#cardboard counter display boxes

[verdancepackaging]

𝑬𝙡𝒆𝙫𝒂𝙩𝒊𝙣𝒈 𝑹𝙚𝒕𝙖𝒊𝙡 𝘿𝒊𝙨𝒑𝙡𝒂𝙮𝒔 𝒘𝙞𝒕𝙝 𝘾𝒖𝙨𝒕𝙤𝒎 𝑪𝙤𝒖𝙣𝒕𝙚𝒓 𝑫𝙞𝒔𝙥𝒍𝙖𝒚 𝑩𝙤𝒙𝙚𝒔

Retail stores and shopping centers employ counter display packaging boxes to showcase their items on the counter. These custom counter displays may be ordered in various sizes, shapes, and styles. Customers often offer the designs after discussing their wants and requirements with the designer. Choose Verdance Packaging to make small counter display boxes that add color to your shelves. With over Seven years of experience, we have set the standard for the packaging industry. We make custom counter display boxes to showcase packaged goods on store counters. Many different kinds and designs of containers are available. Their form and other characteristics are product-specific. You may use them to safely ship anything from very fragile items to those just a little on the hefty side.

[custompackagingboxes]

Retail Boxes - Elevate Product Presentation for Visibility

These modest receptacles work as a canvas for branding, storytelling, and functioning and are frequently the initial point of contact between a business and its audience. Retail Boxes are more than just a means of delivering goods; they are an essential part of the customer experience. They have become an essential tool for businesses to stand out in the cutthroat market, where consumers are inundated with options and want to make a lasting impression. A primary function is to contain and safeguard the merchandise while it is stored, transported, and displayed. Their importance goes well beyond simple utility. They allow businesses to interact more deeply with customers by physically embodying their identity and core values.

Retail Boxes to Ensure Product Safety and Security

Every component of a box, from the selection of materials to the design and finishing touches, is thoughtfully crafted to complement the brand image and appeal to the intended market. Retail Boxes act as physical brand ambassadors in the digitally-driven society, where internet buying is becoming increasingly common. Due to the lack of in-person engagement chances, they serve as silent salesmen, promoting brands and persuading customers to buy. Innovative structural elements, colours, and eye-catching designs can attract customers and pique their interest while encouraging interaction. They raise loyalty and satisfaction levels by adding to the total client experience. This experience is elevated to a memorable occasion by the addition of anticipation and exhilaration that accompanies the receipt of them.

Retail Boxes That Reflect Your Commitment to Sustainability

A well-constructed box not only shields the product but also makes the unwrapping experience exciting and exciting. In addition, brands frequently invest in high-quality materials and sophisticated designs to give their customers a feeling of exclusivity and luxury and to make them feel valued. Every element, from a sustainable Eco-friendly packaging to their sleek matte finish, comes carefully designed to give the customer an excellent first impression. Retail Boxes are essential for environmental consciousness, sustainability initiatives, and aesthetics. Growing consumer worries about plastic waste and pollution have led to a need for Eco-friendly packaging options.

Retail Boxes That Showcases Your Quality and Value

In response to this change, retailers use reusable, biodegradable, and recyclable materials for their boxes. Brands that prioritise sustainability not only lessen their environmental impact but also gain the support of people who care about the environment, which improves their marketability and reputation. Retail Boxes help firms reach a wider audience beyond the time of sale by acting as practical marketing tools. These days, unboxing films and product photographs are prominent types of content creation because of social media and influencer marketing. Customers can become brand ambassadors and create natural exposure by sharing their unwrapping experiences on social media through an aesthetically pleasing option. Word-of-mouth advertising can significantly increase their credibility and awareness, boosting sales and encouraging brand advocacy.

Display Boxes to Enhance Brand Recognition and Values

These straightforward but efficient containers do various tasks, including drawing in potential buyers and giving essential product details. Display Boxes are commonplace in the marketing, retail, and product display industries. They are an essential part of the shopping experience, whether on the shelves of a boutique and in a busy supermarket aisle. In addition, they aim to do what their name implies: show off items. They come made of different materials, sizes, and shapes, each specifically designed to meet the requirements of the thing they hold. Numerous solutions are available, providing versatility to organisations of all sizes and industries, ranging from cardboard countertop displays to translucent acrylic cases. Attracting attention is one of their primary purposes.

Display Boxes That Captivate Whoever Looks At Them

An attractive display can distinguish between success and failure in a competitive market where innumerable products compete for attention. Bright colours, striking images, and creative designs are frequently used to make things stand out from the competition. The objective is always the same, whether it is an eye-catching display of handmade chocolates and a sleek box showing the newest smartphone: to capture their attention and persuade them to investigate more. Display Boxes have a function that goes beyond beauty. They give things a controlled atmosphere to keep them arranged and safe. They can also remain made to fit particular characteristics of the object, including accessory compartments and windows displaying product details.

Display Boxes That Remain Created through Detailed Designs

Boxes are effective marketing instruments. Display Boxes can communicate vital details about a product, such as its qualities, advantages, and cost, in addition to just exhibiting it. Displays with clever design can tell a tale, arousing feelings and building a bond with the customer. In addition, they can sway consumer decisions and increase revenue through memorable taglines, captivating images, and interactive features. Thus, they now play a new role in the digital sphere and their conventional role in brick-and-mortar establishments. Thus, the significance of aesthetically pleasing product displays has increased with the growth of e-commerce. Online merchants use virtual stores to present their merchandise to emulate the in-store shopping encounter.

[kombuuuu]

hii i really enjoyed ur miles 42 fic, was wondering if u could write something about reader and miles meeting for the first time? who was interested first🤭?

For the Soul (and the Heart)

Miles!42 x Fem!Reader

“I’ll be here. So pretty fun, i’d say”. “Guess you’re right, Chiquita.”

AHHH meet cute x simpy miles we LOVE

Miles getting comfy w reader and reader getting progressively more combative the more time they spend together bc they luvvvvvvv each other? perfection

please don’t read if you get uncomfy with suggestive content, nothing too bad but still suggestive!

The morning was still. An odd occurrence for a Saturday. The winter chill had settled the night prior and seeped into ever cracked windowsill.

Streets coating in a thin layer of snow and trees dusted with the same. And acknowledging this freezing weather, obviously you decided to go for a walk. Snow crunched under your feet as you followed street signs, the only thing telling you where you were going was which street looked prettier.

Eventually you stopped, hugging your scarf closer to your nose and looking for a stall or shop that caught your eye.

Eventually it did, a quaint cafe stationed between two clothing stores, relatively small and pretty empty. The outside was decorated with white Lilly-of-the-Valley flowers, flower beds filled with the pretty things. Contrasting to the deep Mahogany of the wooden shop. Which looking into the wide window, seemed relatively the same. Deep furniture with white accents and a soft yellow light dancing along shiny hardwood floors.

Swirling cursive words cut into the wooden headboard swinging from a chain outside the door. “Morales Coffee.”

There looked to be seven or eight people in there currently, for how inconspicuous it tried to look, the amount of patrons at such an odd time (10:42 AM, not morning but not afternoon either.), You’d assume that coffee has to be amazing.

The door bell chimed sweetly at your entry, Barista turning to greet you.

The sweet woman gleamed over at you for a moment, turning back to her current customer while he pulled out his wallet. You lined up, looking at the pastries lining the glass displays. The ones catching your eye a Raspberry Danish and a cute baby blue Lunch-Box cake.

The man had moved away, leaving it your turn to order. The woman smiled at you and for once, approaching someone in costumer service didn’t feel as scary as it should’ve.

“Hi, What can I get for you today?” The curly haired woman had a twang of an accent curving her words. And a motherly vibe about her.

“Hey,” You smiled back at her “,Could I get a regular Mocha—.” You paused to let her punch it in. “.—A raspberry Danish and your blue cake.”

You pointed vaguely towards where the blue cake would be to her side of the display. “Yes, of course! That’ll be $18.40, thank you.”

Whilst you pulled out your purse to pay and she began to retrieve the items. She spoke up again. “Someone’s birthday?”

You laughed, not expecting her to speak so suddenly.

“Oh, no!” A chuckle left your lungs “Just want some cake recently. Saw your shop and its cakes. Thought may as well get it while i’m here.”

She laughed along with you, snorting a little as she boxed the small cake in the cardboard lunchbox. “Seems reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

She grabbed your danish and placed it on the counter, putting the cake in a bag and handing it to you.

“Thank you, again.”

“No worries, your mocha will be out shortly!” The bouncy lady turned around, going close to the back of the counter and opened a door you hadn’t realised was there, talking into it.

“Bebé, hay una chica linda ahí afuera que quiere un Mocha. Ve a hacerlo para ella. Y no la riegues.”

"Baby, there's a cute girl out there who wants a Mocha. Go do it for her. And don't mess it up."

Miles glanced up in confusion.

“¿Pero porqué me dices a mi?”

“Why me?”

“Pues es linda, y parece de tu edad.”

“She’s pretty, and around your age.”

“Ma, porfavor.”

“Ma, please.”

“Go.”

“Fine, fine.” He raised his hands in defeat and Rio kissed his cheek on the way out.

You found a seat with a cute view of the street outside and waited patiently for your coffee, people watching to pass time.

There was always a fear of crime in your neighbourhood. The lack of supposed ‘good guys’ coupled with the city being run down by anyone who wanted to escape trouble. Once news broke out of the first robbery in Brooklyn, where no one was caught. It was immediately put on the radar for any criminal looking to live somewhere safe.

The Prowler had been changing that. Little by little the Panther-esc.. Anti-Villain was scraping through the streets of Brooklyn and letting his blood stained claws drag over those in his way.

People feared him, the violence he brought with him.

You thought he was the closest thing to a hero you were getting, so who’s got room to complain?

If he’s not going to do the dirty work, who will?

The chatter of other people in the cafe had gotten slightly louder, four more people walking in while you sat.

“Miles, la chica linda de ahí.”

“Miles, That sweet girl over there.”

“Sí mamá, ya sé.”

“Yeah mama, I know.”

The smooth baritones accent of a boy around your age caught your attention. The way his letters curled giving you a rush of something down your spine. You looked up when you heard feet approaching, seeing probably the most ridiculously handsome man you have ever met bring you your coffee.

The way his jawline sharpened at a point, braids lying on his shoulders just below it. His lips that seemed awfully soft for someone who probably doesn’t even know what chapstick is. Lashes fluttering prettily over his high genes cheekbones, accenting his golden eyes. Jesus christ he’s pretty. His lips curled into a smirk at your face, your doe’d eyes gleaming up at him. He had some sharp canines.

“‘S one’s yours, Miss.” He placed the steaming mug on your table and you smiled. “Thank you!”

“No worries, Hermosa.” He looked at you a moment longer before the sweet lady called him back to make another order.

“Coming, Momma.” He called back to her, turning back to you for a second time and adding.

“I’m Miles, by the way.”

“Miles.. that’s a cute name.”

His lips upturned again at the compliment.

You gave him your name, which he hummed at, repeating it and rolling it around his tongue. His accent was gorgeous.

“Hope to see you ‘round, [Name].”

You choked out a pathetic affirmation, “Mhmma.— Yeah, yep.”

He laughed lightly and dragged his fingers along the table as he left.

Like claws.

—

Two days later you were back. It was some of the best coffee you’d ever had. And the desserts were the same, most of the cake still sitting boxed in the fridge.

Also there was an added bonus, being the coffee house owner, and her son.

The boy was interesting enough to keep your attention, sweet to you but held a sort of curiosity about him. Like he was hiding something but felt no shame in doing it, that it was righteously excused.

And to be real, you were dying to hear his voice again. Two days and all that had been playing in your head was the way he’d said your name, let the word travel down to his lungs and breathed life into it. A longing into it.

Miles was about the same, probably worse.

You saying his name was cute was probably his new lifeline. The way you had said it so innocently, sweetly to the likes of him. A twisted, wretched man. You had him swooning faster than he deemed safe, his body was going into overdrive. He had watched you while in their cafe, having never met someone so.. untainted by the world. Someone so sweet who carried nothing but a childlike innocence in their curios nature. Nothing done out of bad faith or in vain. You were nothing like him, he adored that.

So when you came wandering back into his Mommas cafe, he hoped to every universe it would be something you didn’t stop doing.

“Ah! Miss, You’re back!” His Ma greeted her, watching as the girl told Rio her name, and his Mom in return.

You guys chatted idly for a moment, your expressions clear as day. He could read you like a grown man could read a picture book, so easy it would be insulting to present him with it, if the content wasn’t you. The brightness and easy nature of you was something refreshing, he would say his Momma was easy-going, but times had been hard lately and his family needed a cheering up. You seemed like the perfect candidate.

Sweet, bubbly and looking at him right now- Oh. He waved at you, shivering at the eye contact and watching as you smiled at him and waved back, hands shaking. He likes how nervous he makes you.

You sniffled a little from the cold, dripping your hand as his Mom room your attention again. She handed you a cinnamon scroll and you paid quickly, dropping twenty bucks in the tip jar and quickly finding your way back to your seat.

“Miles! Un Mocha regular porfavor.”“Miles, regular Mocha please.”

He nodded to his mom, like he hadn’t remembered from last time. Like he hasn’t watched as you enjoyed something he made you.

—

“Bienvenida de nuevo, Chiquita.”“Welcome back, Chiquita.”

Sitting in the same spot as last time, staring at the idling passer-by’s, the light of a Winter morning danced off the snowy ground and highlighted your face, leaving a soft glow in your eyes.

You turned to him, paying him your whole mind.

“Thank you, Miles.” He placed your coffee in front of you, slightly leaning over you. He raised his eyebrows and hummed. You inhaled quickly, breath caught in your throat. Now realising the proximity between the two of you. Not only that, but there was a sweet smell that followed him around, coffee and cinnamon. How fitting.

His voice had gone deeper, smoother.

