#love my baseball cap 🥰 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

avastrasposts · 3 months

Text

A Baker's Dozen - Twelve

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

Series Master List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow, cariño.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bésame.”

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

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

“Un beso más.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We keep getting distracted.”

“I blame you, Francisco.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, try it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Thirteen

Series Master List

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

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

The Poll!

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

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

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

182 notes · View notes

thesandsofelsweyr · 1 year

Text

THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR

《 PART 1/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.

《WORDS》 2,809 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3

《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader

《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship

《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing

《NOTES》

This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.

Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷

This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃

Yes this is a repost. My blog is still new so Tumblr didn't allow my original post to appear in the tags. (Shout out to the 10 of you who still managed to find & like the original 🥰)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.

Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).

You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.

A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.

Nutjobs like this guy…

You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…

This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.

You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.

“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.

Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”

You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.

“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?

He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.

You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.

Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.

“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands.

A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.

“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.

“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…

Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…

“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.

You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.

Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight.

You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.

You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.

You open your phone’s browser and type: how to treat strangulation injuries, then quickly skim over the top result. Ice. That seems simple enough, you tell yourself, noting that you can clean his J cuts with soap and water, at least until he wakes up. And if he doesn’t wake up soon? Well, then you’ll call the cops. After all, he’s probably a law abiding citizen who’s licensed to carry that gun; a guy that you just pinned as another one of the nutjobs because you always get paranoid about every stranger you see after your true crime binges. In your defense, this is Gotham-fucking-City and you’re a young single lady who lives alone. You’d be a fool not to be paranoid.

489 notes · View notes

bunnie-online · 6 months

Note

Hayden x reader/oc in a secret established relationship but reader is a retail worker or something similar and Hayden visits reader at work to pick her up or something.

oOO HAYDEN REQUEST?! OKAY LEMME TRY

hayden x small actress fem!reader

warnings: even though it’s fluff, 18+ interaction only. established relationship, fluffy fluff fluffs 🥰

another mundane day, running around bussing tables in the small café you’re working in, chatting to customers, fake laughing at jokes. same old, same old.

you picked up a job at this lovely little cafe in downtown Los Angeles a few months ago to support yourself in between acting gigs, your boyfriend offered his help many a time but if you’re anything, it’s stubborn.

being in LA, you weren’t a stranger to serving the super rich and famous, brushing shoulders with actors, musicians and socialites alike was just another wednesday for you.

it was almost the end of your shift and an actor you didn’t expect to see today was the ever so handsome, Hayden Christensen. who you just so happened to be in a long term relationship with. Hayden was sat at a table in the corner in his usual ‘avoid the paparazzi’ get up. black hoodie, grey sweatpants and black baseball cap pulled down to almost cover his eyes.

you rush over to his table, your boss probably thinking you wanted to be the shining star of customer service but in actuality you were about to scold the customer in question. “Hayden!” you whisper yell. “what are you doing here?!” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes round and innocent looking.

“oh! you recognized me!” he smiles, feigning innocence. “i wanted to get a coffee, is that so wrong?” he replied after seeing your face. “Hayden.” you say “you could get us caught!” you start scribbling on your notepad, pretending you’re taking his order. you knew Hayden’s usual coffee from the many times he’s made it in your apartment after he’s spent the night.

you look at your watch, it’s two o’clock, the end of your shift. “Hayden, you-! you little shit” you laugh, connecting the dots to his master plan. “because i love you sooo much, i’m gonna grab your coffee.” you smirk at him “i’ll be right back with that, sir!” you say in a chipper customer service voice earning a stifled laugh from Hayden.

you go make his favorite drink as quickly as possible, rushing it out to him. “i’ll be waiting in the car, love.” he winks at you. your face flushes and you rush to go clock out.

‘hes lucky i love him’ you think while grinning ear to ear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hayden literally makes me giggle and kick my feet AHH i adore him sm

~bunnie

#bunnie online!#bunnie? online~!#fluffy bunnie #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen imagine #hayden christensen #hayden christensen fluff #fluff

117 notes · View notes

thatmexisaurusrex · 1 month

Note

For the Sambucky romance ask: 💕

SamBucky Romance Asks

Ooh, "💕 Who Fell First"! Great option, Leslie 😆 It was so good, I accidentally 😂 wrote enough to post on AO3, so it's on there too 😂 I hope you enjoy this little fic! 🥰

Link to AO3 version!

Plum Jam

Sam hadn't meant to bump into the man when he was at the grocery store.

Honestly, Sam's entire day had been a bit of a mess.

Sam had talked to Steve about Riley earlier that day. And it wasn't that Sam didn't like thinking about Riley. Sam loved to remember the ridiculous dad jokes Riley loved to tell; he loved how Riley would find a way to tangle himself in Sam's personal space whenever he had the opportunity; Sam loved how Riley's arm always rested on his chest when they slept like a comforting weight.

