna doo?" karaku tapped his hands onto the couch's surface.

"er.. i'll talk to y/n at the backyard for a bit." zohakuten said.

y/n blinked at surprise. even sekido, aizetsu, karaku, and urogi was stunned at this.

y/n hummed and got off the couch to follow zohakuten into the backyard.

zohakuten opened the clear door for y/n, and as they stepped out, they could hear zohakuten's voice to the other four, "don't you dare try to find out what we're talking about, you fucking weasels!"

y/n approached a chair and settled down, placing their bag on the small table.

it was a neatly decorated patio that was welcoming the yard. they had a swimming pool, (woah, a swimming pool?! are they rich?!), and a trampoline.

still slightly amazed, y/n turned to look at zohakuten and realized his face was just inches away from theirs, and he jumped back at surprise of their sudden turn.

embarrassed at this, he sat down on the chair opposite of them.

y/n, confused, didn't find the fact he was looking at them intensely embarrassing at all, but did not say anything further of it.

".. soo?" y/n raised a curious brow at them, trying to engage conversation after all that happened.

"so." zohakuten repeated, raising a haughty eyebrow at y/n.

"… how has, uhh, [r/b/n] been doing?" they asked, curious. [r/g/n] broke up with [r/b/n] just about a two months ago, and he had been looking empty for the past school days.

sometimes, y/n would pass him in the school hallways and they'd see dark eyebags beneath his eyes, and a slightly red tint in his nose. they wondered if he had been nonstop crying for one month.

"he's.. beyond than okay." zohakuten said reluctantly, "he's getting desperate and devastated every time he sees [r/g/n]. i'm starting to wonder why [r/g/n] just suddenly broke up. they were doing really well.." y/n sighed.

"it confused me too, but [r/g/n] told me she couldn't bear to see [r/b/n] hurt if there were anything to downfall their relationship, so she decided to break up. it was really a hard choice for her, and still misses him, 'but sometimes sacrifices have to be made', she said." y/n scratched their neck.

"it's kind of poetic, don't you think?" they asked the boy, looking at him.

"hm. well, yeah, i guess." he mumbled, "still, it was a bad choice." he said to himself, and recovered immediately when you asked, "what?" "nothing."

"do you- uh, wanna play volleyball? or badminton?" zohakuten suddenly asked, as if he wanted to change the topic.

to which y/n took granted.

"of course!" they smiled, standing up.

"alright, volleyball first, yeah?" zohakuten said, standing up from his chair too and grabbed the volleyball from the pool. y/n nodded and ran to the right side of the volleyball net.

for the past three or four hours of spending time with zohakuten, you guys have been playing volleyball or badminton, scaring the birds that dared to come to the backyard grass or the fence, tricking sekido into wearing his slippers (which had glue on them) while he got out of the shower (though they debated for a while because sekido believed you don't need to wear your slippers while you walk out the shower, but you had to say some things to convince him, and when he did put it on, you made a run for it), helping aizetsu with his grocery things and the food, and watching the nba finals between the heat and nuggets with urogi and karaku. (yes i know it passed buuuttttt i just had to.)

(zohakuten's pov)

y/n <3 was talking to their mom on the phone (just checking on you dw) in the kitchen, while i was just sitting with the other four when suddenly, karaku elbowed me.

"hey little guy~ you're so obvious, y'know~?" he said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

i gave him a confused face and asked, "what do you mean?" karaku laughed.

"well, of course you don't want them to know, so you'd play dumb, i see~ i mean, would they return your feelings at all? that'd be so worrying, ain't it~?"

"what are you talking about?" i furrowed my eyebrows at him, like, what is up with this guy?!

"you full know what i'm talking about, zo!~"

he really pisses me off.

"no, i don't! tell me, now!" i said in a loud, demanding voice. "it is SO obvious what he's talking about, zohakuten." sekido growled, glaring at me, "you have feelings for that kid." he bobbed his head at y/n <3

what?!

"no i don't." i quickly mutter, scowling.

"yeah, you do!" urogi cackled, "it makes sense! why else would you look at them like that?" "like what, exactly?"

i butt in, crossing my hands as karaku took out his phone and showed me a picture.

it was me, from earlier to when i was talking to y/n <3 at the backyard, to when we were talking about [r/b/n] and [r/g/n].

i immediately knew what they were talking about when urogi said about the way i looked at them.

i was smiling at them and looking hopeful!

idiot! idiot! idiot!

i gritted my teeth slightly, "that's photoshopped." i said, still in doubt.

"nah it isn't, and you should know i don't have the photoshop app thingy in my phone." karaku snickered, showing off his teeth to its fullest extent.

"whatever, the point is, i don't have feelings for them! they're just-"

"a friend?" uttered aizetsu, who had been quiet.

i looked at him, surprised that he finished my sentence before i could.

"you can't deny that you've been smiling at them lately.. and mind you, they just came today, and whether you do have those feelings or not, it is still obvious that you've taken a liking to them… friendly or crush." aizetsu continued on.

i sighed.

he was right, i couldn't deny it.

but i wanted to.

looking over to y/n <3, i watched them end their call with their mom and stuffed their phone into their bag and walk to the living room, to which i relaxed a bit and pretended nothing much had happened.

do i really have feelings for them?