“I’m glad to see you back here—,” He leaned back again, hand dragging the same way it had two days prior. Your slow blink and parted lips made a deep rooted part of him begin to blossom once more.

He wanted to protect you the way he knew no one else could, wanted to lay his Soul down for you. Let you trace the veins imbedded in his skin with your teeth and take as much from him as you could. Run him dry, let him owe you his life so he can die protecting yours.

The speed his infatuation was growing probably wasn’t healthy.

“Really?” Your sweet, breathless inquiry silenced that though.

“Of course, Mami.”

“I—,” You paused, picking at you fingernails for a moment “,—I like it here, a lot.”

You leaned a little forward in your seat. Pressing your forearms against the wooden tabletop and leaning on them. He watched your back drop into a small arch, and for his own health, decided to ignore it. “‘S very cozy.” You glanced towards the window again. Watching another lad and her dog pass. He watched you.

“Mm, it is.”

“And you’re here.”

He sucked in a breath, fingers twitching.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your gaze flickered to him once more and he held it.

He let his hand drift to your shoulder, rubbing it slowly while he peeled himself away from the table.

“I gotta go, Mami, but enjoy your time.”

“You too, Miles.”

“I’ll be working,” He smiled at you, a small thing.

“I’ll be here. So pretty fun, I’d say.”

He hummed.

“Guess you’re right, Chiquita.”

—

It had been around four Months since Miles had met you. And he was in over his damn head, not that he wasn’t at your first meeting. But progressively, over time, he’d fallen deeper and deeper for you.

Everything you did had him in a chokehold. The way you were so sweet with his Mom, or how even uncle Aaron liked you when he’d stopped by the cafe.

How you offered to help around with no pay, generosity basically leaking from your heart. When you would come over just to see him because you “missed his voice”.

Or would sit in his room and wait for him. If he ever came home late, injured from things you had no business knowing, you wouldn’t ask a thing. You stayed quiet, and patched him up. Let him rest his head on your collarbone while you softly rubbed his shoulders. Trying to lighten the weight of the world off of them.

Every little thing.

He was done pretending like it didn’t affect him. He could barely go a single day without you on his mind constantly, as if.

He knew you felt the same.

Still just as readable as your first meeting. He knew the frequent outings between the two of you were more than just friendly meet-ups to you. To him.

And when your gazes would catch one another, he’d try and tell you. Express without so much as a word how you were the only person he could do this with. The only one he felt comfortable to walk down the street with, and let you chat his ear off about any new movies you’d seen, books you’d have read.

He would let you sleep in his bed, bring little things into his room and give the bland walls life.

You had made a home in him. Cracked chips in his walls on by one until you’d found a single loose stone and happily let everything he’d built up fall just for you.

—

Miles had texted you around mid-day that he’d wanted to see you, in which you’d giggled at your phone dreamily.

Laying on your bed with your stomach down, kicking your legs like a girl gone stupid.

It hadn’t even been much to fret over, just a simple:

Can you come over later?

He had phrased it rather questioningly, but for no good reason. He’d known full well the moment he even insinuated you being with him, you’d jump at the chance.

And you did, swiftly replying;

okayyyy !!

I’ll pick you up at 7.

six…?

7, [Name].

>:(

Don’t be childish.

i’m nvr childish, see u at 6 C:

You got up, threw your phone somewhere on the bed and checked your, admittedly already-packed, overnight bag. Making sure nothing was missing before putting it at your door.

Your phone pinged again.

See you at six.

You smiled.

You spent the rest of that afternoon anxiously waiting for him to pick you up.

—

He showed up at your door five minutes late, greeting you at the door with a soft apology about the tardiness.

“Sorry, Mami. Took a wrong turn.”

“Don’t apologise, Miles.”

You smiled at him, stars in your eyes. He looked away for a second, a bit guilty for lying to you, but he feels it’s worth it.

“Grab your bag, ma. Let’s go.”

You hummed an affirmation, rushing to your room to grab the pink duffel bag.

You grabbed your phone off your night stand and did a double check for everything.

You walked out again, closing the door behind you. Miles was leant up against your doorframe. Forearm pressed on the wood and his torso stretched. A small sliver of his skin had peeked from under the fabric, you thanked the warming weather. Quickly averting your gaze, you noticed him watching your stare in intent, a curious smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“You good, Chiquita?”

“Uhuh—, yep. Fine.”

“Mmhm.”

You huffed out, pouting and pressing your palm to his chest, his very toned chest, and pushed back lightly.

“Get outta my way, lame-o, I gotta lock the door.”

He resisted for a moment longer, gazing down at you in humour. He trailed his hand up your arm slyly and pried your hand off his chest by sliding his thumb up from under your wrist onto your palm. Slowly pulling you off him.

“Maybe ask politely.”

You gave him an unimpressed stare and flipped him off.

“Miles.”

“[Name].”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s just a ‘please’.”

“..-Please, get the fuck outta my way.”

“Of course, Hermosa.” He snorted as he did.

You turned around, Miles still close to you in the cramped hallway, and locked your door.

You turned around, noticing his eyes glance up from where they were before and shot him a questioning look. He turned around and led you through you hallway, dismissing the look.

—

He opened the steel door to the cafe. The scenery of a rooftop garden with the same Lilly-of-the-Valley flowers up here as there were out front of the store.

Shrubbery lined the rooftop edge and the string lights hung from the veranda created an atmosphere that seemed almost cinematic.

“Jesus, Miles. This is beautiful.”

“Mm, thought you’d like it.”

“I do, so much.”

You stated in awe at the mural painted on a buildings wall behind the door. A man who stroke a resemblance to Miles painted surrounded by colours of any.

The moonlight basked against the neon colours, accenting the man’s features.

“My dad.”

Your gaze snapped up to him beside you, brows furrowing in a frown.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S cool. Nothin’ you coulda known, Ma.”

He sighed at the image of his father, wishing him well rest.

Turning to you, he wasn’t surprised to see the greif in your eyes. He was, though, surprised at the lack of pity.

He was so used to having his far family whisper behind his back at how his soul had died with his fathers. How the light in his eyes had gone missing the day his hand had been forced, unable to get to his dad in time.

There was no escaping his death.

So to feel the understanding coming from you—. The confidence in your sorry but knowledge that pity would do no one any good, it was refreshing. Everything about you was.

He turned away from your watchful eyes, the intensity being unusual for him.

“Come sit, vida mía.”

You followed him dutifully, loyally. Like you had since the last Winter. Like you would continue for the next to come.

A set of pillows had been placed in the middle of the veranda. White wood covered in lively vines and the aforementioned string lights.

There was a layout of his pastries (which you had learned he was the baker of) laid out on a cotton blanket.

You sat on one of the pillows, legs crossed. Miles following short after.

“Oooh,” You begun to tease him “,This a romantic dinner date?” The tone of your voice was in jest, but when he had failed to answer— Your heart rate sped up and your face went hot to the touch.

“Miles? Y’know I— I was just jokin’—“ “If you want it to be.”

You stood stupidly for a moment, not quite reeling in his words like any other person would.

“Wh—.”

It was his turn for unsurity now, eyes dancing nervously between you and the skyline.

“No pressure, though. Just think it’d be nice.”

“It would.”

He refocused on you again, finding you already watching him owlishly. “Yeah?”

“Mm, we could—,”

He anxiously started picking at the blanket. Who knew someone usually so calm could be this nervous asking out the most harmless girl he knew.

“Try. We could try that, together.” You mumbled a bit, seemingly playing it off. “If you want, or something..”

“I do.” He gained some leg to stand on, finding it easier and easier as you spoke, your nerves somehow calming his own.

“I’ve wanted that for a while.”

“Oh good, cause—“ You placed your hand in your lap, cracking your knuckles. “—Me too, so. That’s good.”

He grinned at your awkwardness, knowing your lack of experience in the relationship aspect of life, this mutual agreement, instead of one asking the other out, probably hasn’t been an experience of yours yet. He liked he was the first.

“Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You puffed at him, punching his arm lightly.

“I’m never shy, that’s for dumb stupid lame people. And I am none of those.” “Oh, sure.”

“Wh— Sure?! Which one are you ‘sure’-ing? Dumb, stupid or lame?!”

“Uhuh.”

“Miles!”

“Keep saying my name like that, mami.”

“Oh my goodness!”

—

And when you both finally got into his bed, you’d slept tangled together like you had dozens of times before. But this time, Miles would grab your waist and pull you closer. Settle his face in your neck and trace his nose down the length of your shoulder, peppering a kiss on every inch of skin he could find, and you’d both finally felt sure.

Maybe people were right, maybe Miles’s soul had died with his father.

But meeting you, something new, something rejuvenating—.

It left him with a light he could search for, a new soul. A whisp of a being you’d taken from your own heart and placed in his. It left him breathless with life.

—

YIPEEE!!!!! another one 🗣️‼️

thank you to my translation helpers (bbgs) @kissmxcheek and @millyswife

(oh, wrong Miles! oops! 🤗⬇️)

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the dead ringer

buttercup, chapter three

a/n: yeah, this did happen to me in real life, although it happened on a bus so i couldn't immediately get away... ANYWAYS! enjoy this hurt/comfort heavy chapter!

summary: “I think I know something that might help a bit.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, crying, panic attacks, matt using his superpowers for the sake of hurt/comfort, boxing

word count: 2057

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

masterlist | join my taglist

Drizzling the flour into the wide bowl, like a dusty snowfall, you watched the number on the scale carefully as you neared the desired number. Though just before you hit it, Walter’s head suddenly poked in through the doorway leading behind the counter and interrupted you and Howard’s all-too-important discussion on what the day’s music choice should be. 

“Hey, Y/n? There’s someone here to see you.”

Laying down the scoop still holding a bit of flour, you dragged your palms down the brown apron tied around your frame and exited the kitchen. A bright smile spread across your face and crinkled up your gaze as you spotted who was standing on the other side of the counter. 

“Matt, hey–, oh my god,” you then suddenly noticed the bruising that blossomed out from under his tinted glasses and stretched up over the patched-up scrape that split his left brow, “what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just wasn’t paying attention last night, tripped and fell, that’s all,” he waved a hand, “I just wanted to stop by on my way to work, get a round of coffees to-go for everyone and perhaps some breakfast for myself, just whatever you think I’d like.”

“You’ll let me pick?” your eyebrows rose slightly. 

But Matt simply smiled and said, “I trust your judgment,” his grip shifted gently on the cane standing tall before his chest. 

As you moved to make the coffees, “alright,” you drew out a pondering breath, “are you in the mood for something sweet or savoury?”

Thinking about it a second, he uttered, “savoury.”

“Do you like sandwiches?” you popped the lids on the to-go cups. When he nodded, you placed the coffees in a little cardboard tray, “okay, I think you’ll like this one,” grabbed a brown paper bag and moved further down the counter, “it’s made with focaccia and has pesto in it as well as some tomatoes and cheese and stuff.” 

“That sounds amazing.”

“I also–, you know what? I’ll be right back,” you then abruptly turned and momentarily disappeared into the kitchen, grabbing a few of the pillowy buns still on the cooling rack into a bag. As you returned, you also snuck a hand into the display case and stuffed a few other goodies into the sack, “just for the others, if they want,” you placed the bundle onto the counter beside the coffees, “I just pulled them out of the oven a bit ago and they’re still warm.”

“What is it?” Matt tilted his chin. 

“Uh, some raisin buns, but I also threw two croissants in there in case they didn’t like raisins...” 

A soft smile warmed his bruised features as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, “what do I owe you?”

“Oh no,” your hands waved lightly before you, “it’s on the house.”

“Y/n, come on,” he cocked his head. 

“Fine,” you light-heartedly sighed, “if you really wanna sing for your supper, then I’ll cash it in at a later date. I don’t know, maybe if I get arrested someday or something you could help me out.”

“You don’t have to bribe me with free baked goods for that.”

“No, but it sure doesn’t hurt, does it?” you chuckled. 

“No,” he joined in as he reached for the bags, “I guess it doesn’t.”

“You want some help carrying it?” you asked, hope seeping through your tone, “I could take my break and walk with you the rest of the way.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, we just got through the morning rush, they’ll be fine without me for–, I don’t know, 15 minutes or however long it’ll take to walk to your office and back.”

“Alright, thanks,” he smiled, one paper bag hooked in the fingers that also clutched the cane.  

“I’m just gonna go grab my jacket, one second,” you said before ducking into the back to do so, letting your uncles know as you slipped out of your comfortable work clogs and into your sneakers. 

You ended up dividing the load, with you carrying the coffees and the last bag in one arm, though a few protests left you at first, begging him to let you carry all of it, they melted away as his free hand enveloped yours. 

When you reached his office, your arms wrapped around his frame as you hugged him long enough for your heartbeats to sync up, and just as you pulled away, his wide palms still warm on your back, you leaned in and planted a brief peck on his scruffy cheek. 

One of his hands swept up to meet the side of your face as your lips retracted. You pulled back so slowly that you weren’t sure you were moving at all, being drawn in by his warmth like a moth to a flame. 

His nose gently grazed against yours as he let himself linger, but just as your eyes fluttered shut in expectance that he’d kiss you, his warmth withdrew and he slowly breathed, “have a good day.” 

In a matter of seconds, you had gone from giggling, glancing down at some silly joke on your phone as you walked home, to panic instantly kicking in as a passerby’s voice pierced your soul and made your blood run cold.

Glancing around, you saw a stranger standing off to the side and yapping into his phone. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t Michael, but it sounded exactly like him, so much so that the tone sent your body right back to that very night as if no time had passed at all.

Willing your body to move, forcing it to conquer the short rest of the way home, once your front door shut behind you and your quiet apartment consumed you, painful sobs began to burst out of your trembling frame. Hyperventilating, you crashed into the nearby wall of the entryway directly across from the door, incapable of getting deeper into your home. 