But thinking back to that moment.

Back to the fall.

Sam always forgot how much pain that dredged up in him. How it could feel as if that guilt and heartbreak were fresh again, like a reopened wound.

Sam had asked to go home early when he realized how unfocused he was at the VA after that. He had gone home and realized he had no food, and without really thinking about how he could have just ordered in, decided to go to the grocery store.

And now, Sam was bumping into random strangers.

"Sorry," said Sam, frazzled as he noticed and picked up the plum jam on the ground that had thankfully not broken during the fall, "I'm all over the place. Here."

Sam extended the plum jam to the man.

The man wore mostly leather, with a baseball cap on greasy, long hair that needed a brush and a mask Sam assumed had to be heavy duty - maybe the man had a cold?

The man didn't look down at the jam.

No.

He stared at Sam with piercing blue eyes that pinned Sam where he stood. He stared at Sam as if Sam were the first person he had seen after a long coma. He started at Sam as if Sam had just moved mountains, had just performed a miracle.

He stared at Sam like Sam was the hottest man he'd ever seen in his life.

Sam's face heated at that thought, because, no, not everyone Sam bumped into at the grocery store thought Sam was hot. Sam wasn't going to feed into that idea.

"I'll... put it back on the shelf," said Sam, about to place the jam back before the man's hand instantly reached for the jam.

His hand wrapped around both Sam's fingers and the jam.

"Bucky!" blurted the man, still holding the jar of jam with Sam.

It felt like they were holding hands.

Sam couldn't find it in himself to let go.

"My name is Bucky," said the man as if he was only certain of that fact at this very moment.

Sam couldn't help but answer back, "I'm Sam."

Bucky didn't look down at the jam. He kept looking into Sam's eyes. Sam couldn't keep holding onto the jam with this man, could he?

"You like plums?" asked Sam, which sounded awkward when he was saying it.

"Do I - " Bucky started before turning his gaze to the jar, "... I guess I do."

Weird way to answer that.

"My Ma, when she was very young, used to go to this one stand in Constanța that had these fresh plums," continued Bucky, his voice soft, "She would look everywhere for plums that reminded her of home. When she found some we could afford, she would scrounge up whatever supplies we had at home and try to make găluște cu prune - plum dumplings. She could never make them as well as her bunica, but I always loved them."

Sam couldn't see the smile, but he could feel it. This man reminded of home and family by something so small.

"We had this pecan tree in the back of our house - we still do, my sister owns our family home now," Sam explained, "And my mama would have us help her pick pecans and make pralines. It was usually during a Saturday afternoon and our entire house would smell like pralines for days. She talked about how her own mama had taught her, and her mama's daddy had taught her. And when I miss her, sometimes I'll buy a thing of pecans and try to make pralines."

"You're beautiful," Bucky said, stumbling before correcting himself, "That's beautiful. That's."

Sam really needed to stop basically holding hands with this man.

Bucky was wearing these gloves, these fingerless gloves. Sam wasn't sure if he had ever seen fingerless leather gloves before, but here they were, on this man.

There was a distinct contrast between the gloves and Bucky's fingers.

The gloves were smooth; a soft, thick black leather that felt almost comforting.

Bucky's fingers were calloused to hell and back. They rubbed on Sam like a strangely addictive sandpaper. They radiated heat; they were almost scorching to the touch without the leather. But it was a nice heat; the type you nestled in after a long, tiring day at work.

Sam wanted to crawl into that heat and close his eyes.

Fuck.

Why was Sam still holding onto this jar?

"I'm not even sure why I'm in this aisle," Sam confessed, "I meant to just get myself a roast chicken."

Which sounded sad. It was a little sad. But hey, a man can live alone and eat pre-cooked chicken if he wanted to.

"They roast the chicken for you?" asked Bucky, as if he had never been to a grocery store in his life.

"Yeah. They do," said Sam, still holding the jam with Bucky, "I usually shred it up, put it on some rice with some veggies I cook with the rice. Shishito peppers and onions and garlic. Pretty simple easy meal."

"Sounds delicious," said Bucky, still gazing into Sam's eyes as if they were the only things for miles.

"It can be," said Sam as he finally, finally, let go of the jam, "I should probably get that chicken for it. Hope you like the plum jam."

"Yeah," said Bucky as he straightened his back and cleared his throat, "Yeah. Thank you for the jam."

Sam walked away from Bucky. He could still feel Bucky's gaze on him as he left the aisle.