[y/n time]

"alright, thanks mom, see you." y/n said and ended the call, putting the phone into their bag and turned to enter the living room.

they noticed that the four older ones were looking oddly suspicious at zohakuten, who had relaxed just as they came in.

it looked so suspicious!

y/n smiled and sat down on the empty spot (that zohakuten kept tapping) beside the little guy.

"what were y'all talking about?" they asked, and not even a second, zohakuten answered, "nothing much."

y/n hummed, fidgeting with their fingers, "my mom's gonna pick me up at nine o' clock, we still have ten minutes to spend time together-" "don't worry about it."

they turned their head to peer at zohakuten. what was up with him? what really happened when they were talking?

karaku looked like he was about to laugh.

y/n eyed the little guy up and down. he looked distracted, maybe annoyed.

for the past five minutes, it was just silence, except for some cars passing the house outside.

y/n looked a bit distraught, did they anger zohakuten earlier? was he uncomfortable because they said something weird? they wanted to know so badly!

"hey, zo.. what's-" "can i have your number, n/n?"

shocked, y/n froze of this.

their number?

are they asking them out???

are they more than friends?????

what does this mean??!

what was going on?!

or maybe he just wants to talk to them on the phone more?

stammering slightly, y/n said 'sure' in the fakest cheerful, positive voice ever!

as they shared numbers, sekido just facepalmed his forehead, aizetsu looked like he was on the brink of crying (or bawling, whichever), karaku and urogi looked more like they wanted to push the two together so they could smash faces.

little troublemakers.

there was a knock on the door, and y/n sprang up onto their feet, glad that they could change the awkward atmosphere.

as zohakuten walked with them to the door (with the rest following behind them, still having the same faces as described on the last 3 parts), y/n slid their crocs on and the door opened by sekido, who started talking to mitsuri.

"thank you so much for letting my daughter have this playdate!"

mitsuri thanked, bowing, to which sekido did in return, though looked as though he was ghastly while doing it, as if he was forced to.

"it's not a problem ma'am.. tomorrow again, yes?"

"yes! thank you so much! see you tomorrow! come on, sweetheart." mitsuri urged y/n to walk, and they did, while waving bye at zohakuten, sekido, urogi, aizetsu, and karaku, who was also waving back.

on the way to their half bakery, half house, their mom had asked how was the playdate.

y/n smiled, humming quietly.

"it was fun… i'll be glad to come back tomorrow.."

meanwhile...

"i hope they do come back."

zohakuten muttered on his bed, then drifted off to sleep, awaiting for tomorrow.

(Fun fact: in zohakuten's pov, y/n's name has a <3 beside it! It's because he's developing a crush on you slowly!) Part two will come! Might make this into a series~ lol I made this like at 1 am in the morning dont laugh at me 😭

#kimetsu no yaiba #kny #mitsurikanroji #obanai iguro #aizetsu #karaku #sekido #zohakuten #urogi #hantengu #playdate #zohakuten x reader

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mariacallous · 3 months

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Before I opened WildHeart Baked Goods, a cottage home bakery which specialized in challah, I was a novice baker. When I first got married, it was my mother-in-law who ignited my love of bread baking. Her ease with dough busted the myth that bread baking is difficult. So began my journey. Each week I baked, each week I became a better baker. My bread and my challah began to develop personality… my personality. Afterall, that’s what bread is; an embodiment of the baker, filled with their hopes, their dreams and their spirit.

My favorite bread to both bake and eat is challah, but not the challah you serve for Shabbat dinner. My ideal challah is served the next morning, for breakfast. There is something magical about Shabbat morning and Shabbat breakfast. The world almost stands a little still. Growing up, my most vivid Shabbat morning memories were at my aunt and uncle’s table filled with an array of special cakes and danishes served alongside tea and coffee. It was a special treat. As an adult, I try to bring that special Shabbat morning of pastries and cake into my own home with the concept of a breakfast challah. I began creating breakfast challah with leftover dough filled with cinnamon and sugar. Over the years, I have created many flavors of breakfast challahs that embrace the flavors of the season.

Winter breakfast challah will always be filled with bright citrus and marzipan. Marzipan, a traditional confectionary of Mizrachi, Sephardi and Eastern European Jews alike, is an unlikely breakfast food. However, when laminated into challah, it results in a delicate cross between challah and pastry, reminiscent of an almond croissant. The layers of the challah fall away in delicate folds of citrus-infused butter and fresh marzipan. Baked in a traditional babka crown shape, this challah makes the perfect centerpiece for your next brunch when the snow is deep and the days grow short.

Notes:

The temperature of the water should be delicately warm enough as for a baby’s bath. For those of you who don’t make it a habit of bathing babies; place a finger to the bottom of the cup of warm water. Keep it there a few moments. If it feels nicely warm without an “ouch” sensation, the water is the proper temperature.

If your marzipan feels a little too dry (it can happen, weather depending) add ½ Tbsp more water and blend it in.