Soon, a quiet and surprising knock found your door. 

“Y/n?” the worried tone of your neighbour sounded from the other side. 

Your shaky voice came out no louder than a whisper, “M-Matt?” 

There might not have been any other instances you could recall where accidentally forgetting to lock your door turned out for the better, because when Matt then tried the handle, it gently complied. 

Shutting it behind him, he rushed to you, “hey, hey,” he uttered softly, a hand soothingly finding your arm, “what’s going on?”

Attempting an answer, “I–, I–,” only incoherent sobs managed to seep from you. 

“Okay, alright,” he sucked in a controlled breath, one of his hands sliding up to the strap of your backpack, “how about we start by getting all the way inside, huh?” gently gliding it off you and resting the bag on the floor. 

You let yourself lean into him fully as he supported you on the short journey towards the couch. Wobbly taking a seat, his touch left you as he settled beside you.

Spine curving, you buried your puffy face in your trembling hands, letting the whole world drift away as small lakes were birthed within your palms from your pain. 

When the sobs eventually began to subsite, growing further and farther apart, your frame slowly unfurled. Instinctively flicking your hands before your form, you tried to physically shake even a fraction of the excruciating sensation off of you, but without success. 

Matt hadn’t moved an inch, simply stayed there right beside you. 

When your quiet voice eventually filled space, it came out broken and overflowing with emotion, “I thought it was him… it wasn’t, b-but it sounded exactly like him… I’ve done double takes every time I saw a stranger with the same haircut or felt nauseous every time I encountered the same name, but this really did sound like him. Same voice, same accent, same everything… but it wasn’t him… it wasn’t… it just sent me right back, you know?”

Hesitantly, you grasped his hand in yours, expecting the contact to only make it worse, to somehow taint and ruin his wonderful and soothing touch, but it didn’t, he didn’t. It was Matt. 

Trying to regain control of your breathing, you shakily sucked in deep breaths, feeling your gulps of air slowly become calmer and migrate from the very top of your chest, down to expand your sore stomach. Eyes only half open and utterly exhausted, you noticed that your head was now leaning against Matt’s shoulder. 

Glancing hazily down at yourself, you muttered, “fuck… I still have my shoes and jacket on…”

Reaching down, he offered, “here,” before sliding your coat off, resting it on the back of the couch, and leaning down to pull your shoes off. 

Curling your legs up onto the couch, the shift in your position offered you more relief than you’d expected. As you attempted to get as comfortable as you possibly could in the state you were in, you snatched up Matt’s hand once more. 

Offering your palm a soothing squeeze, he asked quietly, “what do you need, huh? What can I do?”

“I–…” you thought, your brain just as drained as your body was, “I don’t know… maybe–… maybe just be here a bit?”

Exhaling lowly, he flashed you a faint smile, “of course.”

Glancing down at his fingers, sweeping across your own, you said, “hey, Matt? Could you maybe–, uh… could you give me a hug?”

Not hesitating, his strong arms engulfed your quivering frame and a fresh wave of sobs swiftly bubbled out of you as he held you tight, though your cries didn’t push him away, he stayed steadfast, embracing you close till the eruption ultimately simmered down, leaving you nearly asleep against his tear-stained shoulder. 

As he gently lowered you down to lay on the couch, you tightened your grip on his shirt as he began to pull back, ushering him to sink down as well, allowing you to curl into his safe embrace and let slumber drift you away. 

When you finally stirred, the sun was nowhere to be seen. 

“Hey,” you blinked up at Matt still in the exact same spot as before. 

“Hey,” you replied groggily, “what time is it?” swiftly fishing your phone out of your pant pocket before Matt could conjure an answer, “oh, fuck… it’s nearly midnight… did you sleep as well?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, “maybe for a little bit, but no.”

“Oh…” you breathed, averting your gaze. 

“How are you feeling?” his thumb swiped your waist where his broad palm was planted. 

“…I don’t know…” you exhaled, “…exhausted… sad… angry… really fucking angry… so angry that it kinda scares me…” 

After a beat of silence, with only your woeful breaths filling the space, Matt then uttered, “I think I know something that might help a bit.”

Your gaze drifted from the faded paint on the walls to the worn punching bags as you and Matt sat on the edge of the central ring and his fingers worked at wrapping up your hands. 

“Do you come here a lot?” you asked, your vision gliding back to him. 

“From time to time,” he tilted his head slightly, “reminds me of my dad,” tucking the last end of the strip under the weave, securing it into place, he closed your hand into a fist and exhaled, “alright, you’re ready,” he adjusted your grip, briefly offering your wrist a squeeze as he said, “just remember to keep your wrist strong and your thumb right here,” he slid your finger down below your knuckles. 

You hadn’t gone into it with much hope, in fact, it was only out of your desperation just feel better that you even humoured the experiment. In the beginning, it did feel as silly as you’d imagined, nearly stopped completely, but at some point in the mess of it all, your punches grew more ferocious, they grew more brutal, and suddenly something inside of you snapped and unravelled. It wasn’t some magic pill, but the physical act did loosen something within you and gave away to a fresh release of sobs, though not the painful and unbearable kind you’d had to endure earlier. It was the kind that felt like relief. Even if it wasn’t permanent, in that very moment, you didn’t feel like you were drowning anymore. 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[shares-a-vest]

Prompt: Tall (Discord Drabble) I don't think I've written Steddie-height difference discourse/banter so here we go...

As Dustin huffs another frustrated breath beside her, Robin rolls her eyes. She can feel the kid folding his arms beside her as they watch Steve and Eddie flap about, arguing about their non-existent height difference near the front door.

Steve promised he would do all the restocks today while Robin showed Dustin the ropes, prepping their friend for a potential summer job – one that only Keith could officially grant.

But she didn't expect her best friend to immediately become distracted by Eddie's nonsense. He's become kind of a (total) pest, coming in on one too many breaks from the mechanic down the street to tease, taunt and sickly flirt with Steve at every possible opportunity.

Robin grips her notebook, her Bible of Family Video work processes she wants to impart on Henderson in order to impress his potential employer.

She thinks she'll just about break its goddamn spine if the scene before her carries on any longer.

"You are not taller!" Steve complains, holding his arms tight against his sides and puffing out his chest for maximum height.

Eddie snorts, "Oh pish-posh, Steve."

He mirrors Steve's stance and honestly, as she eyeballs it, Robin is sure Munson looks to be an inch taller.

... At least in his work boots.

Steve must read her mind because he quickly points to said height-assisting footwear and clicks his fingers.

"Boots, off!" he commands and Eddie grins.

"Yes, sir!" he enthuses.

"Yuck," Dustin grimaces.

Robin thinks her eyes might roll back into her skull, never to return.

Shoes off now, Steve and Eddie square up again. Steve smirks.

"See?" he teases, "Taller."

Eddie practically hisses as he looks him up and down, fists clenched tight. He murmurs something to himself before he attacks Steve's hair, patting his quaff down and smoothing it out with flat palms. Steve screams, batting him away.

His resistance creates a chaotic (and more than a little pathetic) slap-fight.

"What-cha-fu – "

"You're a no-good cheat with that hair!"

"Don't touch it!"

"Don't worry, Stevie, you're still bigger where it counts."

Dustin claps his hands over his ears.

"Disgusting!"

Steve manages to shirk away from Eddie's hold around his waist, jumping back far enough that he almost falls straight into the shiny new cardboard cutout of Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

"Henderson!" he pants, clutching at his lower back. He takes a moment to gather himself before fishing in his back pocket and retrieves his wallet.

He hurls the thing across the store. It goes flying as Robin and Dustin both fail to catch it. The wallet hits a candy display, knocking a box of 3 Musketeers and scattering them all over the floor inside the counter space.

"Oops," Steve says, bringing his hand to cover his mouth.

Robin catches his eye and scowls.

"Dustin..." Eddie huffs, winded, "Go buy a tape measure."

[miwsolovely]

—SHAMEFUL

pairing: task force 141 x fem!black!reader

series masterlist taglist next

summary: Your mom asks for a favor.

contains: mentions and talks of running away, reader being kept in the dark for a second, talks of revenge, talks of past trauma, price is a meany, ghost is ghost, reader has a tiny mental breakdown, dissociation

wc: 4.1k

a/n: love this first chapter

a/n 2: listened to ghost in the machine by sza while writing this (i would recommend listening to it while reading !)

Outside, the clouds were dark and gray. Casting a veil over the sun. Hiding light from this part of town. Mimicking your feelings, dark and sad and scared to hell.

Your back ached, carrying heavy boxes filled with memories from your last apartment, and the apartment before that, and the house before that.

The you from three years ago would’ve stripped each and every one of your house and apartments bare. Leaving nothing and bringing everything.

Now as you stand in your third apartment in two years, feeling defeated and tried, you wonder how most of your life can fit into 5 cardboard boxes.

All the memories filled with love, sadness, hate, years filled almost to the brim in 5 cardboard boxes.

You looked away from the depressing sight of your life in those boxes, sat down on the stool that was in front of your kitchen island, and lied your head down on the cold surface of it.

The cold was welcomed. It gave you something to think about, something else to worry about.

Your head was throbbing, pounding as you moaned in pain, your face full of sadness and distress. You felt like after moving so much in such little time, nothing was going your way, and the world seemed cold and uncaring.

Anchovy was curled up next to you, the feline's purr providing you a comforting and soothing presence that only she could provide. You felt her rough but soft paw, gently brushing up against your cheek, her tail swinging softly in an adorable display of cuteness.

Your attention was now drawn to the white Birman, and the feline gave a gentle meow, as if asking you if you’re alright.

You shuddered out a breath and ran your calloused hands over your face, resting your elbows on the island and your face on your hands.

“Fuck . . .” You whispered, running your hand through your hair and pushing it back out of your face at the same time. “This shit can’t get any sadder huh?”

Anchovy meowed again and rubbed her head on yours, her purring loud in your ears.

You laughed and ran your fingers through her fur. “Thanks Cho.” You bumped heads with her lightly and looked in her eyes. She in return, licked your nose.

You smiled and kissed her head, scratching behind her ears.

Disrupting the moment you were having with Anchovy, your phone rang. The sound piercing your ears and the vibrations uncomfortable on your ass. Anchovy leaped from the island counter to your lap as you reached in your back pocket to get your phone.

The contact calling you was no other than your older sister. You swiped to accept the call and held the phone against your ear, petting Anchovy with your unoccupied hand.

“What’s up scales?”

“One,” she snapped, “i am not a fish. Two, I called to warn you. So shut up, and listen.”

You paused combing your fingers through Anchovy’s fur. Vera never called to warn you, and she never sounded so serious.

“What is it?” You questioned. If it was anybody else calling you to warn you about something, you would’ve been fine. But this was Vera. Cold hearted stick-your-head-on-a-pike-if-you-look-at-me-weird Vera. She rarely even calls anybody.

You heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “Mom’s gonna call you. Shes gonna ask you for something, a favor, but you gotta promise me—”

“Mom?” You questioned. “Mom is gonna ask me for a favor? We talkin’ about the same woman right?”

She sighed again, exasperated. “Yes, [name] We’re talking about the same woman. Now listen,” she started, “shes gonna call you, ask for a favor, and you have got to fucking promise me that you hear her out because this will be beneficial to the both of you if you just fucking listen. You understand me?”

You were silent for a few moments. “[name]? [name] I swear to fucking—”

“Yeah, yeah I’m here Vee.” You sighed, rubbing your hands down your face. “You got me stressed now, is something wrong with Mom? Is Ma okay?” You questioned.

“Yes [name], Mom an’ Ma are just fine. Look I’m,” she paused for a few seconds. You couldn’t see her, but you knew she was doing that thing she always does when she’s guilty of something: playing with her ear. “I’m sorry. For worrying you. I just—”

“—want what’s best for me I know Vee. I love you too.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever. And you know I don’t like it when you say it like that.” She grumbled. Ever since you two were little, she would always get mad whenever you would say “I love you too” instead of “I love you” saying it sounded like you agreed with the fact that she loved you.

You let out a small laugh. Smile playing at your lips. “Fine. I love you Vera.”

“You promise you’ll hear her out? Promise me.” She stressed.

“I promise, Vera. Cross my heart an’ hope to die.”

You could hear her smile through the line. “Good. I love you [name].”She affirmed and then the line ended.

You sat still for a moment, worrying, stressing, overwhelmed. was Mom okay? Was Vera okay? The emotions you were feeling right now were equivalent to the feeling of unknowingly being led into a field of landmines by someone you trusted and that person just walking away. Leaving you to your imagination. Would you step on a landmine, Would you walk away with all your limbs intact?

Yes, you loved Vera with your entire heart and more, but a little less suspense would do your mind some good.

Because of this, this field of suspense that Vera trapped you in, you didn’t notice how Anchovy slipped away, likely taking a nap in your room. Not noticing the little things, not noticing how your heart pounded, how your breathing started coming short, how little crescents started to form on the palm of your hands from the onslaught of your nails, how you lip started to bleed from how much you bit it, how—

Your phone was ringing again.

It snapped you out of whatever daze you were in before. Pulling you up from the dark of the unknown. Your mind. Waking you up, making you realize that yes, you were still here, and no, this is not a dream.

You took a deep breath and answered the call, not looking at the caller ID.

“Hello? [name]?”

It was Mom. Why was she calling? Is she alright? Is Ma alright?

“Mom? Whats wrong, are you—” You took a calming breath. “—are you okay?”

She was silent on the other line for a moment. “Did Vera not tell you I’d call?”

You paused. Holding the phone on your ear hearing faint static coming from the other line. Sitting confused for a few seconds.