#sambucky ask game #sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky fic #first to fall #meet cute #tooth rotting fluff #canon divergent catws #past sam wilson/riley #my fics #Plum Jam

21 notes · View notes

iheartgod175 · 11 months

Text

Content

Decided I was sick of seeing this unfinished in my notebooks and decided to finish it up. Nothing super special, just wanted to doodle them again 😁 This time, I decided to put them in alternate outfits just to switch things up. I love how Multo looks kinda like a dad, haha 😂 And Zeeter of course is rocking a cute pair of overalls and a baseball cap.

My favorite part of this pic is Multo's expression. It kinda gives off "still in love with you years later" vibes. Or "God I'm the luckiest man in the world " vibes. Which is kinda what I was going for. 🥰 I imagined a sweet moment between them years later, hence this pic.

And now thanks to this, I might end up doodling T.C and Trixie. Because I can 😁

Enjoy!

#zula patrol #the zula patrol #multo #zeeter #my otps #fan art #otp art #my art #Multo/Zeeter

18 notes · View notes

abubblyboo · 7 months

Text

today i’ve been imagining my f/o walking beside me as i go to class and do errands and stuff. and he’s super tall so it’s been fun imagining having “scary dog privileges” while i walk around.

he’s in ordinary clothes since we’re just walking around, but because he normally wears a mask, i imagined him wearing a baseball cap, a face mask, and sunglasses. it’s been very funny imagining everyone’s reactions to this big buff man walking this much shorter, nerdy little creature to class.

and when we were walking together, our knuckles would brush sometimes 💖🥰💖 which is typically about as close as we get to hand-holding, since we both have sensory sensitivities around hands and touching.

i love my big buff scary boyfriend!!! 🥹💖🥰💘

#still too afraid to name him tho fjsjfjd #i made this blog to help me get over my fear of being personally attacked by random people #i mean this is the internet and that will almost certainly happen #but it’s like exposure therapy yknow!#anyways his name is Ghost >W<#self shipping #f/o #s/i #self insert #self ship community #f/o community #fictional other #self ship #self shipping positivity #bubbly babbles

9 notes · View notes

hoodie-buck · 1 year

Note

Wip asks

I’ve had a little look and seen your answers, all very exciting but v interested in the chenford/Buddie one!

How’s the teen Buddie going what’s the plan theres? (Don’t think you’ve had an ask on that so sorry if you have 🥰)

hi love! 🥰

i think i made a mistake in posting that snippet because everyone seems to have fallen in love with it, so i’m actually gonna have to finish it now 😂

ok, so the teen buddie is my second oldest wip (right behind the step up au) it started from a buddie dream i had! i’m thinking of maybe turning it into a series of short stories or something—i haven’t looked it over in awhile so i still need to decide what to do with it, but here, have a snippet 😌

He was getting ready to call Buck when there were suddenly hands pressing to either side of his waist, Buck barreling right into him.

“Hey,” he said a little breathless. “You waiting for someone?”

Eddie huffed out a laugh as he turned to meet Buck, taking the other boy in. Buck had gone with tight buck jeans that had rips at the knees, his worn white converse over his feet, a white tee over his toned frame, and a baseball cap twisted backward over his head, unruly curls sticking out from it. It was the last one that did Eddie in.

“Just you.”

Buck’s smile in turn was a mile wide, those blues almost sparkling under the golden sunlight.

“So,” Eddie started, looking all around. “Where should we start?”

It was late afternoon, the sun still having a few hours until it set. Eddie’s curfew was midnight, Buck not having one. ‘My parents would actually have to notice I was gone to give me one.’

“How about the rides?” Buck suggested, already bouncing on his feet next to him.

Eddie easily agreed, the two heading in the direction of the ticket booth, Eddie getting them each a wristband.

“Eds I can pay for my own. You already bought me a ticket.”

Eddie shook his head, pushing his money toward the attendant. “Nope, I invited you so it’s my treat. If you wanna pay, then ask me out on a date.”

#ask games <3 #wip game #my wips #buddie #teen!buddie #evan 'buck' buckley #eddie diaz #911 fox

11 notes · View notes

sunflowerinthekitchen · 1 year

Note

YOU ARE A PERCABETH SHIPPER? fun fact i tattooed percy name on my hand 3 years ago he is my COMFORT character i loved him since i was 9 i never loved any character as much as i love him he’s literally everything to me🥰

YESSS!! 💜 that's my babies that's my loves that's my ultimate ship!! I have like three copies of the series & it's probably what ive reread the most? I can't let them go, they're a part of me at this point, they're intertwined with me as much as Gilmore girls is.

also long live is the ultimate song for the 7, and you can't tell me you don't think of Leo with "But if, God forbid, fate should step in/ and force us into a goodbye/ If you have children some day /When they point to the pictures/Please tell 'em my name/Tell 'em how the crowds went wild/Tell 'em how I hope they shine" right before the final fight in HOO??? And "traded our baseball caps for a crown" for Annabeth and "a band of theives in ripped up jeans got to rule the world". The whole song is just so PJO/HOO coded 🥰

#thegreatwars #i am just so obsessed with the halfbloods its not normal #im as not normal with them as i am with rory&jess #like i am who i am because of them you know?