If you don’t have an angel food cake pan (which is a tube pan with a flat bottom), you can use a Bundt pan. The inner ring of metal in these pans is essential for baking success because it allows airflow and heat to get to the center of the challah and create an even bake.

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throwaway-yandere · 1 year

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"Aren't You Supposed To Hate Me?" (Yandere Modern!Il Dottore/Reader)

CW: mild yandere

the real a/n: if you see me putting too many sylvia plath references, no– no you did not. Also, webttore rights. I promise he's not that bad bakery anon pls don't kill me-. ALSO LOGO'S MADE BY ESTHER ANON!!!

Mother of Klee, Alice’s note: When your bakery opens, can you make some Eton mess? What? “That’s not on the menu…?” Well, you should add it! My darling Klee looks adorable eating strawberries! Oh, but you're not leaving Teyvat Pro, right?

Yandere! 1k Idol Match-up Event

---------

According to what people have said about you, you exude calmness. And that it’s a strength. That your soothing and somewhat “motherly” presence puts you one step forward more than most people. But why isn’t your composure congruent with the frantic screaming inside of you that begged this lunatic to quit clutching your baking supplies?

Damn, this isn't the time to NOT be assertive, assistant (Y/n). Pull yourself together.

"Please stop. You're strangling it."

"We all die, (Y/n). The sooner you internalize that, the better."

The man in front of you is none other than your boss: "Il Dottore", the man behind the idol group ADDICKTZ's creative decisions. You have been given the responsibility of maintaining order among the original 4 ADDICKTZ members while he deals with the second batch after he chose you out of the other 22 interviewees.

"Sir, we're just baking. Please use a proper measuring cup. Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor–"

"Master. Not sir. I suggest you speak to me in a more respectful tone, Assistant (Y/n). The mere fact of your utility does not make you indestructible."

"I understand that very well, sir– Master, but please put the dough down. I cannot allow you to do the frosting at this rate."

Dang Akademiyan scholars and their honorifics.

Zandik huffed, unsatisfied, before leaning back on his chair.

"Mind you, I'm a licensed surgeon." He boasted snarkily. "I'd certainly outmatch you when it comes to steady hands, assistant."

"Well– shame that a medical degree does not automatically mean you'd be good at art, then."

"(Y/n), did I hire an imbicile? Answer me, who exactly are you working for?"

"You, Master Zandik."

"And my occupation?"

" ADDICKTZ’s Creative Director–"

Zandik smugly raised an eyebrow.

"... I admit defeat."

ADDICKTZ values both of your artistic inputs. Even after work hours, you've done what you can to support DCKZ. You helped Diluc choose a haiku to confess his emotions not long ago, and more recently, you aided Zhongli to find inspiration in contemporary poetry for his lyrics. Sir Zandik, on the other hand, would help the group's plans progress from simple masquerades to a magnificent mashup of VISUAL Kei and distinctive pop elements with unbuckled bones facing the front view just tasteful enough to adhere to the unit's usual aesthetics.

Of course, these tasks are obviously trivial in comparison to what your "real work" entailed, and the CEO would split hairs if you joked about retiring. The doctor is no different; in fact, he is the most guilty of this dependence. Normally, superiors wouldn't break into their staff members' closed bakery at 2 in the morning on a Saturday, but Il Dottore has a few loose screws.

Partly, it's your fault too because Zandik has a crush on you.

That's not your ego talking– he admitted it three days ago. Maybe you would've accepted that confession if he didn't utter another word, you did hear Sohrah and the other staff members mention that he's some eye candy. The nose, the eye pits, the full set of pearly white teeth– those mean nothing when the person is Zandik. His personality is as foul as the things Ayato bought in the ADDICKTZ's hotpot game. You’re never crossing the water for an obvious red flag.

Following his direct confession, he went on to enumerate all of your faults in a psychopathic and alphabetical order. As to add more salt into the wound, Zandik brought out printed pictures and pointed at all the blemishes on your face that needed fixing before tossing a plastic surgeon's business card at you. What an absolute jerk. Not the most romantic confession out there, but he did ask you out, right?

WRONG.

After his long spiel about being burdened by unnecessary dependence on you, he gave you an incentive to "look more unattractive during work hours" with a pay raise.

So, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. Yet, you can't loathe Zandik when he's THAT honest about his avid repulsed fascination. The man is mad, but being mad doesn’t make him stupid. He wants the exact opposite of the likable behavior reinforcement theory coming from you. Zandik would sooner receive the loving embrace of an iron maiden than be in a rendezvous. He wholeheartedly believes that love is an illusion of a Greek necessity– whatever that meant.

You were ready to argue when he pulled out a contract that Zhongli had revised for added credence. As self-preservation reared its not noble but necessary head, your anger left you. His proposed numbers were bafflingly astronomical that you might just quit your job after the first pay…

The moon has nothing to be sad about once it witnesses your dreams bear fruit. Zandik knows that as well, that's why he visited your little bakery before its opening day, demanding that you make him any type of pastries. Unfortunately, you're the type who would adjust your schedule for others and not the other way around.

Zandik wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeves. "Mind if I strip?"