In more ways than one, the sound of static was like your mind. The mental clutter occupying all the space for any other thoughts or emotions; and like static, they were blurred, unable to piece together correctly. Your thoughts were clouded and confused after the little episode that you had after hanging up with Vera. Right now, all you could hear were a million radio stations all playing at once, constantly intruding on each other and creating an awful, chaotic noise. Your head felt like it was about to explode if you didn’t—

“[name].” Came her calming voice. “[name] can you hear me? Try to breathe sweetheart, you’re alright.”

You did as you were told and took a deep breath, prolonging the exhale. “Yeah—yeah she told me about you callin’ I just,” You took another calming breath. “just had a moment Mom, m’ fine.”

“Another one?” She asked, and you nodded in response even though she couldn’t see it. Either way, she knew. she always did.

“What’d you wanna talk about?” You question, changing the topic. Mostly because you couldn’t bear to talk about yourself. Your problems, your fears.

She cleared her throat. Likely preparing herself for the conversation. “Listen, before you cut me off—”

“—Too late, Mama. Stop beatin’ around the bush. Please. You know how I am about that.” You begged. Brows furrowing as you looked around the kitchen. You stood up and walked to the living room instead. Standing in front of a bouquet of flowers left on the coffee table Vera got you when you moved here. The petals and stems still wet, you need a vase. Anything to distract yourself.

You walked back to the kitchen and reached the too cupboard for a clear white vase. You picked it up with care and starting a search for the flower food you know it came with, you put it somewhere.

She sighed on the other end of the line for the umpteenth time. “You need to face it [name]. Face the fact that he’s still alive and looking for you. Face the fact that you can’t run forever and that you need to look the Devil in his fucking eyes and say “No.””

You sighed and paused your search. Raising your hand to your face and rubbed at your eyes, already feeling a migraine. “Mom—” You find the flower food and bring it and the vase back to the living room. Throwing the food hazardously on the coffee table.

“No, [name]. I love you. You know I love you. Vera loves you and you know your Ma loves you more than God ever could.” She said. She was pleading. For what, you didn’t know.

You stopped in front of the coffee table. The line was silent on both ends for a few seconds. Feeling like minuets, hours.

“Mom,” You worried. “what is this about . . ?”

“I’m sorry, [name]. I just want what’s best for you and—”

“Mom.”

You were gripping the vase so tightly you were surprised it didn’t break under your hands.

You heard her choke out what sounded like a shaky breath and sigh at the same time.

“I put in a permanent spot request for you in a Task Force.” She took a deep breath. To calm herself, you don’t know. You were lost. “You transfer there tomorrow. I was gonna ask for your permission to send the request before-hand but after your little episode, how you do things to distract yourself from what’s going on around you, you need structure baby, routine, and the one thing that’s gonna give you that, is by doing this.”

That tight grip you had on the vase got tighter, and tighter, until there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Only broken shards of glass, your blood, and the sound of the vase breaking that closely resembled screams.

Something you wanted to do right now: scream, cry, throw a fucking fit.

“[name], listen—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence. You started a new one, interrupting her.

“You didn’t—” You let out a choked laugh pushing your hair out your eyes blood following, painting wherever your fingers touched red. “You didn’t think, to ask me? Do you know how much trauma and war I’ve been in and seen in the military? How much shit I was going through because of him? And you want me to go back? Forcing me?”

“Yes, [name], I know, believe me, I know. But you’re running away. You need to face this and end it.” She sounded so bleak. “I don’t care, I don’t care if you hate me for this, but I can’t keep seeing you like this, baby. I can’t keep seeing you without that light in your eyes, that smile that would never go away, that laugh,” She sobbed. She sobbed. Your Mom, crying her eyes out can be heard from your end of the line. The sound broke your heart. Broke it into tiny pieces, tinier pieces than the pieces of glass on the floor. She sobbed.

“Please, [name], please. I need you to live your life.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying not to let your tears run.

“Please.”

You held your head with your bloodied hand, smearing blood everywhere, unbeknownst to yourself, to try and calm the raging migraine you felt. You let out a sob hushed by your closed mouth and blinked tears away.

“Please...”

You sucked in air through your nose, and let it out after five seconds. Repeating the motion twice more.

“Wherever it is,” You gasped out, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “M’ not paying for a ticket there.”

You could hear her smile. And when she laughed a laugh that could make flowers bloom and the sun shine brighter, you let the tears fall. And after the call ended, it was shameful, the cry you let out.

***

"Why are we here Cap? Thought we were done for the day?" Gaz said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Price turns to him from his sitting position across from everybody and facing the door. "Laswell gave me word of—"

"Please—Ma'am you can't go in there! You're not cleared yet and—"

"Do I look like I give a damn? Where the fuck is Station Chief Kate Laswell?"

"She's-"

"I'll take it from here Sophie. Go on back to the Med Wing."

Sophie, they think, sighs and they hear her retreating footsteps. The men inside waited with bated breaths as they wondered who could be outside.

"Word o' wha' Price?" An accented voice asked. Mohawk overgrown a bit and kissing the tip of his eyebrows. Price let out a stressed sigh and leaned on his hands with his elbows on the table in front of him. "You'll see." He responded.

Hushed whispers are all they heard. Unable to make out anything from through the thick door.

Another sigh, and the door handle clicked as it was turned.

Entering first was Laswell. A file tucked underneath her arm as she nodded at Price and sat down next to him across from everybody else. And the new face entering the room now.

What they noticed first. Was not the fact that she noticed Ghost lurking in the corner of the briefing room immediately, her eyes shifting and meeting brown before promptly facing the front, was the fact that she had to duck and shift to the side to fit through the door.

Unmistakable pounds of muscle and healthy fat was standing at attention in front of the Task Force 141.

Something they didn't know what to do with.

Kate cleared her throat. Gaining the attention of everybody in the room and meeting the hard eyes of the woman still standing in front of the door. Waiting. "Everybody." She started, as she handed out the file, much likely the mystery woman's file, to Price. "Meet Colonel [name] [I.name]. Been on the force since eighteen and specializes in stealth, pararescue, close-combat fighting, and," she paused, looking at [name] directly. "she's a damn good sniper too."

Price looked at [name] then back at Kate after a few seconds. "The fact that her record is impressive is why you brought us all here for?" He sighed out. "Laswell, why is she here?"

Kate matched Price's stare with her own. "Because Captain, you need her if you ever want a chance at catching and killing Graves and Shepard." She said.

The room was silent. A chance at catching Graves and Shepard? In the months they’ve been gathering intel, chasing loose ends, and hitting rock bottom, they haven't even scratched the surface of finding the two. Now Laswell is saying this goliath of a woman can help them?

"How is she gonnae help us?" Soap said, turning in his chair and lifting his chin to look at the woman behind him.

But the woman never looked down to meet his eyes. She looked straight ahead and met the eyes of Kate Laswell.

Kate stared at [name] for a hard minute. And only after did she start to speak.

“You can hate it, you can love it, but either way,” Kate said, keeping her eyes on [name], “either way she’s on your team.” In that exact moment it felt as though Kate was talking to [name]. Generalizing the sentence but directing it towards the woman. Kate, looking at [name] still, knew her hands were being clenched behind her back. Nails digging painfully into the skin of her palms. The same skin that was being reopened.

A heavy sigh interrupted the moment. Captain Price rubbing his forehead while looking to the side at Kate. “And we got no say in this matter?” He said after a moment, directing his eyes to meet with yours.

“No, John.” Kate said, walking around the table to the door behind you discreetly touching your back and squeezing. We’ll talk later. “Not even you can change this decision.” Then, she left.

He sighed again. “No offense to you, Colonel,” He said after a moment. He stood and walked the length of the table, like Kate did moments before, to stand in between the space you had between yourself and the table. “But if you want to stay, and yes, I do have a say in that matter, then earn your keep. You hear?” You could hear as hint of venom in his voice, masked by the deep rumble of his voice.

“None taken, Captain.” You matched his stare. “But do you really think the higher ups will take me out the team just because of petty hostility towards a new teammate?”

While you were tall, Price was much taller. Standing straight at what looks like 6’8 from your position and piercing you with a hard sea colored stare. In a situation like this, you were supposed to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Supposed to. However, you kept your face and head straight. Only lifting your eyes to match his stare.

“Only if that temporary presence in this team can’t control their mouth.”

A presence behind you, not close enough to feel their body pressed against you, but enough to imagine it. You knew it was Ghost because of how he snuck up on you. Waiting until you were engrossed in this little staring contest with his Captain to pounce.

Like a shadow.

Only then, did you realize the situation you were in. In the middle of two big men, in a room filled with two more equally big men. What have you gotten yourself into?

“I don’t know Lieutenant,” You turn around partially at the waist to face the man behind you. Eyeing the glaring chocolate eyes behind the pale white of the skull mask. “Life always has its ups and downs doesn’t it?”

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

[rangerbarbz]

Losing Bets

Disclaimer: So this is not a Ford fanfic because I need to show my man Stan some love. Sorry about that. Also, I’m going to post the whole thing just to tumblr and to ao3, so you won’t have to click on a link to read it. This is a smut btw

Summary: Reader bets that Stan can’t go a whole day without touching them. It’s a win win situation 😉

If there was one thing about Stan Pines, he was a handsy man. You had been dating him since you first got a job at the Mystery Shack working the check-out counter when Wendy wasn’t working. There wasn’t a day that went by where he didn’t squeeze your butt as he shuffled behind you or grab your hips while you restocked. You didn’t mind it one bit, though. Stan always made you feel sexy and loved. He was a good man, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. However, you also knew he was a gambling man, and you were looking for fun.

It was a slow day at the Mystery Shack, and you were putting snow-globes on display when you felt a hand snake around your waist. “Lookin’ good, sugar.” When you weren’t expecting Stan’s voice, it always managed to give you butterflies. You smiled and set the one in your hand onto the unsteady wooden shelf in front of you.

“You talking about the snow-globes or me?” you teased, looking over at him. His eyebrow raised as his hand moved from your waist down to your ass. He cupped one clothed cheek in his big hand.

“Both,” he answered. “I love these shorts on you. Can’t help myself.” He had a devilish grin on his face and was staring into your eyes. God, he was so handsome. He had an almost intoxicating aroma of cigars and cologne that you wanted to drown in.

You giggled and patted his chest. “Stan Pines, you’d still find a way to get your hands on me even if you were handcuffed.” You picked up the empty cardboard box at your feet and carried it to the check-out counter to break it down.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stan purred, following behind you as you flattened the box. You shot him a look that caused him to chuckle.

“You need to behave,” you playfully chastised him, bending down behind the counter to get your to-do list out. You set it next to the register and checked off the box next to “Unpack Snow-globes.” “There we go, that was the last thing I had to do.”

Stan set his elbows on the counter across from you. “Ah, I actually added something else for you to do. Should be at the bottom,” Stan stated.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What? Really?” You picked up the notepad to see “Stan Pines” scrawled at the end of the lined paper with an empty box next to it.

Stan burst out laughing at his own joke. “See. I put my name there because I want you to do me,” he explained while you rolled your eyes.

“You’re so dumb.” You couldn’t help but laugh with him, though. “You know this reminds me; I have an idea for a bet. That is if your up to it.” Your eyes glimmered with mischief. You and Stan were always betting on trivial things, so this was a normal request.

“I’m all ears, dollface. Shoot.”

“I bet that you can’t go a whole day without touching me.”

Stan’s head perked up. “I better get something really good if I have to go the whole day without touching you,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

“If you can go a whole day without touching me, I will do that thing you’ve been begging me to do for an entire week,” you declared.

He gasped. “You mean you’re going to cook me stancakes naked every morning for a week?” he asked incredulously.

You chuckled. “Yup, but if I win you have to come to karaoke with me at Greasy’s every Friday for a month.” At that, Stan groaned and rubbed the part of his nose where his glasses sat.

“Jeeze, you had that one ready didn’t ya, kid?”

“Oh, yes,” you replied. “You accept the bet, old man?” You extended your hand towards him. He flashed that million-dollar smile at you before shaking your hand in agreement with the bet.

“Deal.”

                                                                                ~ The Next Day ~

You looked in the mirror at your outfit you had prepared to tempt the “Man of Mystery” himself. You were prepared to play dirty to get karaoke nights with Stan. You were wearing a tight t-shirt that was tucked into some daisy dukes. You also were wearing some boots that went up to your knees that you knew drove Stan wild. He was a confirmed leg man for sure. You fluffed up your hair and applied some light makeup. It was nothing too crazy but just enough to have you singing BABBA with him Friday night.

When you were satisfied with how you looked, you walked out of your bedroom and down the hall to the gift shop. Stan was giving a tour outside, so he had no idea what you looked like just yet. You went about your job as usual restocking the freezer, sweeping the floor, and pricing new items. It was about thirty minutes later when Stan entered the gift shop with a group of tourists behind him.

“Step into our gift shop and marvel at the quality of the Mystery Shack’s merchandise. Such beautiful craftmanship is deserving of your money, so make sure to spend a lot of it,” Stan’s voice echoed throughout the room. Some tourists “oohed” and “ahhed’ at the new shirts you had just hung up on the wall while the others piddled about the store. You sat at the register waiting for customers pretending not to notice Stan ogling you from the other side of the room.

When you finally decided to give him your attention, you gave him a coy smile and a little wave. His mouth was slightly agape, and his eyebrows were raised. He looked you up and down as he approached you.  It was go time; you got him.

“Y/N, you look smoking!” Stan exclaimed, his hands reaching for your hips. They stopped just inches away from them. He frowned and let his hands drop to his sides. “Damn. Forgot I can’t touch you.” He sounded disappointed. You were about to respond when one of the tourists got his attention by asking him about his newest taxidermy creation. This might be harder than you thought.

You exhaled through your nose in defeat. You couldn’t ponder on your plan too long, however, because a line of people had quickly formed in front of you. They held fistfuls of cash and novelties waiting to be paid for. It took a while, but finally everyone had picked an item they wanted and purchased them successfully. You couldn’t see him, but Stan had been eyeing you all over.