5 notes · View notes

writerownstory · 2 years

Note

One of these for the prompts thing, please :)

as I’m sure you know… the first prompt was already requested. I started out with this going in one direction and the more I wrote… it got a bit away from me but I hope you’ll still like it 🥰

“You just said, and I quote, I have feelings for you.”

“Is that really so hard to believe?”

Her brain was scrambling to keep up. To provide reasons on why this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. It was a dream. Make believe. Luke Patterson—the boy she had a crush on for forever—had just admitted he had feelings for her? “Yeah, actually. It is. How could you…I mean you’re so…and we’re just…and Carrie—“

“Carrie?” he asked in disbelief. “What makes you think I’d have any interest in Carrie Wilson?”

Julie shrugged, hunching her shoulders as if to make herself smaller. “She’s pretty, popular, rich and talented.”

“Jules, come on. You know none of that matters to me. I mean sure, that’s all good for her but who cares?”

“She really likes you,” she told him. As if the way Carrie had been throwing herself at him every chance she got since the ninth grade hadn’t made it obvious. “I mean, she’d kill me if she knew we were having this conversation.”

“She won’t touch you,” Luke said firmly. “I won’t let her.”

The confidence in his words sent a shiver down her spine, but Julie forced herself not to react. “I…I guess I just figured since…” Her voice died in her throat, as she pulled her flannel tight around her shoulders.

“Jules, hey. Look at me.”

She finally gathered the courage to meet his gaze.

He cautiously reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Where is all this coming from? This isn’t like you.”

“I guess I just don’t believe you could actually have feelings for someone like me.”

Luke raised an eyebrow at her, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips. “Someone like you? You mean someone who’s incredibly talented? Whose heart leads her everywhere she goes? Julie, you’re the best person I know. How could I not have feelings for you?”

“But I’m not… I-I’m not talented or anything, I haven’t even played a note in a year.” She shook her head. “You deserve someone like Carrie who loves music but it’s not me.” Julie moved to brush past him, but he stepped in her way.

“Julie.” He reached out for her arm, his hold firm enough for her to stay but not tight enough to hurt her. She knew that if she really wanted to, she could pull away from him and leave. “I see the look in your eyes when you hear music you like. The way your brain still pieces melodies and chords together even though you wish you wouldn’t. I know you’re afraid since your mom died.”

Julie flinched at his words and he finally dropped her arm.

“You’re grieving, Jules. But why should that mean I can’t care about you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing this conversation would go away. Wishing Luke had never told her anything—even if it was the best thing she’d heard in months. She wanted to pull her baseball cap low over her eyes and rush home. But it wouldn’t matter, because she knew Luke would still find her. “You can’t fix me, Luke. You won’t get me to play again.”

“Who said that’s what I want to do?”

She shook her head as she turned to face him, tears pooling in her eyes. “Everyone keeps asking me to try. I’ve tried for Flynn, I’ve tried for Mrs. Harrison, I’ve tried for my dad, I’ve tried for my mom.” She cut herself off, willing the tears not to fall. “I’m tired of people getting me to try—because I can see the disappointment in their eyes when I still can’t do it. I can’t take it from you too.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Luke rushed up to her as Julie tried to duck away from him. He cupped her face in an attempt to get her to look at him, feeling the stray tears slip down her face. “There’s no need to fix you, Julie. You’re not broken. Sad, yes. Grieving, of course. But not broken. I don’t need you to try. You’ll play music again in your own time.”

“What if I don’t?” Her voice cracked just as his heart did, but he couldn’t let her know.

“I’ll still think you’re just as incredible as I do right now. By then, probably even more than I did a few minutes ago.” His thumb swiped the last of her tears off her cheek. “And until then, I’ll love you through it.”

His words hit her square in the chest, like an electric hammer straight to the heart. Julie looked up at him, this boy she’d known for the longest time, and had a crush on even longer. She was beginning to think it was more, actually. Though she wasn’t sure if she was ready to say that out loud. It was his smile that had really gotten her originally. Despite the fact that he wasn’t smiling now, the tender care that he looked at her with right now made her feel safe. A feeling she hadn’t had in a long time.

#I have absolutely no idea where this came from #literally none #but here it is #also not proofread cause I wanted to share asap so I apologize if it doesn’t make sense lol #I do my best writing at night apparently #juke fic #writing prompts #my writing #julie and the phantoms

40 notes · View notes

hankmoonbeam · 2 years

Note

what are your favourite Bondy looks?