"E-Excuse me?" You chuckled nervously. "Strip your apron, right?"

"Hair extensions, assistant." He clicked his tongue, amused. "With some common sense, you would’ve discovered that they get in the way and that these two long strands are artificial. Clearly, you lack some degree of rigor expected for an assistant."

Should’ve expected as much. This is the same man who cut off Childe's hair because he's "so damn tired seeing everyone in this forsaken group have the same fucking rat tail." You're pretty sure the only person who thought it was mildly amusing was Dainsleif.

Still… Last time, he told you those two strands were part of his hair. Zandik is not the type who would pettily lie for a joke. He's as straightforward as CEO Alhaitham– for better or for worse. Maybe he has a twin brother or something…

No, that’s just inconceivable.

Zandik watched in amusement as your forehead creased.

"You should've worded that differently… Doesn’t matter. Is there a flavor you’d like? Chocolates or...?"

He answered immediately. “Strawberries. Saw Alice ate some with her daughter last night.”

“Definitely it's not because it's your favorite, I’m aware,” you mused sarcastically. “Since you’re not actually into strawberries, might I suggest chocolate?”

Zandik glared. “Why?”

You batted your eyes at him playfully. “Oh, doctor, don’t you know chocolates have the love drug? As Langston Hughes would say “Have you dug the spill of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims, on this sepia thrill–”."

“Debunked. It’s laughable that you would insinuate such an incorrect notion.” Zandik scoffed loudly. “Chocolates don’t directly pass phenylethylamine to our nervous system, you’re more likely to excrete these pathetic sweets off your a–”

Never been a romantic. Dottore somehow loves to make it a point to remind you of that foul personality trait of his in every conversation.

“Alright, that’s enough. It’ll be strawberry flavored.” You sighed as you placed the tray inside the oven. “Might I say, you’re acting rather… cocky, for a lack of a better term, with how I should handle my work.”

“In my many years of living, I’ve learned that arrogance is a side-effect of truth and intelligence.”

“Yes, but your methods of holding that dough is quite barbaric. Please let it go.”

“Tsk.”

Dead hands, dead stringencies– Zandik simply lacks the talent for baking due to his rigidity. He dropped the dough and you smirked for a second, relieved. You secretly have a competitive side and you'd hate to admit that you're scared he might just beat you at your own game because of the frostings.

“Master Zandik, please just sit down. There are empty chairs at empty tables–”

He rolled his eyes, crossing his legs on your table. You tried not to scream at him about hygiene and barely succeeded. “Friends are all dead and gone– I know. Do not think you can reference Les Miserables without me knowing, baker.”

You shook your head as you set the timer. While you were preoccupied, it seemed as if the doctor just couldn’t sit still.

“Hmph, this is the only thing of interest I’ve found in your precious little bakery thus far.”

You turned to look at him.

Zandik paused in front of the small wall of photographs you had on display. A smile crept on your face as you remembered how proud you were of organizing the photos of your friends and family into a heart-shaped mosaic. There is a tiny square space in the middle and he correctly inferred that will be the center will be used to display a photo of the bakery's opening day. Be that as it may, his attention lay elsewhere.

"You had a violent streak, didn't you?"

"... Pardon?"

"You were the "problem child", that's my assessment," Zandik smirked, detaching a photograph from your wall, which surprised you since you've had trouble easing them free.

He specifically picked the photo you took during kindergarten with your grandma.

"You had scraped knees and elbows but you don't have that stereotypical dumb boyish smile. You seem to have quite a pronounced frown. Would I be wrong to assume you weren't well-liked in your school–"

“Put it back.” While you do generally dislike being put under a spotlight, the cause of your harsh delivery stems from his unpleasant phrasings.

Zandik pretended not to hear you, "–I'm not teasing you. I would know this because I had a photo similar to this one."

For a moment, you saw a flicker of melancholic humanity in your otherwise monstrously rigid employer. You thought that vulnerable display would be brief, but the hollow chuckle that echoed proved that this event will mark a milestone in your "work" relationship.

Master Zandik is opening up to you.

"Unlike this cute and happy memento, I don't have a grandmother who would take a picture with me. I’ve lost them all in the fire." He muttered, his voice low and his eyes squinting. "Hence the reason why I squandered most of my hours burying my nose in textbook after textbook. Pantalone and I had to prove ourselves worthy of living a life outside the orphanage. But this picture…"

Your boss grumbled. "This picture looks awfully similar to the only childhood picture I have taken. A large frown, beat-up uniform– a rage that I can relate to. I understand your child self all too well. Too well, in fact, that I feel the urge to burn this photograph like what I’ve done with mine."

He traced his thumb around your young self's image, shockingly intimate.

You blinked incessantly, trying to process all the information that he told you. First, your boss has no family left. Second, he’s an orphan raised alongside sir Pantalone. Third, he burned the only picture he had when he was a kid. You would pinch yourself but this conversation is jaggedly real.

As sensitive as this topic may be, your skepticism slips out as easily as breathing. "You burned your only childhood photo?"

Zandik ruminated.

"Curious as to what I would've looked like? You don’t seem to find my decision very agreeable."