Once the last person left the shop and Stan reminded them about his “No Refunds” policy, he turned the “Open” sign on the door to “Closed.” You tilted your head at him and walked from behind the counter towards him. “Stan, why are you closing the shack? Are you-‘’ You were interrupted by him quickly turning around to face you and throwing you over his shoulder. You yelped in surprise as he bolted down the hall to your bedroom. You were not expecting this. He kicked the door open and dropped you on the bed.

“You like to play dirty, don’tcha?” Stan growled, grabbing your ankles and dragging you to him. “Dressing like that in front of me knowing I can’t touch ya. You’re such a tease.” His lips crashed into yours, his beard tickling your neck. You moaned into his mouth, letting your hands explore his thick, gray hair. The passionate kiss turned into a hot, open-mouthed one. Stan’s tongue slipped past your lips as you gripped his back. You grinded against him to get some friction going but to also see how hard he was. He was rock solid, his bulge pressing against your thigh. You wrapped your legs around his waist to bring him closer to you, earning a groan from him.

His lips parted from yours and he began to pepper kisses along your neck, stopping to suck at your collarbones. “Stan…” you whined.

“Use your words, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

You felt Stan’s lips curl into a smile. “That can be arranged. But these,” he tugged at your shorts, “will have to go.”

You looked him in the eyes. “Then why don’t you take them off for me?” you asked, grinning at him.

“With pleasure,” he responded. He removed your boots before undoing the zipper of your shorts and pulling them off. You lifted your hips up to help him get them fully off your body which revealed lacy red underwear. He wasn’t a huge fan of any particular color, but he loved red on you. He let out a low whistle. “Sweetheart…You shouldn’t have.” Stan’s tone caused blood to rush to your throbbing clit.

His hands slid up the side of your legs to grab your thighs. “God, I love these legs,” he whispered, his thumbs rubbing into your inner thighs. His long, calloused fingers were splayed over the side of them as he admired the way they dug into your flesh. He adored the softness of them.

“Can’t wait to have them around my head,” he breathed, moving his hands over your underwear and under your shirt. “But first, I gotta get this off. Been wanting to get my hands on these.” You blushed as he pulled your t-shirt over your head. You were revealed to be in a matching red bra that pushed your breasts up to make a delightful cleavage.

“Fuck,” Stan said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come here, sexy.” His hands found your waist and guided you to his lap. He began peppering kisses on the top of your breasts as his hands fumbled to remove your bra from the back. He eventually succeeded causing the straps to fall down your shoulders and exposing your hard nipples. His pupils were dilated and filled with lust as he gazed at your body. He took his time, letting his eyes wander.

Stan slowly exhaled before letting his lips make contact with your skin once again. His tongue licked across your nipple gently and cupping your other breast. He massaged the tender flesh and let his thumb drag over the nipple as he began to suck the other one. You hissed, raking his hair between your fingers. He repeated the same action but on the opposite breast causing your hips to instinctively grind down on him. You were so turned on you were becoming light-headed.

Stans arms encased you as he lowered you onto the bed, kissing in a line down your stomach. You knew what was coming next, and butterflies were already beginning to form. “Mind if I take these off, doll?” Stan asked gruffly, his eyes meeting yours. You nodded your head in response. His fingers hooked around the band of your panties and removed your last garment of clothing. He began to bury his face against your thighs, giving them little pecks. Your eyes rolled back in your head from how his mouth and stubble felt against such a sensitive area. He then removed his head away from your core to look at you.

“Let’s see how much I’ve riled you up,” Stan said, letting one of his fingers enter you. He slid in easily due to your wetness. He let out a shaky breath. “Shit, baby.” He began to pump his finger back and forth. You cried out in pleasure, letting your nails rake along his muscular forearms.

“Oh, God, Stan,” you whimpered. If he kept going like this, you were going to cum before his dick was inside you.

“As hot as it is to see you like this, I just gotta taste ya.” Stan muttered, removing his finger and lowering his head back down to your bottom half. “I’ve been craving you all day.” His tongue slid into you as his big hands held your legs around his head. He moaned into you as you gripped the bedsheets behind you. One hand travelled upwards to play with your breast as he used the tip of his tongue to manipulate your clit. Stan continued to lap at you, bringing you closer and closer to an orgasm. He knew you were close too. You were bucking your hips on his nose to help relieve yourself. He loved it when you did that; he wanted you to use him to get all the way.

“I want you inside me,” you pleaded. “Please, babe.” Stan stopped what he was doing to give you a sloppy kiss. His mouth and nose were covered in your slick which was now partially on you. He stood up to unbutton his shirt while you scrambled to unbuckle his belt.

He laughed cockily. “Someone’s eager,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows.

You glared at him. “Shut up,” you retorted, taking off his boxers to see his painfully erect dick. You slid off the bed and onto your knees. You started to suck on his balls and rub along the bottom of them. Stan moaned loudly; his hands were now in your hair. You licked a stripe of the base of his dick to his tip before taking him into your mouth. You went slowly at first, creating a suction with your cheeks.

“Y/N…” Stan breathed, pushing your head onto him, wanting you to go faster. “Okay, okay. I can’t go anymore. I wanna feel you,” Stan interrupted, holding your face. “Put your boots on. Those were so damn sexy.” You chuckled and put on the shiny, leather boots from before. You were entirely naked other than your feet.

“Alright, hot stuff, you ready to ride the Stan O’ War?” Stan asked, throwing your legs on his shoulders. A boot was on either side of his head.

You giggled in response. “Yes, captain,” you answered.

He lined up with your entrance, and finally was inside you. He stretched you out painfully good. He wasn’t the longest, but, God, he was wide. That’s how you like it. He held onto your boots for leverage as he pounded into you. His breathing became ragged as he went back and forth inside you.

“You feel s’good,” he groaned. “So fucking good.”

His voice sent you over the edge making your body start to quake and pulse. Your legs shook around his head which, in turn, caused Stan to cum. Your convulsions were enough to make a “dead man come back to life” as Stan would describe. As you both rode out your highs, Stan laid on your chest as you twirled his hair. You laid in blissful silence until you remembered something.

“So…does this mean karaoke Friday?”

His face scrunched into his signature grumpy frown. “Can you just let me enjoy what’s left of my dignity until I lose it all?” You giggled at his answer as he laid his head back on your chest. You kissed the top of his head and leaned your head back on your pillow. Little did you know, he was more than happy to sing cheesy songs with you in public. He would just never let you know that.

[me-uglypretty]

maybe, just maybe

Pairing:  Carol Danvers x Reader

Summary: The consequences of confessing your feelings to someone else then having Carol find out about it too.

Warning: (18+), fluff | 2k words

| C.D. Masterlist | Notify | Navigation |

Cardboard boxes in tones of brown and some appeared with faded graphics in various dimensions were allocated in the spacious kitchen. The style of the room follows a touch of a classic American kitchen, and the few selections of modern electronics. However, the attractive space looked messier at that moment. Boxes stacked over the other, some unpacked with objects laid untidily on the counter top, plates and bowls placed hazardously by the edge of the kitchen sink.

Amidst the apparent chaos that occurs while moving from one location to another, or for this specific case, one spaceship to a landed house—you had found solace by the window, and was seated comfortably on the chair opposite the petite wooden table.

The pictures that were scattered in front of you, holds a vast contrast from the ebony shade table. Old and new, tattered at certain edges, white uneven stripes from folding and unfolding the pictures, and the coarse texture on some as your fingers tenderly trace these memories. A glimpse of life capture through pieces of photograph, the ones you knew and the ones only spoken through elapsed memories. This was all, irreplaceable memories that your heart couldn’t fathom discarding from probing through the box labelled with pictres.

The utter look of concentration on Carol’s face as she wrote that word still lingers warmly in your mind. It diminished into a sweet smile when she noticed your attention on her. You had perceived her mistake after she had proudly pointed towards the rows of labelled boxes. The furrows of her eyebrows after, it didn’t provide an answer as to why you were trying to stop yourself from laughing.

Alike the picture you were admiring, Carol holds a similar emphasis of sweetness in her smile. It was different in some ways, older by years or grown with experience. Though, her smile still hints at her tender heart, someone who’s ready to risk her life for those she loves or simply those who she knew deserves more than corruption. Carol was the same in some ways, opting to fix mistakes that wasn’t hers, and accepting the ones triggered by her own hands.

The soft patter of feet on the wooden floor doesn’t halt your sheer admiration for the pictured woman. It was sounds, the taps of something, but nothing compared to the thoughts that flows through in your mind.

What was so funny that this picture appeared in blurry display of wide smiles? Why was she feigning annoyance while her eyes exhibited such joy? What song was playing here that she was smiling till the lines by her mouth appeared in utter delight?

Questions flows through one after another. Many of which would remain the same. Questions asked for your heart, in your mind, and never for her to hear.

“You should tell her how you feel.”

A shriek erupts from your throat. One hand hastily clutching a picture while the other laid flat on your chest, where your heart beats piercingly.

The reason, Aunty Maneaba standing by the kitchen entrance with a large copper plate in her hands.

“Aunty!” you groaned, wide eyes meeting those glinting in amusement. “Are you trying to kill me? Don’t sneak up on people like that! I’m still too young!”

Muneeba laughed and shakes her head at the noticeable shock on your face. She continued her purpose of arranging the items in the kitchen or pretended, the assumption made by her eyes peering over each item she picked to observe you. Silence engulfs the space, besides for the sound of cardboard scrapping over the other and the clatter of silverware.

A gentle smile resurfaced on your face as your gaze fell upon a photograph of Carol and a very unimpressed Goose. The feelings rushed through like they had never left.

It’s perfect.

If you haven’t noticed the attentive gaze established on you, if you had pretended that the task in your hands was far more important than casual conversations, and if you didn’t contemplate the words spoken from someone who you considered family.

Aunty Muneeba wasn’t of your blood, but she treated you as part of her family. The relationship begun at the peak of life and death, flattering to inviting you for dinner at her home and providing a shoulder of comfort for hours when you missed days that was saturated in innocence.

“Don’t look at me like that, beta. It’s your life, who am I to judge?” Muneeba addressed, her gaze fell on the pictures then meeting your eyes again.

You weren’t aware when your round eyes had shifted to her. The look of confusion, worry, and feelings that left you unable to express yourself correctly. You tried ignoring her presence by arranging the pictures into a stack, but the hum that resonates through her throat and a sigh that leaves yours, doesn’t allow it.

“It’s not— why are you,” you paused as your tongue tucked behind your teeth.

“You know how Kamala is, always blabbering about Captain Marvel this, Captain Marvel that, Carol and Y/n should date…” her eyebrows arched, as if challenging you to continue the lines of apparent lies that she caught.

Embarrassment floods your body with warmth. The hesitate shake of your head doesn’t attest to your denial. “Auntyji, it’s not like that. We’re just good friends!” you excused, emphasising your respect for her with the given term.

A scoffed was met by your rambles that soon followed. “Ha ha ha, sure beta, very good friends. Me and your uncle are good friends too,” she grumbled while advancing to where you sat, and takes the empty seat opposite you. “Now, tell me, who taught you to tell lies because you are terrible at it.”

You allow yourself to laugh as the teasing glint in her eyes returned, dismissing the incited tense moment. “For your information, I hate lying.”

Muneeba’s hand reached for yours. The gesture mimic one shared between a mother and her child. “It’s not wrong to like the girl. I can understand why you’re so attracted to her. Carol is a very nice girl.”

The shaky breath that released from your throat, equals with the trembles of your hands to your heart that wasn’t expecting for such conversation to happen. It was a secret attraction. You were quiet about it.

It just feels that, falling for someone like Carol—the fall doesn’t ever reach an end and neither would those arms embrace your body.

“Didn’t you threatened Carol like a few days ago?” you questioned. “I think there was a threat in there for me too.”

Muneeba rolled her eyes then she stared at you, her gaze softening at your attempt of diverting the conversation. “That was before you became family.”

You struggled to hold yourself from shedding those tears awoken by her gesture. Another excuse almost slips from your mouth, but she manages to hold her glare on you with a look that both provided you comfort and made your nervous.

Maybe Kamala wasn’t lying about her mother’s special ability.

“Okay, fine. I have feelings for Carol, very deep feelings that my heart hurts when I’m away from her,” you confessed, a single tear escapes as pathetically rushed to wipe your cheek.

It's silent for a moment. A deep breath from you, the proud smile on her face, and the unexpected voice that followed with a taunting question.

“You have feelings for me?”

The found solace disrupted at first by your aunt’s confrontation then this, the undesirable revelation to said person who was the reason of such conversation. It triggers the abrupt beats of your heart, abandoned were your hands to their own agony while Muneeba seems to assume it was the best by the show of her thumbs up, accompanied by a reassuring smile as you actively tried delaying her escape.

“What Yusuf? I’m coming!” she proclaimed, and shared a look that conveyed the necessity for you to speak about your feeling for Carol.

You take a deep breath after her departure. The fire instigated at your confession only stirs the uneasiness in your chest as your head hangs low, unwilling to meet the gentle eyes swirling in hues of brown, or any sort of reject exposed by the look on her face.

“You heard everything?” you had timidly asked, hands absently spreading widely on the table as an attempt to find stillness from the horrid circumstance. “Let’s pretend that it didn’t happen. Yeah? Anyway, I need to find Kamala because it’s getting too quiet, and you know it’s never a good thing when—”

Rambles of words that spew from your mouth in rapid speed. Body following the same pace as you stood, pushing the chair back and cringing at the scratchy sound that reverberates, it worsens as your hurried steps caused your body to almost knock into the blonde that hastily held onto your waist.

Carol had stepped forward at the correct moment. Cold hands pressed familiarly by each side of your waist, far too knowing of that affectionate touch that settled your thrashing heart and mind for a moment.