- rubs hands together with glee -

I’ll start by saying all Johnny is good Johnny, and that man just continues to get better with age. there are many more looks that I love love love but I will just post a few :)

First up: Johnny in the yellow glasses. I’m a sucker for a good nerd and these give him the right combo of studious and sexy as hell.

Then of course the bolo ties… bit of Americana on our British guy. I love how he just doesn’t care that he is in an indie rock band and goes ahead and wears something cowboys wear 🥰

And who can resist Johnny in a suit jacket? Be still my fucking heart. Nobody rocks them like he does ❤️‍🔥🔥

And finally, an honorable mention to the baseball cap. I know it’s controversial but I fucking love it…I feel like Johnny is just in his prime right now and is so relaxed and happy, and it shows. The hat is the perfect example.

And although it makes me kind of sad…I’m pretty sure he changed to these hats when he officially left Catfish. Representative of a new era, one in which he can really be himself. 💖

Bondy supremacy for evaaaaa 💖❤️💖❤️🥰

#catfish and the bottlemen #johnny bond #bondy

21 notes · View notes

queridopascal · 2 years

Note

Hi my sweet Annie! And congrats on 1400 bby!! 🎉For your celebration, may I request prompt 17. “Quick, kiss me!” With my love Frankie?? Maybe he’s run into an old flame and asks reader to help him out? (Secretly they’re both freaking out because of course they love each other, mutual pining friends to lovers type stuff.) Give me that fluff 🙈 ily and tysm in advance and congrats again!! You deserve it and so much more! 💜🥰

Aw Mel, thank you so much bby! Hope you like this 💞

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Warning: fluff, mention of alcohol, implied friends to lovers at the end

17. “Quick, kiss me!”

You agreed to go with the guys to one of Benny’s fights, the last of the season. When you arrived at the venue, the place was packed, but luckily Benny had reserved front row seats for all of you.

You sit beside Frankie and hand him the cup of cold beer, filled to the brim. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” he says with a smile, taking the cup from your hand and bringing it to his mouth.

His eyes scan the crowd for a moment, and he almost chokes on his drink when he spots a familiar face. Lowering the bill of his baseball cap, Frankie takes another sip of beer before placing the cup on the ground, between his feet.

His sudden change in behavior doesn’t get unnoticed, so you glance at the crowd sitting on the other side to see if you can recognize anyone.

“Is everything okay, Fish?” you ask, searching his gaze.

“Uhm, yeah.” he murmurs as he tilts his head to the other side and shields his face with his left hand.

You sigh and cross your arms. “Frankie, come on...”

He takes a deep breath and glances at you from under his cap. “You see the lady with the red leather jacket?”

You look ahead, squinting a little, until you notice a very pretty woman — probably ten years older than you — who’s wearing a red leather jacket. She has her hair in a high ponytail and she’s talking to a bald man.

“Yeah, she’s really pretty.”

“She... she’s my ex girlfriend.” he tells you, embarrassed.

You remain silent for a moment, and observe her again for a few seconds.

“Are you scared of her?”

“No,” he huffs, frustrated. “I just... don’t want her to see me.”

“Seems unlikely.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s staring at you. Right now.”

“Fuck.” he curses under his breath. “Why the fuck is she even here?”

“I don’t know.” you shrug your shoulders and glance at her again. She raises from her seat and meets your gaze for a split second before she starts to walk, rounding the corner of the ring to come in your direction. “Um, she’s now walking towards us.”

“Shit.” he hisses, lifting his head ever so slightly to watch her. “She’s getting closer.”

“Come on, do something.” you encourage him.

“What should I do? I cannot teleport!” he turns to you, no longer shielding himself with the bill of his cap or his hand. “Help me!”

You look around nervously, trying to find a way out. Then, it hits you.

“Quick, kiss me!” you practically blurt out, eyes wide as you look at him.

Frankie blinks rapidly at your words, and he clears his throat before cupping the back of your neck to pull you in for a kiss. The moment his lips touch yours, you instantly melt against him, sighing into his mouth when you feel his other hand on your hip.

Your hands slide under his jacket and rest on his chest, and you can feel his racing heart under your palm. It feels heavenly, the taste of him mixed with the beer is a dangerous combination that you know you’ll end up craving, and the way he holds you makes your head spin.

When your mouths part, it feels like time has stopped. His brown eyes dart back and forth between yours, mouth agape as he keeps you impossibly close to him.

“Is she...” he whispers, his warm breath grazing your chin.

“Gone? Yeah, I think so.”

He keeps staring at your lips, swollen and begging to be kissed again.

“Frankie I—” you begin, but the words never leave your mouth because he captures it again with his own, leaving you lightheaded and breathless. You have wanted to kiss him for so long, and now, you never want to stop.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, and one of them slides up until it reaches the curls at the back of his head. Your thread your fingers through his hair as you savour his mouth again, and it’s addictive, it’s everything, it’s... Frankie.