"Who would?" You didn't mean to whine, but the tone of your voice made you sound like complaining. "What possessed you to do that?! Now no one would know what you looked like, not even yourse–"

"I didn't look too different as to who I am now," Zandik answered, his usual confidence coming back. "Only back then, shades of purple bruises would overlap my face, arms, legs, and stomach. If I loathed my natural features I would've done something drastic to tweak my appearance."

"Of course, you would, hair surgeon." You jokingly muttered Childe's best Dottore insult.

"What was that?"

For the sake of the hair Ajax is trying to grow out, you need to change the subject, fast.

"Master Zandik, I have to ask– aren’t you supposed to hate me? Pray tell, what are you doing here then?”

It’s been bothering you since he walked in. If he wants his “crush” for you to disappear, then why the hell is he spending more time with you?

Surprisingly, Zandik was also stunned by your question. His eyes went wide, perplexed.

“... What are you talking about?”

“You know what I meant.” You deadpanned. “The contract, what else?”

“Contract?” He squinted. “What contract? Is it a contract revised by Zhongli?”

“An astute guess.” You mocked his tone. “Yes, it is. Perhaps we’ve handled so many workloads the past month because of Sir Alberich’s eye-plucking shenanigans that’s why you forgot. To put it simply, you ordered me to act less attractive in exchange for a pay raise.”

“What?”

He looked at you incredulously, as if you were joking.

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?” Zandik huffed. “I would do no such thing. That’s...”

His demeanor shifted once, then twice. After a moment of silence, he nodded.

“Forgive me, you’re right. I did propose that contract, haven’t I?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And I also confessed my affection for you as well?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Pity.” He muttered, his tone grieving. “There should be no other person who can understand me more than I do.”

Zandik glared. “But why on earth is He trying to sabotage us.”

He?

“What are you talking about?”

Zandik gritted his teeth and smiled. “No matter. There’s no need for concern, darling.”

…

Did Master Zandik always have shark-like teeth?

He reached out and ruffled your hair slightly, but there is an ominous aura that lingered in his expression. It was akin to self-loathing, but not quite. Zandik pulled his hand back slowly, clenching it into a fist as he walked away.

You will never understand what he was talking about. After all, “Zandik” failed to mention the most important aspect of that photograph.

He had no parents, aunts, uncles, cousins… But the outcast did stand next to someone in that single childhood photo he had.

And that person was the picture-perfect imitation of himself, the perfect “sibling”.

Il Dottore laughed.

Now, if he could just throw him in the fire too…

Ansytea: Thank you so much for joining the match-up event Bakery Anon! Please don't chop, cook, and serve me to faceless!ayato–

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ships-to-sail · 1 month

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WIP Wednesday 4.3.24

Well, y'all, blink and it's been a week! Seven whole days later and I here I am again with more @firenati0n prompted shenanigans. The rival bakers stay rivaling, but there may or may not be (but most definitely is) sexy dough kneading this round, so. thanks be to the universe for that!

He motions across the street with a wild gesture. “There’s a new bakery?!” “Apparently,” Ellen says, her voice calm even as her brows pinch together by another fraction of an inch. “Since when?!” “Since about two weeks ago, mijo, if you’d actually read any of the signs across the street,” his dad says as he comes out from the small kitchen in the back, wiping the flour on his hands onto the hand towel sitting on his shoulder. A wave of sugar-and-cinnamon smell smacks Alex in the face, and he knows the first pans of conchas are sitting on the racks in the back, waiting for them to flip the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN. “Patissier du Renard,” the traces of his father’s Mexican accent turning the French syllables into a different kind of dance. “Who the fuck is Renard?” “It’s French for —” “Language, Alex,” his mother barks at him again, spinning on her heel, the corners of her mouth tucked down. The set of her jaw makes it abundantly clear that it’s not actually his choice of four-letter words that’s bothering her. But Alex, while not always the smartest guy, is also not an idiot, and so decides that this is not the moment he wants to push her on the issue. Holding up two hands, he gives her a sincere, “Sorry, ma,” has he slips behind her, stopping to press a kiss to her cheek before he pushes open the swinging door to the kitchen and grabs his favorite bright yellow apron off the back of the door and flipping the neck band over his head. He ties the strap behind his waist absentmindedly, making his way to the far fridge and grabbing out a 10-gallon tupperware of concha dough, tossing it onto the workstation behind him with a loud bang. His thoughts stay on the new bakery across the street, the crowd of people he couldn’t see through overlaid with the columns and columns of numbers growing increasingly larger, but in vivid, blood-red font. He can’t see past it as he crosses to a different set of fridges, pulling down jars of fillings and jams — mango and strawberry, passionfruit and limón, whatever his hands can reach until his arms are full. He drops them next to the dough with a clatter, and lets his hands work on autopilot as the gears in his brain spin at warpspeed, trying to process through this new piece of information. He uses a pastry cutter to slice off a chunk of the dough, tossing it onto the waiting scale, before adding a smaller piece and then sliding the whole pile off the metal plate and onto the cool metal of the work bench. Reaching beneath him, he grabs a small container of flour and flicks it open, sprinkling some over both his hands and the table. His heels dig into the cold, partially sticky dough as he begins to pull at the edges of the pile, his fingers pushing and his palms pressing, his hands working occasionally together but even more frequently at odds, as he begins to work his family’s award winning concha dough into a batch of slightly-less-popular (but in Alex’s opinion superior) chamucos.

a giant thank you to @suseagull04, @cha-melodius, @wordsofhoneydew and @hgejfmw-hgejhsf for the tags -- I'll leave my tags below the cut, and consider this your hearty invitation to take the open tag, especially if you never have before!