“No,” Carol spoke with the soft shake of her head as she continued, “You said you have feelings for me.”

Those warm eyes remained on yours, seemingly staring into your soul that you found yourself tracing each spec of brown hues in her eyes, noticing the way her pupils were widen or how her eyes were so attentively on you, admiring the way the sun had shone perfectly on her glowing skin, how her golden hair appeared so soft that you wondered how it felt for your fingers to thread through—

A soft whisper of your name had forced your gaze to shift to her mouth, focusing on the curl of her lips or how she parted her mouth to speak. Another murmur of your name and you meet her eyes again.

“Maybe,” you breathed out.

The attempt of looking away had met with failure. It wasn’t easy, not when her eyes and embrace felt strangely familiar. Like a feeling of home was roused by her sheer presence. An addicting feeling that lured your body closer, despite the uncertain steps backward.

“Maybe?” Carol questioned, a conflicted tone in her voice. “Just maybe?”

It shouldn’t be that hard, to agree with her question and make an exit with reasons of searching for the young girl. But why was she smiling at you? What was the reason for the teasing glint in her eyes as she muttered the same word of maybe?

“If I was to ask…for a kiss…you wouldn’t say no?”

However, the response comes so naturally as you smiled at her.

“Nah, I wouldn’t kiss you just cause you’re Captain Marvel.”

The teasing begins at that moment, shy smiles equip with the tender touch of her hands over your waist then one raised to your cheek, warmly stroking the skin beneath her pad of her fingers. It’s so easy for you to lean into her touch that blooms a contented warmth in your chest.

“Would you kiss me if I’m Carol Danvers, and I’ve had the biggest crush on you since the first time you fixed my ship?” Carol’s voice wavered slightly at the question.

You swallowed thickly. “I— you don’t— okay, Carol— you really don’t have to pretend, alright, it’s fine—”

The half-spoken words were halted by Carol pressing her forefinger over your lips. Her touch felt soft and feather like. It’s so intimate, so concentrated, that you felt the line print at the pad of her finger, and the rough skin at one corner of her finger.

You heard yourself inhale sharply and the thumps of your heart sounding so clear. As your mouth parted slightly, her hand glides across the curve of your jaw and her body shifted closer. Carol’s hand pressed firmly on your cheek, it trembles for the mere seconds or was it your body reacting to the unanticipated affection. Her palm was cold, then it wasn’t. Perhaps, the warmth that radiates through your body had engulf the cold from her, and you leaned into that singular touch.

Carol stood there. One hand pressed on your cheek while the other grasping your waist, holding your body from collapsing. Her breaths unite with yours, sounding swallow and shaky. It’s hard to comprehend the thrashing feeling in your chest that seems to shift between calm and absolute panic.

It's a fleeting moment—but you perceived the way her gaze had searched for your own then flickered lower to where your mouth remained speechless and lingering for seconds, before returning to start into yours wondering eyes.

To cry, to laugh, to scream…

Instead, your eyes fluttered closed, basking in the goosebumps that appeared on your skin, and the scent of her shampoo that drift through the air as she stepped closer, and you didn’t move this time. The front of her body and yours pressed together.

This was your day dream—Carol wanting you the same way, Carol feeling the similar thumps that resonates through your chest, Carol holding you in ways that doesn’t signify a friendship, Carol having these deep feelings that she was confidently acting upon—and you thought of how this felt perfect.

When your eyes fluttered open, Carol face was the first sight that encouraged the smile on your face, and she was smiling too, despite inching back slightly, doubt creasing her forehead with crooked lines. You realise that she was waiting for answer or a permission. Carol had to know that you wanted this, the intimate touch of her skin over yours, the space that plead to be bridged.

It begins at first with the nod of your head to ensure her then your hands grasped her cheeks and the push of two bodies as your mouth touched hers. You kissed her. A tender trace of lips and the sharp breath from her, then she seemed to leaned back like she was trying to remember the moment.

Was she equally as shock? Did she dreamed of this countless times before that she wouldn’t survive if it wasn’t real? Why was she gawking at you after the shared kiss?

At this point, you would have roused awake with an ache in your chest. Another dream that instigated the reality of your feelings for her. However, this wasn’t another tale dreamed throughout your days together, it was real when she kissed you next. Carol exhaled into your mouth, sliding her body into yours that you wouldn’t know where she started and where you ended.

Her mouth closed around your bottom lip, stirring sounds from you that resonates from your mouth to hers. Fingers threading through her golden hair, one hand pressed at the nape of her neck, and fully feeling like each kiss was the needed breath of air. It’s perfect. The feeling that was once flickers of hopeful thoughts, now appeared in tangible touch.

The soft knocks through a wooden door or the low gasps that followed, neither providing such significant where all that you heart and felt was her. The hands guiding you into her, ready to swallow every sound that erupts from you as her mouth plants one kiss after another. Wordlessly sealing the confession that was expressed in a kitchen that held two hearts blooming in robust feelings for each other.

The murmurs of a confession were shared your lips parted away from her. “I really do like you.”

Something seems to spark from within her as she kissed you again and you felt the smile on her face that transfers into yours. It wasn’t possible, it shouldn’t be, but you felt the sheer bliss that was dispense at your final confession. Another chaste kiss was shared before she leaned her forehead against yours, and both eyes shut closed to savour the significant moment.

Carol’s hands fondly caress your face while your hands were clasped behind her neck. It’s intimate, the embrace of bodies, the space that ceased to exist, the lacked feeling of awkwardness because this was the most pleasant feeling. The sheer act of familiarity and comfort from the first kiss to the next.

“I’m really happy,” her voice carried a tone of vulnerability as she spoke. “Maybe…I like you more than just liking you,” and with that confession, you pushed her shoulder back slightly to fully observe every little notion on her face.

The furrows of your eyebrows were softened by her thumb while you were simply trying to understand if her confession was the same that you had known for yourself. That aching feeling you feared and still couldn’t disregard.

It was like, Carol was ready to confess that she loved you too. That each pulse in her body was accompanied by love for you, she loved you, Carol loves you—

“AWWWW!”

Your head snapped towards the abrupt sound and met the scene of the Khan family gawking at the exchange with the look of excitement and embarrassment on their face. The warmth that rushed to your cheeks seems familiarised when you felt Carol’s hand grasping yours. A common act for your eyes to meet hers that was already staring at the family.

“I told you! Just tell the lovely girl about how you feel…”

The roars of conversation followed at that, some arguing of their success while the other gushing of the confession they had witness. As if, you weren’t there or that Carol wasn’t staring at you like you were the only person there, like she was so impatient for you to know that her heart felt the same too.

Carol tugs your hand and her eyes pointed towards the other exit as you both silently walked out the kitchen and left the eager family to their argument for helping you both.

For once, it wasn’t a feeble dream. Proven once again by the kiss shared outside the kitchen, and the one pressed over your linked hands. Carol whispered of that blooming feeling which you swore upon seconds after, and kissing her to fully express how this was it—everything and more.

hi! if you enjoyed this, do consider buying me a coffee 💜

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Eight

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number eight is ready to swagger into the bakery and I've only got four more weeks of this! I realised the very final chapter would be posted on February 12th so lets delay it by two days and end this on Valentine's Day, seeing as this is the fluffiest, most romantic thing I've ever written. Feels very appropriate to end it with my favourite Pedro boy on Valentine's Day. 🥰

This chapter is dedicated to my lovely, sweet friend @ladybess-a03 who, in my world, is this Pedro boy's beautiful wife.

Series Master List

“Is the rodeo in town?” the kid who works extra over the weekends in the bakery asks, raising their eyebrows and nodding towards the window. You look over and catch a glimpse of the man striding across the street. The comment is pretty accurate, he certainly looks like a cowboy; a slick cowboy dressed up for the city in a well tailored suit that hugs his narrow hips and wide shoulders, topped off with a black Stetson and suede shoulder patches. 

“Pretty good looking cowboy,” you say and the kid snorts, hanging their apron on the hook and giving you a quick wave goodbye. The cowboy reaches the bakery door and holds open the door for them before he steps inside.

“Afternoon, miss,” he says, greeting you with a polite tip of his Stetson, two fingers on the brim, as he saunters up to the counter, his lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Afternoon, sir,” you reply, returning his polite greeting with a smile of your own. Internally you’re swooning and giggling, there’s a smoothness to the man that makes you want to twirl your imaginary braid and kick your heels. 

“Sir,” he says, chuckling as he puts one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, pushing back his jacket and revealing a large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask, “makes me feel about a hundred, darlin’. Call me Jack.” He offers you his hand, dwarfing your own as you shake it. 

“Alright, how can I help you, Jack?” you ask as the warmth of his hand lingers on yours. 

“Pie, sugar, I’m in a real mood for some pie,” he says, patting his belly with a grin, “And I heard you might be the best baker in town so I had to see for myself,” he winks, “if the rumors are true.” 

“I don’t know about best baker in town,” you smile back, “but thanks for the vote of confidence. What kind of pie are you in the mood for?” 

“Well, I’m an old fashioned cowboy, southern born and bred, so I doubt you’ll be surprised when you hear that I’d love some pecan pie, sugar,” he says, pointing to the one pecan pie you have in your display. 

“Not old fashioned,” you say, crouching down to slide the pie out, “but maybe traditional. And it’s a great pie,” you put it on the counter and Jack chuckles. 

“Honey, I’m anything but traditional, but I have a soft spot for pecan pie,” he says, putting an arm up on the display case and leaning in, his mouth pulling up in a crooked grin, “Sweet pecan pie, and sweet bakers,” he winks at you again and you feel your cheeks heat up and busy yourself adjusting the pie on the counter, trying to bite back the grin that’s threatening to split your face in half before you look up at the smiling cowboy again, his dark eyes twinkling under the brim of his Stetson. 

“Would you like the whole thing, or just a slice?” you ask and Jack grins. 

“Oh, sugar, I want the whole damn thing,” he replies and you swallow loudly. He keeps his eyes on you as you squirm under his gaze, your cheeks burning up as you quickly duck under the counter and grab one of the take away boxes. You’ve never met a man who so shamelessly flirts with anyone and you hear him chuckle as you look for the right sized box.

Jack is still smiling as you pop back up and start folding the flat cardboard, butterflies fluttering in your stomach under his gaze. 

“This pie sure smells wonderful, darlin’,” he says, leaning in closer and drawing a deep breath, his arm still on the display case as he puts a hand on his waist, but he’s got his eyes on you, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile under his neat mustache. 

“I hope it’ll taste as good as it smells then,” you reply, just to reply something. His over the top charm shouldn’t be getting to you so easily, but you’re practically a puddle at this point, any coherent sentence from you is a win and Jack seems to notice your reaction to his flirting and clearly loves how he’s getting to you, judging by the size of his grin. 

“I’m absolutely certain it will be every bit as sweet as you, sugar,” he purrs, his hand coming up to rub over his smooth jaw. 

You manage to slide the pie into the box and close the lid, pushing it over the counter to Jack, giving him a flustered smile. 

“Here you go then, enjoy,” you say, “Please let me know what you think, if you’re passing by again.”

“And what do I owe you, honey?” he asks, reaching back and pulling out a slim black wallet from his pocket. 

“Uh…umm…” you stutter, the prices, that are usually seared into your brain, have wandered off under the onslaught of Jack’s charm and you fumble for the price list next to the till, “Twenty-four, ninety-nine,” you finally get out and Jack pulls out two twenties and hands them over. 

“Keep the change, sugar, you’re undercharging for both the pie and the company,” he says, grinning as he winks at you again. 

“Oh thank you, sir-Jack,” you reply, “but that’s really not necessary.”  

“I know, but I want to,” he smiles, softer this time, “And I’ll be sure to let you know how much I like it,” He slides a hand under the box, carefully lifting it up as he tips his hat at you, two fingers on the brim again. 

“Have a good evening, darlin’,” 

“Same to you Jack, enjoy the pie.” 

“Oh, I will, I’m sure,” Jack grins, pushing the door open, letting a new customer in. 

“Ma’am,” he says, giving her a tip of his hat before he disappears with a final smile at you. 

“What a handsome man,” Mrs Morales says as she comes up to the counter, “and such good manners.” 

���He was very well mannered,” you smile at her as she comes up to the counter, “What can I get for you today, Mrs Morales?” 

…

When the doorbell jingles in the middle of the morning a few days later, you’re pleasantly surprised to see Jack’s smiling face above the small crowd of customers. He gives you a two fingered salute, tipping his hat, before he sits down at one of the café tables to wait. The crowd slowly thins out and eventually it’s Jack’s turn, and you notice that he’s choosing to wait until he can be served by you and not your shop assistant. 

“Hi Jack,” you smile at him as he comes over. He’s opted for a more casual look today you notice, a black leather jacket and white t-shirt instead of his slick suit, but the Stetson is still on his head as he gives you a crooked grin. 

“Hi there, sugar,” he drawls, his southern twang even more pronounced, “you’re looking real gorgeous today, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He winks as he leans on the counter, giving you his most winning smile and you can practically hear the eye roll from your assistant down by the till. 

“Thanks, you’re not looking to shabby yourself,” you smile back at him and he puffs his chest, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“How was the pecan pie?” you ask and Jack grins widely. 

“Just as sweet as the gorgeous baker girl who made it,” he croons, “I may have eaten the whole thing already.” 

“I’m happy to hear it,” you smile, your cheeks heating up at his praise and Jack chuckles, taking off his Stetson and fanning you with it. 

“Is it hot in here, darlin’, or is my praise heating you up there?” 

“Oh shut up,” you reply, trying to give him a scowl but failing as he runs his free hand through his dark hair, smoothing out the unruly locks that have been hidden under his hat, before he puts it back on. The simple action shouldn’t make a shiver run down your spine but you feel your mind go temporarily blank as he adjusts the brim to his liking. As he cocks his head and gives you a playful smirk, the corner of his lip curling up, you try to snap out of it. 