“Kiss you.” he sighs when he pulls away. “I’ve always wondered how it would feel like.” he confesses as he caresses your cheek gently.

“How — how does it feel like?” you ask him, your eyes never leaving his.

“Like I am finally doing something right.”

#1.4k followers celebration #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fluff #francisco catfish morales #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #josé pedro balmaceda pascal

483 notes · View notes

thirstybtsthoughts · 2 years

Note

What are your top 3 favorite Jungkook looks? (I know he looks good in anything, and i know that the less clothes are on him the better, but still)

If i had to choose, it probably would be... (ugh, my brain is working harder than Jungkook's buttons)

First one would be the Piped Piper look

(I'm not sure if this is the same era, correct me if i am wrong)

Second would be... the whole no make up - comfy clothes- boyfriend look because DAMN

I guess the baseball cap / sweats Kookie goes in the same category?

Kookie in Red.

I don't know why, i just have a weakness for him in red color clothes

(there are of course undercut!Jungkook and harness!Jungkook and rich-af-sugardaddy!Jungkook but its so hard to just choose 3...)

Omg this question 😩….it’s so hard to pick three because he has had so many top tier looks 😍😍.

Basically you kinda picked two of mine already 😊

Lotte ‘19 JK is forever embedded in my mind 🥵😰

Then the JK with the black cap and long hair in Saudi 😍 (I can’t add a pic bc of the limit but you’ve got him in your top 3 anyway 😊)

I will always love this airport look 😍

And I also love his MAMA 2018 look 😍

Ofcourse the past two years he’s given us soooo many more different looks and styles to admire, but because they’re recent and it’s obvious I would have them on this list I thought it would be nice to look back at older looks 😊🥰 . haha and you’re right, there’s undercut JK, blonde JK, fluffy ponytail JK 🥺…so much to love 🥰🥰

#asks #bts #jungkook

40 notes · View notes

romiantic · 3 years

Text

𝐈 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈’𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

❛ little signs that make the

ace of diamond boys realize

they’re in love with you ❜

[ 𝖠𝖢𝖤 𝖮𝖥 𝖣𝖨𝖠𝖬𝖮𝖭𝖣 𝖷 𝖡𝖫𝖠𝖢𝖪!𝖦𝖭!𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖤𝖱 ]

✰ 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: fluff

✰ 𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 eijun sawamura, kazuya miyuki, satoru furuya

✰ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: n/a

✰ 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: my first daiya no ace post, hope you guys enjoy 🤍

≡ [ 𝐄𝐈𝐉𝐔𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐀 ] :: YOUR NAME

: ̗̀➛ EIJUN, the boy who finds himself saying your name like it’s his second language. He sees himself always gushing at how beautiful your name sounds when he says or thinks about it. To him, it feels like your name is a drug, a drug so addictive that he doesn’t think he could ever let go of. Your initials are signed on his mitt, your name is signed on his caps, your initials are written on both of his ring fingers. Eijun just feels close to you when he has something of yours close by, he’s at ease when he pitches and your initials appear on his fingers. Something so simple yet Eijun is so in love with it, a feeling of bliss when he hears your name and picture your perfect features popping up in his mind.

≡ [ 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈 ] :: LOVE SONGS

: ̗̀➛ MIYUKI, and love songs? Who would’ve known? I mean he has some in his playlist but not too much. Though, ever since he introduced himself to you and notices himself wanting to spend more time with you, when baseball isn’t in the way, love songs protrude in at random times. During games, Miyuki hums slow love songs that remind you of him. Miyuki lulling himself to sleep with a different song that you sent him. Though Miyuki doesn’t mind, it’s more than great to be strung closer to you with songs that speak on wanting to be around the perfect person.

BONUS: Miyuki has a self-ship playlist of songs combined with your playlist and his and would be absolutely embarrassed if someone found it.

≡ [ 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐘𝐀 ] :: GIFTS

: ̗̀➛ FURUYA, a boy with very few expressions, unlike his teammate Eijun. Not to mention, he is absolutely clueless when it comes to love. However, he somewhat tries, still learning from his teammates. As he learns, Furuya realizes that he loves to gift you, he likes to get you your favorite candy or a small ring, no particular reason for it though. Maybe it’s his love language, who knows? Whilst, he recognizes that the deeper he falls into you, the more sentimental the gifts become from him. Small love letters, daily flowers picked out, or a nameplate necklace, of course, your name on it, made by the finest for your birthday. It doesn’t matter if the gifts hurt his pockets, Furuya doesn’t mind, the gifts hold a beloved place in his heart.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @revengingvixen @0risha @tortoise-kun

if you would like to be added onto the taglist, fill out the form on my navi or let me know in my inbox !!