@affectionatelyrs @anchoredarchangel @anincompletelist @clottedcreamfudge @cricketnationrise @cultofsappho @daisymae-12 @everwitch-magiks @getmehighonmagic @happiness-of-the-pursuit @indestructibleheart @indomitable-love @inexplicablymine @leaves-of-laurelin @lizzie-bennetdarcy-afterdark @myheartalivewrites @notspecialbabe @orchidscript @rmd-writes @sparklepocalypse @ssmtskw @stereopticons @tintagel-or-cockleshells @welcometololaland @whimsymanaged @kiwiana-writes

#red white & royal blue #rwrb #wip wednesday #rival bakers

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vodika-vibes · 7 months

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Another Happily Ever After

Summary: After Ella, your step-sister, grabbed her happily ever after with both hands, you decide to do the same. Luckily for you, Captain Rex is happy to help.

Pairing: Knight Captain Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 2852

Warnings: Fluff

Mando'a Used: osik'la - messed up, screwed, horrible (impolite)

A/N: A twist on Cinderella, where the reader is one of the "evil" step-sisters.

Divider by saradika

Your life has changed a lot since your step-sister married into nobility. Oh, she’s not a Duchess, not yet at least, but it’s only a matter of time before the Duke retires and his son ascends to inherit the title.

Granting your step-sister a title as well.

And you can admit that you’re concerned.

And you’ve admitted your concerns to your mother and your older sister. Though they just laughed your concern away as you being overly dramatic.

“Mother,” You say as you fold your hands around the simple tea cup that you prefer, “Mother, please. You have to see why I’m concerned.” You plead, “You and Bea, you were never kind to Ella. She has every reason to want revenge.”

“That girl,” Your mother counters, “Doesn’t have the nerve to do anything.” She opens a magazine, “Now, how much of Dear Edmund's estate do you want, ad?”

“Estat-? Mother, no! That money does not belong to us!” You say, “Edmund set that money aside for Ella, his daughter. You have to give it to her!”

“Absolutely not,” Your mother looks offended, “Ad’ika, I am entitled to this money. After all, I took care of that rat of a daughter.”

“Mother-”

“Mother has a point, vod.” Bea drawls from where she’s sitting next to your mother, wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire apartment put together. “Mother raised Ella, made sure she had clothes, food and a roof over her head. We deserve this money.”

“And, ad, if you took some of this money, maybe you can move into someplace…better.” Your mother says as she eyes the plain dishes and simple decor of your apartment in disdain.

“I like my apartment, it’s right over my bakery.” You defend, as shame causes your cheeks to burn.

“It’s an adorable hobby, ad.” Your mother says, “but it’s time to grow up and join the real world. Now. How many credits do you need?”

“I…none. I don’t need anything.” You insist.

Your mother sighs, and shakes her head, “You are as stubborn as your father was, ad.” She stands and smoothes the rich silk of her dress, “Also, ad, next time you’re coming to see me. I cannot handle the mess of this place. And make sure you clean up, you’re filthy.”

“It’s not-” You sigh and your shoulders slump, “Yes, mother.”

“Good.” She nods her head once, as though she hadn’t just trampled all over your self-worth, and then turns to Bea, “Come on, darling. You need a new dress for your meeting with your betrothed.”

Bea smiles sharply, “Yes, mother.” And then she glances at you, and her grin becomes mean, “See you later, osik’la.”

Your face flushes even more, but your sister is gone before you’re able to say anything to her in return. You huff out a breath and push your hair out of your face, and then you stand up and head down into the shop.

You really want to hit something.

Maybe there’s dough that needs kneading.

You step into the kitchen, and one of the other bakers glances at you sympathetically, “I take it the talk with your mother and sister didn’t go well?” He asks.

“Does it ever?” You ask dryly as you wash your hands, dry then, and then walk over to a clean work station and spread flour, before pouring some dough onto the surface, “I swear, mother and Bea would hold me up to a mirror and only see themselves.”

“Well, that’s why you opened the bakery, right? So you can be independent from them?”

‘Well, yeah. Of course.” You reply as you start kneading the dough, “But they’re still…they…” you shake your head.

“It’s not your fault. You can’t control the actions of other people, boss.”

“Sometimes I wish I could,” You grumble.

He laughs, “Well yeah, who doesn’t. But that’s not the way the world works.” He grins, “Come on, I’ll take over here, you go tend to the shop proper. You like dealing with people.”

You scowl at him, but step away from the dough, “Fine. But make that dough cinnamon swirl.”

“You got it, boss.”