“So what can I do for you today, Jack?” 

“How about another pecan pie, darlin’?” he asks, glancing over the display cases and spotting the one you made this morning. 

“Another one?”

“What can I say, your pie is calling my name, sugar,” he grins and winks at you, hooking his thumb into the pocket of his tight jeans. 

“I’ll make sure to keep making it for you then, Jack,” you giggle and slide the fresh pecan pie from the shelf and into a carton. 

“I’ll be a steady customer for sure,” he says and reaches back for his wallet, handing you his card with a smile, “no other bakery has better pecan pie.” You fight the grin on your face as you charge his card and go to hand it back to him, but he gently takes your hand instead, pulling you closer to him over the counter, “And the most gorgeous baker to make them,” he whispers, his low voice rich and warm as you feel his warm breath slip over your cheek.

He gives you a wink and lets go of your hand, stepping back from the counter and letting the next customer step forward as he tips his hat to you. 

“What a charmer,” Mrs Levinson says, pulling your attention away from Jack as she puts her handbag on the counter. “But I always preferred a man in a suit, and a bit less forward if I may say so.” She wrinkles her nose at you, dismissing Jack as you try to stifle a giggle. 

“I think he was just the right amount of forward, Mrs Levinson,” you reply with a smile, “Would you like your usual order today?” 

“Yes please, dear. But add one of those Lemon Meringue Pies please. I’m going over to Mrs York’s place later,” she adds the last part with a sigh. “So sad, her son and his wife have just split up, they have two such beautiful daughters.” 

“Didn’t they divorce last spring, Mrs Levinson?” 

“Yes, at Easter, but he’s still single and she’s found some new man,” Mrs Levinson shakes her head as you place the pie next to her usual bread order, “he’s such a handsome boy, always wears a suit too, he’d be a real catch for you, my dear.” 

“I’ve got plenty on my plate already, Mrs Levinson,” you smile, thinking of Jack’s flirting and tight jeans, “I just don’t have time for any more right now.” 

“You have to let yourself have some fun too, can’t be all work,” the old lady scolds you mildly as you hand her the change and she puts everything away. “I’ll tell Mrs York to send him here for some time soon, I’m sure you’d like him.” She gives you a cheeky wink and waves goodbye, letting the next customer in line step up. 

The next time Jack comes by the bakery, he’s back in his sharp suit, and tips his Stetson at you with a wink as he comes up to the counter. 

“Seeing as I was found lacking last time, I thought it best to suit up,” he chuckles and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you laugh. 

“Mrs Levinson has a sharp eye for handsome men, but might be a little bit old fashioned,” you reply, “But I do like your suit, it’s very ‘you’, Jack.” 

“Thank you, sugar, I do like to dress the part for work,” he straightens his impeccable hat again. 

“So what brings you back here, Jack? You can’t possibly have eaten two whole pecan pies in just a few days?”

“I certainly could’ve,” he chuckles, patting down the front of his suit jacket, “but I was kind enough to share it with my colleagues and told them you have the best pie in town, and I think you might be getting more customers soon.” 

“That’s very nice of you, and thanks for the recommendation”, you smile, but Jack shakes his head. 

“Only telling the truth, sugar,” he winks, “and I’ve promised them to bring another pie tomorrow so could I trouble you?” 

“Of course, I’ve been making extra just for you, Jack” you smile and Jack’s face lights up, a wide grin making a dimple appear in his cheek as he rubs a hand over his neat mustache. 

“Honey, you’re spoiling me rotten, how can I ever repay you?” 

“Well, I’d say twenty-four, ninety-nine, but this one’s on the house,” you scoot the box with the pie over the counter towards Jack who’s furiously shaking his head. 

“You know I can’t accept that, sugar. You’re already undercharging as it is,” he says, pulling out his wallet from inside his suit jacket as you raise your hand to stop him. 

“Jack, if you pull out that wallet any further I’ll have to ban you from the bakery, it’s on the house.” 

Jack’s eyes go wide, “You wouldn’t?” he exclaims with mock horror as you nod emphatically. 

“Oh I would, Jack,” you grin, pointing to the door, “Now take your pie and leave that wallet in your pocket.” 

Jack shakes his head as he picks up the pie box, “I’ll pay you somehow, sugar, but thank you very much for the pie.” 

“You’re very welcome, Jack,” you smile at him as he carefully brings two fingers to the brim of his Stetson and gives you a nod. 

“‘Till next time, darlin’.” 

You do sell a couple of more pecan pies over the next few days and you wonder if your new customers are Jack’s colleagues as you add extra pecans to your online grocery order. Thanks to Jack you’ve gone through your stores of pecans in record time, and as you tap your pen on your notebook you toy with the idea of making variations of it for Jack to try. The jingle of the bell above the bakery door pulls you out of your thoughts and you look up. Your heart skips a little beat when you recognise the black Stetson. 

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Jack calls to you as he spots you in the kitchen, “I’m not too late am I?”

“Not at all, I’m closing in about five minutes, I’m just ordering next week’s groceries,” you wave him in behind the counter and he comes to the door into your kitchen, putting an arm up over his head as he leans on the frame. 

“More pecans?” he winks and you laugh. 

“How did you know? I’m running low on them, someone keeps buying all my pies.” 

“A few of my colleagues said they’ve stopped by and bought a couple of pies,” he says as you try to discreetly glance at his tall frame as he leans against the door post. He’s back in his white t-shirt and black leather jacket this evening, and the way the shirt rides up over the edge of his tight jeans as he stretches his arm, a sliver of tanned skin peeking out, has your mind going blank. 

“Oh, y-yeah,” you stutter as your brain slowly comes back online, “A very nice woman with short black hair and glasses came in and bought one, but it was busy and I didn’t get a chance to ask if she worked with you.” 

“Ginger,” Jack smiles, “she’s the one who asked me where I got it. Tried telling her I made it myself but, funnily, she didn’t buy it,” he chuckles and comes into the kitchen, leaning over your shoulder to look down at your notes, “What are you working on there, sugar?” 

“I was thinking of making some variations of the pie,” you say, “maybe one with a hint of lemon, or a bourbon chocolate one?” 

“Now you’re talking my kind of language, sugar,” Jack grins, tapping the ridiculously large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask that sits on his belt. 

“Don’t tell me you actually have bourbon in that?” you ask, your eyebrows shooting up and Jack nods and grins. 

“Of course, sugar! Never know when I might need a shot,” he laughs, unclipping the hip flask from his belt and flipping open the top, holding out for you to smell. The rich, warm aroma of the bourbon wafts up and you inhale deeply.  “That smells so good, Jack, it’s giving me ideas!”

“What kinds of ideas, sugar?” Jack drawls, winking at you as he leans on your workbench, his eyes suddenly level with yours, all chocolate brown and warm. Your cheeks heat up as he takes a swig from the hip flask, his eyes never leaving yours, and then offers it to you. 

“Baking ideas,” you force out, almost jumping out of your skin as his fingers slip over your hand when you take the flask from him. The warm whiskey goes down smooth and warm, heating you up from the inside as it lands in your belly, and your eyes come back to Jack’s. He’s looking at you with a smile, one corner of his mouth pulled up as he takes the flask back from you. 

“Are you making me a new pecan pie straight away, honey? Because I absolutely have room for dessert…” he trails off with a quirk of his eye brows. You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot, little hot sparks are erupting in your stomach and they have nothing to do with the bourbon. Jack runs the tip of his tongue over the edge of his lip, catching an errant drop of whiskey and you follow the movement with your eyes, his plush bottom lip disappearing for a moment as he sucks it in, wetting it. 

“Cream!” you blurt out. 

Jack raises his eyebrows questioningly, “Cream?” The tone of his voice has dropped about an octave and there’s no mistaking the suggestion in his voice. 

“No! Yes! I-I mean, whipped cream, with bourbon, for the pie,” you flounder, pointing to Jack’s hip flask as his smile widens. 

“That sounds like the most perfect addition to your pie, sugar. Right now?” 

“Yeah, if I can use a few tablespoons of your whiskey?” 

“You can have whatever you want, darlin’,” Jack replies, unclipping the bottle again and handing it to you. 

“Grab the pie from the display case,” you tell him as you open the fridge to pull out the whipping cream. You hear Jack go back to the front and bring the pie back to the workbench, as you pull out a hand mixer and a bowl, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of your chair before he comes back to the table. The white t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders as he leans on the workbench next to you.

“So I finally get to see you in action,” he says as you measure out two tablespoons of whiskey from his flask before handing it back to him. 

“For about the two minutes it’s going to take to make this,” you smile and start the hand mixer. Jack grabs the bowl and holds it steady while you slowly start whipping the cream, adding powdered sugar as you go along with the whiskey. Soon the cream has transformed to pillowy clouds and you stop the mixer. You can smell the bourbon and so can Jack, he leans forward and inhales deeply. 

“This smells gorgeous, sugar, just the thing for the pie I think.” 

You giggle as he stands up again, a small dollop of cream clinging to the tip of his nose. 

“You’ve got some cream on your nose there, Jack,” you smile and Jack laughs, going cross eyed as he tries to spot it. With a swipe of his finger he catches the dollop and puts his finger in his mouth. 

“Mmm…delicious,” he says, grinning around his finger as you smile back at him, grabbing a couple of plates and a knife for cutting. 

“Should be even better with the pie,” you say, giving Jack a generous slice and then cutting another one for yourself before spooning the bourbon infused cream next to both slices. 

Jumping up on the workbench, you grab your plate as Jack takes a step closer, picking up his own piece. You swipe your finger through the cream on your plate, wanting to taste it without the pie first. But Jack beats you to it, his hand comes out and grabs your wrist, his calloused fingers closing gently around your soft skin as he pulls your hand to his lips. The wet heat of his mouth envelops your finger as he sucks it in, his tongue brushing over your digit, and you gasp. 

The sensation of his tongue running along your finger shoots electricity through your body and you exhale sharply, your eyes locked on Jack’s mouth as he studies your reaction. As your eyes come back up to his he lets your finger slip from between his lips, leaning forward and capturing your chin with his hand. He pauses for a second, waiting for your permission, and as you lean into him, he presses a soft kiss to your mouth. A low groan slips from him and the taste of bourbon and cream fills your mouth as he tenderly dips his tongue in between your lips. Your hand comes up to his shoulder to brace yourself, his hot mouth on yours making your pulse rase. You lean into him, needing to taste more of his mouth and his arm comes around your waist, pulling you close. 

“You taste even better than the pie, sugar,” Jack mumbles against your mouth, cupping your cheek with his large hand as you chase his lips. 

“You too, Jack,” you moan, letting him angle your face so that he can deepen the kiss, fervently licking into your mouth as he pulls you closer to his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist where he stands between them. His body is warm through the cotton of his t-shirt, his muscles moving under your palms as you explore the planes of his back. Jack lets his mustache tickle across your cheek, your jawline, as he slowly moves his lips with small, wet kisses, along your sensitive skin, trailing a path down your neck. His dark hair is thick and soft when you curl your fingers into the back of it, Jack tilting your head back as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his nose buried in your hair. 

“So sweet, darlin’,” he mutters, his voice muffled, “smells like butter and sugar.” 

“Come up here and kiss my lips again, Jack,” you protest, tugging light at his hair and he chuckles, inhaling deeply. 

“Anything for you, honey,” he replies, his big hand cupping the back of your head as he drags the cool tip of his nose up your neck and jaw, bumping against yours. When you lock eyes again he’s smiling softly, all the confident cockyness gone, replaced by warmth and affection. His lips part slowly as you pull him closer, his tongue teasing yours, making you lick into his mouth. 

He hums softly, his hand caressing your back, finding the divot of your spin and trailing his fingers up and down. In the quiet kitchen all you can hear are his low groans and your own gasps as each kiss traces sparks along your nerves. Jack’s fingers press into your back as heat builds between you, his hips slowly grinding in a movement so unhurried it’s as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When his warm palms find their way up under your shirt, rough calluses stroking gently over your curves, you lean back, pulling him with you until you're flat on your back, Jack leaning down over you. 

“Gorgeous…” he mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, his hands pushing further up your shirt. 

“Oh no!” he suddenly exclaims, lifting his head up from your throat and holding up his hand, covered in mushed up pecan pie. 

“You’re on top of it, honey,” he laughs, helping you sit up, and you hear the plate clatter to the bench behind you. Now that you’re up, you can feel the stickiness against your back, and you twist, trying to see how much of a mess you’ve made. 

“Is it all over my back?” you ask and Jack looks over your shoulder and nods. 

“I’m afraid so, sugar, your shirts covered in it. Do you have something to change into?”

“No, I took everything home to wash yesterday,” you grumble, twisting your arm up behind your back and feeling the remains of the pie. 

“Here,” Jack says, standing up straight and swiftly pulling his own t-shirt off, “I’ll wear just the jacket, you take my shirt.” He holds it out to you and you hesitate, temporarily mesmerized by the sudden sight of Jack’s bare chest, tan and smooth with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.  

You swallow and pull your eyes up to his face again, “I can’t take your t-shirt, Jack.” 

“Why not? Take it, I’ve got plenty more, and I kinda like the idea of you in my shirt,” he winks and takes a step closer again, making you grab his shirt as he bends and places a wet kiss on your lips, “And this way, I can come by your place and pick it up. Or leave another one.” 

He grins as stands up again, “C’mon, sugar, take that one off and let me see you in mine.” He helps you by putting his hands back on your waist and pushing up under your ruined shirt. You peel it off gingerly, trying to avoid getting pie in your hair, and Jack’s eyes darken as you sit in front of him in just your bra. 

“Want me to put it on straight away, Jack?” you tease him as you watch him take in your shape. 