✰ I was gonna do haruichi and chris but I’m still figuring out their character so I’ll probably do a part two with them and kuramochi

✰ sorry if I made the boys ooc, still new to the anime 😭

✰ hope you guys enjoyed <33

bye babes, drink your water, stay hydrated, and remember that you are the baddest bitch on the planet 🥰 no matter what ANYONE says

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝟓:𝟓 💗

ACE OF DIAMOND MASTERLIST ✰ MAIN MASTERLIST

113 notes · View notes

bts-fantasy · 2 years

Note

Hi are your requests still open? If it is, can i request an OT7 imagine where they decide to keep their girlfriend a secret from the public? The only ones who know are their families, the members and their families, and the company. I'd love for it to include the difficulties or struggles of it but at the same time their happiness as well.

Thank you!

Oh thanks for the request! It‘s been so long since I‘ve written something hehe. I hope you like it! 🥰

Today and Tomorrow is Christmas Day

Pairing: OT7; Jimin x Reader

Genre: Fluff

__________________________________________

„Babe, did you wrap Jungkook‘s gift, like I told you to?“, you yelled into the room next to your shared bedroom so Jimin could hear you. „Yes, I did! I‘ve already loaded all of the presents in the trunk, honey.“

„You’re the best! Thanks!“

You rushed to put on some red lipstick to finish off your look. It was the day before christmas eve so you just threw on a white cashmere pullover over some dark dress pants to keep it simple and comfortable. But as soon as Jimin entered the room he stopped mid-track to give you a surprised look which soon turned into that flirty gaze you were so used to by now. That look was familiar, but it never failed to make your heart pick up its pace in your chest.

„How do I look?“, you asked as if his reaction wasn‘t speaking for itself. Instead of answering your question he stepped further into the room towards you and pulled you in by the waist to give you a quick peck on the forehead. The small gesture had butterflies stir up in your stomach as you grinned from ear to ear. „I would say as beautiful as ever but there‘s something in your eyes that seem to shine even brighter than usual today, my love.“

You looked up at him winding your arms around his neck. „I‘m just so happy, you know? We get to spend christmas together this year, for the first time.“ Suddenly a saddened smile replaced his grin and Jimin gently pushed a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. „I know. It‘s just sad that in all those years we‘ve been together, I‘ve never been able to spend the holidays with you, Y/N.“

It hurt to hear the pain in his voice as he spoke and you couldn‘t help but remember all those lonely christmas eves you‘d spent without him wishing he‘d magically appear at your door. However, you knew it would be to no avail. You were aware of the costs of dating a public figure and you signed up for it. Because falling in love with the man in front of you was the best thing that had ever happened to you. You entangled your arms from behind his neck to cup his face with both hands. His dark eyes were searching yours like a lost puppy and you felt your own eyes beginning to sting looking right at him. „Let‘s not dwell on the past, shall we? I‘m the happiest girl in this entire world to call you mine, Jimin, and that‘s all that matters. Every minute with you is like christmas day for me.“ Jimin giggled at your cheesy remark and rested his forehead on yours and you both stood there for a while just taking in each other’s presence. „I love you, Y/N“, he whispered into the silence.

„Turn left in three hundred meters and then… you have arrived at your destination.“

„Honey, wake up, we‘re almost there!“ Jimin softly patted on your thigh to wake you up. You yawned heartily looking out the window. There were piles of snow covering the sidewalks and trees aligning high on each side of the road. Each house you passed by had various decorations hung up around their property and it was all shimmering in golden colors. The sight was mesmerizing as it filled your heart with warmth and you turned to look at Jimin whose eyes were trained on the road.

„It‘s beautiful, don‘t you think?“ Your eyes were big and full of excitement and Jimin stole a quick glance at you before turning back to the road with a grin. He was wearing a black baseball cap and sun glasses to cover his face from the public but luckily there weren‘t many people around on the sidewalks. Sometimes you wished you could walk down the streets with your fingers intertwined without the fear of getting caught by someone. The little things that seem so natural and simple to other couples seemed like an unattainable dream to you sometimes. Like going to the grocery store, walking side by side in a park or just simply spending the holidays together were the hardest things to do for you two. Even more the reason for your uncontrollable joy you felt inside at the thought of waking up on christmas day beside him.