You wash your hands again, and push through the door that separates the kitchen from the shop, and you lightly place a hand on the shoulder of the girl working the register, “You good?” You ask.

“Hey boss! Yeah, today’s going great! Look at how busy we are!” She motions to the crowded shop.

“Have you taken your break yet?” You ask as you scan the shop, and your lips curl up in a pleased smile when you see just how crowded the shop actually is.

“Yeah, I just got back from mine. No need to worry, boss. Things are going well here.” She beams at you, and then turns her attention towards the patron who just walked up.

You walk a little further down the counter, making note of what you’re running out of, and then you lean against the counter and you pull out a sheet of paper. You should write a letter to Ella, telling her what your mother and sister are up to.

You should. Stars know that they’ve mistreated Ella enough as it is over the years. But you really don’t know how to start the letter…or even if she’ll accept a letter from you.

You look up when you notice motion in front of you, and you greet the man standing in front of you with a smile, “Hi there, how can I help you?” You straighten as you realize that you recognize him. Captain Rex, of the 501st Naval Battalion, and a regular to your shop before he went on Deployment a year ago. “Oh. Captain, I didn’t realize you'd returned.”

“Yeah, we docked this morning,” He replies with a small shrug.

You smile at him, “And my humble little shop is your first visit? I’m flattered.”

He turns to look at the bustling shop, “Humble? Is that what we’re calling it?”

You laugh quietly, “There has been a bit of a boost in sales over the last year, I admit. I even had to hire some employees.”

“So I see. I’m happy for you. I know you said you were worried that the shop would never take off.” Rex replies, and there’s a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, “You were so worried, that I put in a word with some of my brothers about how good your pastries were-”

“I knew it!” You laugh, “I thought it was weird when more of your brothers started showing up after you left.” You fold your arms, “Bacara and his Nova Corps bought out my entire shop one weekend. I made enough money to pay off my loan with interest!”

Rex grins, “Well, I didn’t ask him to do that. But I’m glad it helped.”

“I have a standing order for him for the first weekend of the month. We have to close the shop that weekend just to make sure we can make him everything he asks for.” You admit gleefully. “Bacara’s been great for business.”

“Bacara, huh? So you and he are friends now, then?” Rex asks, very casually.

“I don’t think Bacara does friends.” You admit with a shake of your head, “But I like him well enough in spite of that.”

“Yeah?” Rex shifts, “Uh, just out of curiosity, how much do you like him?”

You pause, “Rex.” You grin at him, “Are you jealous?”

“No!” He says too quickly, and too loudly, to be true. “Er…I mean…no. Not at all.”

“If it helps, I like him less than I like you.” You offer easily.

“Oh, thank fuck for that.”

Your eyebrows creep up, “Not jealous, huh.”

He blushes slightly, “No. Of course not.”

“Alright, I’ll believe you.” You tease lightly.

He smiles a little bashfully, “So, uh…are you free? Now that you have employees, maybe we can hang out?”

You glance around the room, and then you nod once. “So long as we don’t go too far, I think I can slip away for a little bit.”

“Great! I have an empty table.” Rex replies. He waits for you to step out from behind the counter, and then guides you, with a light hand against your back, to a table in the corner. He pulls the chair out for you, and then he sits across from you.

“So how have you been, Rex?” You ask him.

“Good. The deployment was pretty simple, all things concerned. No fighting at all, thankfully.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I worry about you, you know.” You reply.

He pauses, “Would it be bad of me to say that I’m glad you worry about me?”

You shrug, “I don’t think so. Though I probably worry about you more than necessary.”

“Still. I’m glad you worry.” He leans his arms on the table, “How have you been? Not the shop, mesh’la, you personally.”

You lean your arms on the table as well, “I’ve been…okay. The therapist you suggested is helping me deal with my mother and sister. But-”

“I thought I saw them walking down the street…I’m guessing they came to visit you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they did. Mother wanted to give me money from my Step-Father’s estate. And I turned her down.” You admit.

“Good. How’d she take it?”

“She…stomped all over any sense of self-worth I have, and told me that I need to clean up because I’m filthy.” Your smile is wry.

“You’re not.”

“She…disagrees.”

“You know, the more I hear about your mother the more I want to punch her in the face.” Rex grumbles, “You’re perfect. You’re finally doing what makes you happy, and she thinks that she can-” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “So, what are you going to do about the money thing?”

“I should write Ella. Let her know. But…” You shake your head, “Ella hates me. For good reason. Any letter I send her will be tossed without getting opened.”

“You’re younger than her, right?”

“Only by a year or so,” You reply with a shrug, “I was old enough to know that what my mother and sister were doing to her was wrong.”

“You never took part, though.”

“Of course not. For the most part I just…carried on with my life, and kept doing what I’ve always done.” You reply with a sigh, “I always made sure that there was food for Ella though, even though Mother hated it.”

“Does she know that?”

“That I was the one making sure that there was always enough food for her? I don’t know. Maybe?” You rest your head on the palm of your hand, “Does it matter? I wouldn’t blame her for hating me.”

“You want my opinion?”

“I’d love your opinion.”

“Write the letter. And then give it to me. I’ll make sure she gets it.” Rex promises.

You smile at him, soft and fond, “What did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

“You gave me a delicious chocolate chip cinnamon cookie, and I fell in love.” Rex replies easily.

“...With the cookie?”

His gaze locks with yours, and he shrugs one shoulder, “Sure.”

Your smile softens slightly, and pink rushes into your face, “Well, then,” You murmur, “What’s stopping you?”

Rex shifts, “I’m worried that I’m not good enough.”

“You’re about as perfect a man can be without being obnoxious, Rex. You don’t have to worry about that.” You reply quietly.

He stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles, “Would you like to go on a date with me? Tonight maybe?”

“I’d love to.” You reply, “If you come upstairs, I’ll even make you dinner.”

“Your mother will not approve of me,” Rex warns.

“I’ve made it a habit of doing things my mother doesn’t approve of,” You reply blandly.

Rex pauses and then he smirks, “Including me?” He asks, innocently.

“Well, yeah? Of cour-” You stop mid-sentence, and your face flames red, “I didn’t mean it like that!”

His grin grows, “Really? Cause I kinda liked that sentence, cyare.”

You scowl at him, your face still red, “I have to get back to work.”

“I’ll sit here until you’re done for the day.” Rex replies as he leans back in his seat.

You get to your feet and shake your head, “It won’t be too much longer,” you reassure. You turn away from him, and he catches your hand and lightly tugs you back.

“Hey, come here,” He murmurs.

You move around the table until you’re standing next to him, and he gently encourages you to lean down. And then he catches your lips in a gentle kiss, and only once he’s done that does he release you.

You press your fingers to your lips and you release a quiet, giddy, giggle.

Rex watches you with warm eyes, “I’ll see you after you’re done for the day, cyare.” You flash him a blinding grin, and then turn to hurry back to the kitchen.

**************

Before you know it, a month has gone by. And you’re happy. You’re so very happy with Rex. He’s your biggest supporter, and when your mother and older sister became too much for you to handle, he stepped in to help with the restraining order.

And now he’s here with you, with his arm hooked comfortably around your waist, as you stand in the foyer of Ella’s house. The house she shares with her husband.

“You ready for this?” Rex asks as he kisses your temple.

“I think so. I’m surprised she wanted to meet with me. I wrote everything in the letter, after all.” You reply as you lean against him.

“Is it really so surprising that maybe she wants to be family too?”

“Uh. Yeah, a little. My own mother doesn’t want to be family with me.” You point out.

“That’s because your mother is a bitch.”

You release a surprised noise, and there’s a quiet laugh from the stairs, “You’ll get no arguments here, Captain.” Ella, your step-sister, finishes walking down the stairs and she stops in front of the pair of you. “She really is.”

“Hi, Ella.” You greet with a small, nervous, smile.

In return, Ella’s smile is blinding, and she reaches out and takes both of your hands in hers, “Hello, vod! I’m so glad that you reached out!”

“It was the right thing to do,” You reply quietly, “I…haven’t done that enough for you.”

“Nonsense.” Ella’s grip on your hands tighten, “You think I couldn’t hear how they spoke about you? You think I didn’t notice that you made sure that I didn’t starve? That I never noticed the small cake left at my bedroom door on my birthday?”

You shift slightly, “I could have done more.”

“It wasn’t your job to protect me, vod. You were always so much smaller than I was. It was enough that you never took part in their abuse.” Ella smiled warmly, “It’s enough that you told me that they’re trying to spend my inheritance.”

“But-”

“No. No. No buts,” Ella gently guides you down the hall to her garden, “I was so pleased to hear that you managed to slip out from under your mother…and to open your own bakery, even! Oh, I was so proud that I cried, vod!”

“You…you did?”

“Oh, yes. I was a mess when I heard.” Ella grins, and motions for you to sit at the table in the garden, and Rex lightly presses his hand against your shoulder as he sits next to you, “I even sent one of the house servants to go and buy some pastries for me, I was worried that you’d react badly to seeing me in your bakery.”

You shake your head, “You’re always welcome, Ella.”

Ella beams and clasps her hands under her chin, “Oh, this is great! We can finally be a family. A real family. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really.” She takes a deep breath and visibly calms herself down, “I’m going to go and get my husband, but, oh! I am so happy to see you, vod!”

She hurries back into the house, and you turn to smile at Rex, “This is…better than anything I ever hoped.” You admit.

“Glad that you came, cyare?”

“Yeah. I am.” You agree with a nod, “I never thought…well, I thought families were for other people, honestly. But if me and Ella can put something together with us, and her husband…and you?” Your gaze catches his and he smiles soothingly, “Then maybe we can be a family.”

“It sounds like something to work towards, cyare.” He reaches out and lightly brushes the back of his fingers against your cheek, “And I’m more than happy to help.”

“You won’t get bored?” You ask.

“Of you? Never.” He leans in and kisses you gently, his hand sliding around to gently cradle the back of your head. “It’ll all work out. You’ll see, cyare.”

You smile against his lips, “Well, if you say it then it must be true.” You kiss him again, a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as you do so.

#star wars #tcw #star wars au #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #x reader fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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