„It‘s so sweet of Mrs. Jeon to invite us all over to their residence for christmas.“ Jimin said as he turned left into a narrow street that lead you uphill to a beautiful mansion covered with golden lights. „Yes! And I can‘t wait to meet the other girls! I finally get to brag about my boyfriend in front of other people than my family.“ Jimin giggled as he parked the car next to a red Mustang which you knew belonged to Taehyung. „I‘m sure your family needed a break from that anyway.“

You entered the house with Jimin right beside you and were immediately greeted by a big dog running towards you in excitement. „Bam!“ Jimin exclaimed crouching down to pet the dog as he sprawled out on the floor to get a belly rub. „I missed you lil guy!“ His laugh filled the big foyer and soon enough the owner strolled in wearing grey sweatpants and hoodie and a boyish grin on his face. „More than me?“ Jimin immediately looked up at his younger member and dashed forward to jump right at him. „Jungkook!!“ Watching the boys from the sidelines the sight in front of you warmed your heart and you couldn‘t stop yourself from smiling bigger and bigger at them. It didn‘t take long for Jungkook to notice your presence and he was quick to pull you into a tight hug as well. „Glad you two could make it.“ „Wouldn‘t have missed this opportunity for anything, Kook.“ He smiled warmly at you before taking you by the hand. „Come, I want you to meet my girlfriend!“

Excitement took over you once again at the thought of meeting Jungkook‘s girlfriend, Jia. From what you‘d heard, she was the sweetest girl ever and took good care of him. You‘d never had the chance to meet her personally but today was finally the day to make her acquaintance.

Jungkook led you to the living room which was almost the size of a ball room. There was a huge christmas tree in one corner right beside the fireplace and the whole room was decorated with ornaments and all sorts of shiny crystals and lights. It was a breathtaking sight and you almost tripped over your own feet as Jungkook dragged you across the room to the sitting area. There were several couches and armchairs surrounding the fireplace and you could vaguely see a few heads poking out from the backrest. „Jia! Look who‘s here!“ Jungkook‘s excitement didn‘t go unnoticed either. You could see his wide grin even from behind. A head with shiny auburn locks turned around to look behind her and her eyes went big immediately before she stood up to rush towards you to give you a big warm hug while Jungkook stood beside you two with the proudest smile on his face. „Hyung, didn‘t I tell you they‘d be great friends?“ Jimin finally caught up with you all and reassuringly patted his younger member on his shoulder.

„Let me introduce you to the others“, Jia pulled you towards the small gathering of people. You were now close enough to identify the faces and quickly gave everyone a hug. They were all present except for Yoongi and his fiancée, who were stuck in traffic. Seokjin was sitting next to his girlfriend Marie, as Jia informed you. Her bright blue eyes were a big contrast to Seokjin’s dark orbs and they looked absolutely stunning next to each other. Lilah‘s arms were tightly wrapped around Hoseok‘s waist as she smiled up at you. Hoseok was giggling softly next to her as her afro hair tickled his neck everytime she moved. Sophie and Namjoon were in the middle of a conversation but they both quickly got up to give you a hug before continuing. Lastly, Taehyung, who‘d been patiently waiting for his turn, came towards you with a wide grin. „Missed you, soulmate stealer.“ He pulled you into his chest and when he let you go he made room for Da-eun to step forward and greet you as well. „So nice to finally meet you, Y/N.“ Just looking at her made you realize why she must’ve caught Taehyung‘s eyes in the first place. She looked timelessly beautiful with her dark brown hair and even darker eyes. Something in the way she carried herself spoke of utter elegance and class but still very warm and welcoming.

„I hope we‘re not too late to the party?“

Everyone‘s heads turned towards the entrance of the living room where Yoongi was standing hand in hand with his fiancée, Maya. A shy smile was gracing her lips as she looked at everyone one by one. „Oh, the soon-to-be-husband-and-wife have arrived, everyone!“ Jimin yelled into the room making everyone laugh as they both joined the group with embarrassed smiles. „Just wait until yall get engaged. I‘ll get my revenge soon enough.“ He spoke before going on to greet everyone. You walked up to Maya to give her a hug and exchanged a few words with her about how terrible the traffic was on the way to Jungkook‘s family residence. Her voice was calm and kind of soothing, much like Yoongi‘s and you found yourself wanting to keep talking to her just so you could listen to her voice.

Jimin and you finally got to sit beside each other on one of the smaller couches close to the christmas tree and he instantly pulled you closer so your back could rest on his chest. „How do you feel?“, he whispered into your ear as you snuggled up to him feeling his warmth and the scent of his cologne cloud your mind. „Hmm.. they all seem so nice, babe. I‘m so happy we‘re here together.“ Jimin took your hands into his rubbing small circles on the back while engaging in light-hearted conversations with everyone around you. Listening to his voice so closely vibrating through his chest into your back made you melt into him even more enjoying his presence with you. You looked around with pure happiness seeing the way the boys were comfortable and so in love with their partners that it all made sense in the end. This is all that matters. To you and to everyone else in this room.

A/N: I wish you all a wonderful Christmas!!! Stay safe, healthy & warm! 🥺🎄✨♥️

40 notes · View notes