“No..but yeah, or we’re not leaving this bakery anytime soon, darlin’,” he chuckles, and you pull his t-shirt over your head as Jack sighs in mock disappointment. The soft cotton is still warm from his body and smells just like Jack, you have to inhale as it slips over your head. When you pop out from underneath it Jack is watching you with a small smile. 

“Beautiful,” he says softly, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you feel your cheeks heat up. 

“Do you want more pie, Jack?” you ask, pointing to the remaining pie and Jack’s eyebrows quirk up. 

“What do you think, sugar?” he smirks and you laugh. 

“I think you’ve got three empty pie forms at home and an extra hole in your belt.” 

“Not yet, but soon,” he grins, patting his small belly, “C’mon, sugar, let me drive you, make sure my shirt gets to its new home safely.” 

“I’ve got my own car, but thanks for the offer, Jack,” you smile at him and slip your arms around his neck again. “Come by soon, I’ll have more pie for you.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it, sugar.”  

Part Nine

This week's recipe comes courtesy of @goodwithcheese who shared her own Pecan Pie recipe with me! Thank you Megan!

Megan’s Pecan Pie 3 eggs ½ cup/100g sugar 1 cup/250 ml dark corn syrup 3 tablespoons melted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla  ¼ teaspoon salt  2 cups/approx 250g chopped pecans Whisk together all ingredients except the pecans. Stir in the pecans and pour the mixture into an unbaked pie crust and bake for 40 minutes at 350F/175C.

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

[luveline]

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve doesn't really like the holidays, but he likes you. So, he makes some concessions. Rainbow lit, tinsel-covered, pine tree-smelling concessions.

6k words, christmas centric, fem!reader who celebrates christmas, mutual pining, gingerbread houses, mistletoe, ugly sweaters, friends to lovers, idiots in love, allusions to s4.

❆

Steve hates Christmas. He doesn't want to get into it and he won't, not when you love it the way that you do — quietly, and yet every movement hints at your excitement. 

Your hands are basically shaking when he lugs the new box onto the desk. It's adorable. 

"Thank you for doing this," you say, meeting his eyes and sending him one of your too-nice smiles. Kind that makes him nervous and sick and excited all at once. 

"I don't know why you're so eager. They're the same cheese-fests this year as last year," he says.

You lean over the counter enough for him to smell your perfume. "That's not true. You said you have The Christmas Star, right?" 

"Ten whole copies." 

He pulls open the cardboard box and digs for your desired tape. The case is cardstock and crisp with newness, and it squeaks as he pulls it up and displays it against his chest. 

You beam. "Yes. How much? Expensive 'cos it's new?" 

"Not with the employee discount," he says, placing the tape down neatly. 

Your smile turns shy. Steve has always thought you were pretty, in the same way he thinks that grass is green and stars shine at night, but lately you've turned to a sweetness that has his teeth aching if he thinks about it, all manner of terrible emotions flooding his idiot brain. Jealousy, protectiveness, and — he shudders — affection. Even now he's tempted to round the desk and make up an excuse to touch your arms, or your hands. Your face. 

"Thanks, Steve," you say softly. 

"Of course. There has to be one pro to working in this dump, right?" 

"Is it a dump? It looks super clean." 

He hesitates. "We had to fix it up. Holiday decorations are coming in tomorrow." 

"Make that today!" 

You both turn to see Robin struggling out of the back room, two boxes held in her arms and hiding her face. She stumbles to the desk and Steve leaps to help her, unveiling her grinning face. There's a meanness to her eyes that Steve abores. 

"Well, yesterday. Keith says they got here last night, which means today is officially the first day of Family Video Christmas." 

"It's November," Steve says, narrowing his eyes. 

"Thirty first!"

Robin pries open one of the huge boxes and thrusts both hands in unafraid, pulling out streams of green and silver tinsel like festive innards. Her eyebrows jump up. "Nice," she says appreciatively. 

"I almost wish I worked here." 

"You can stay and help," Steve says. 

Your laughter makes his chest hurt. "I can't. I have decorating to do all by myself next door." You straighten your Palace Arcade polo and your black, plain skirt. "Do I look okay?" 

Steve has a terrible lapse in judgement wherein he thinks about telling you exactly how you look, lips pressed together ready to make a 'b' sound, but he stops himself in the nick of time. Friends don't really do that. 

"You look fucking adorable," Robin says, having wrapped the tinsel around her neck in a makeshift scarf. She sparkles as she turns to Steve. "Doesn't she?" 

"Adorable," he says tightly. 

You scratch under your ear. "Thank you.” 

You promise to come back at the end of the day for The Christmas Star and escape before Robin can poke fun at your shyness. 

The door closes behind you and Steve buries his face in his hands. His cheeks are hot. 

"That was pretty bad. Better, though," Robin says, an air of genuineness about her that he knows she doesn't truly possess. 

Steve scrubs a hand through his hair, temper welled to the surface quick and uncomfortable as usual. He pushes it down and turns away from Robin and the glaringly bright Christmas decorations rather than say something snappy that she doesn't strictly deserve. 

"Maybe by Christmas you'll be able to look her in the eye." 

"Maybe by Christmas I'll have friends I actually like." 

"Points for quickness," she cheers. Steve can feel her moving to stand beside him. "But ultimately weak." 

"It could happen." 

"Could it?"

He rolls his eyes and starts to log The Christmas Star under his name for you. Employees get pretty good privileges, like reduced rates and nulled late fees. You could keep it 'til the 25th, if that's what you want. 

Robin drapes tinsel over his shoulders. "I really, genuinely think that, despite your bad posture, your hair, your clothes," — Steve scoffs — "and your dismal taste in movies, she likes you." 

He's so distracted by her (mostly) joking insults that he doesn't quite hear the end. Then, when it sinks in, his incredulity lends itself to a new target. 

"What?" 

"Steve," Robin says flatly. 

"She likes me?" 

"I think so. She's not coming in here every day for me." 

"How should I know? I'm not exactly a good judge of it." 

Robin taps her foot against his. They're overly familiar if not overly affectionate friends, and he relents in his bad mood, pulling the tinsel from his shoulders with a dejected sigh. 

"I doubt it. She was excited about the new movies." Not me. He doesn’t think you'll be back tomorrow.  

"Why aren't you excited?" Robin asks.

"You know I don't like the holidays." His agitation is clear in his annoyed hand gestures, fingers furling and unfurling. "Weeks of torture. Cranky moms walking around like somebody shoved a candy cane up their-" 

"Steve, that's like, ten percent of the holiday season! There's a bazillion other things to like about Christmas." 

He snorts. "Like what?" 

—

Steve doesn't know how she managed it, but Robin has someone orchestrated the older gaggle of their friends to sit down anywhere but next to him. When you arrive, late and full of abashed apologies, the only seat empty is the chair to his right. 

You collapse beside him and the December chill outside follows you. Cold emanates off of your clothes. You peel out of your black denim jacket and press the back of your hand to his. 

"Cold, huh?" you ask. 

He swallows around nothing. "Cold." 

Your touch lingers. If he were your boyfriend, he'd take your cold hands in both of his and blow on them generously. He'd rub your stiff knuckles until they were loose and your fingers limp. 

Robin opens her arms and a half a dozen boxes clatter into the middle of the table, upside down and on their sides. Steve turns his head to read the font, and then promptly sits up. 

"No," he says. 

"Steve," Robin pleads, already turned away to retrieve a wicker basket full of candy. "Don't be a loser." 

"Too late," Eddie says, painted nails digging into the cardboard flap of his box. 

"You don't want to make one?" you ask Steve. 

"Gingerbread houses are a little elementary school, aren't they?" Steve turns to Jonathan imploringly. "You agree, right?" 

"No," Jonathan says with a laugh. "Me and Will still make them every year. El's getting good at them, too." 

"Will made one with a door that opens last year," Nancy says, pride for her boyfriend's brother clear in her pert smirk. 

Steve rolls his eyes. "That's good for him, and I mean it, but why are we doing this? Tell me there's beer, at least." 

"Yes!" Eddie cheers, slapping his thigh. "Harrington, you're finally saying something I can get behind. I have a little something extra in the van, just say the word." 

"There's beer," Nancy says emphatically. 

Eddie pretends to die in his chair. You giggle like crazy at his dramatics and set about opening your box, fanning gingerbread walls and roof panelling out over the table. 

Steve feels old resentment for Eddie bubble up like it never left. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh like that, all sweet and secret like you're trying not to make a fuss but you just can't help it. The resentment fades when you reach across from him and open a second box, laying supplies out in front of him one by one. 

"I think we should be a team," you tell him. 

"That's not fair," Eddie says.

"Can it, Munson-"

"We can all be teams," Robin says, returning with a blessedly cold six pack, three piping bags, and a handful of metal tips. "You two, me and Eddie, Nancy and Jonathan." 

Steve doesn't miss her suggestive eyebrow wiggle, and neither does anybody else. You turn to Steve in confusion. He shakes his head vigorously in a rapid and untrue show of I don't know, arm weaving under yours to bring your attention to the bigger piece of gingerbread. "This is the floor, right?" 

Steve’s surprised by how good of a team you turn out to be. Your gingerbread house takes shape slowly. Steve holds the pieces in place and you apply the icing seams like caulking, smoothing the lines out with your index finger and licking it clean. You’re a picture of happiness, happy jabbering interspersed between singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio and warding off insincere insults sent your way. 

"My grandma can decorate better than that, and she's pushing ninety. She has glaucoma."

“Cut the shit talking, Eddie,” you warn, flicking him with a jellybean. It hits his neck, and his retribution comes in five more aimed at your gingerbread house. 

The sides wobble unsurely.

Steve frosts the roof, assuming it’ll be easy. It isn’t easy at all, and soon any cuteness you’ve made is ruined by his ugly hatching. He winces, then frowns, then glares, eyebrows furrowed in agitation. 

Jonathan and Nancy are the ones to beat. Both nerds, both neat. Jonathan’s an artist and it’s obvious he does this every year, their house made up of pretty white swirls and gem decorated doors and windows. They're bantering quietly, insincere declarations that make Steve jealous — not of Jonathan, exactly, but of their relationship as a whole. They fit together in a way Steve and Nance never had. They’re effortless. 

Robin and Eddie make a good go of it, surprisingly. Steve had expected Eddie to throw the competition before he could lose, and hates to be proven wrong. Dorks combined with too much imagination, their gingerbread house has become a sort of macabre scene with a dead gingerbread man outlined in the snow surrounding, and icing stalagmites rise under the roof’s overhang.

You pull your chair in as close to Steve’s as you can, your knee pressed into his thigh and your elbow glancing off of his bicep every time you place a jellybean.

“There,” you say, pulling back. “That looks awesome, doesn’t it?”

It’s a hot mess. Unbalanced, too much icing on one side of the roof and not enough on the other, you lean back into Steve’s chest, your skin to his skin and your hair smelling of jasmine, appraising the work you’ve made just as it begins to fall apart. The weight of the roof becomes too much and the walls split either side of one another, in both slow motion and fast. Steve sees it happen incrementally, and it’s too quick to stop. 

Your gingerbread house collapses. 

“Fuck,” Steve says. “Fucking fuck.”

You get second place. 

“It looked good when it was actually standing,” Nancy reasons, her lies obvious in her raised pitch, her queasy shifting. 

“It did,” you agree. 

Steve’s self-loathing abates ever so slightly. 

“Pity win,” Eddie says with a cough. 

You laugh like crazy, and Steve decides gingerbread houses are for kids. 

—

After the gingerbread house disappointment, Steve thinks things cannot get worse. He is swiftly proven wrong. 

It's his turn to host a party, Robin's idea, and Christmas crawls ever closer. When he closes his eyes at night he can see the faces of every annoyed mom asking for The Christmas Star. Carols play in his ears unbidden. He finds himself humming songs he hates out of nowhere and clamping his mouth shut hard enough to chip a tooth every time. 

You love decorations, and so he and Robin have spent the last hour making his big empty house something fit for a rom-com, wreaths and tinsels and rainbow flashing lights. You love Christmas music, and so the stereos dialled to a cruel thirty in preparation for your arrival. You love cookies, and so, to Steve's amateurish expense, plates of sugar cookies line the kitchen countertops, along with all the finger foods one could ever desire. 

Though in Steve's case, that's none. He hates Christmas parties, reminded of his parents' misaligned efforts to earn favour with equally pompous parents. He and Tommy would hide out in backyards with stolen booze, and when that got too cold they'd shuffle inside, warm in their chests and numb in their fingers. 

He frowns at the memory and wizzes it all away. Tommy was an asshole. Steve was an asshole, he still is. This party isn't for his parents. 

It's for you. 

Not that anyone can ever, ever know. 

"What do you think?" Robin asks, pulling at the edges of the sweater she's changed into. 

It's a movie reference he should understand, but doesn't. "I love it." 

She smiles. Rare for them to operate above dry sarcasm and quick wit. Christmas makes Robin squishy, like she's forgotten how shitty the world is, and Steve wants her to have a good time tonight. This includes being nice (which he should be more often, anyway). 

"Go change. She'll be here soon."

"Who, Nance?" 

Robin tips her head back. "Oh, yeah, Nancy. Definitely who I meant." 

He flips her the finger, putting an end to their Christmas niceties. She's still laughing as he climbs the stairs and barrels into his room. He doesn't bother closing the door even as he hears the doorbell ring. The pizza should be getting here around now. 

Steve doesn't rush. He’d left cash on the countertop. Robin can deal with it. 

He ducks forward and pulls his polo up the length of his back, hair puffed out like a cloud. He'd set aside his ridiculous reindeer sweater on the top shelf of his closet. Or, at least, he'd thought he had. He searches once, twice, and then gives in to his short temper and drops his face into his hands. 

Stupid Christmas. Stupid sweater. Stupid party.  

He hears your inhale like a whisper. Breath caught in your throat. 

"Steve," you say, sounding surprised. 

It's his room. He's not sure what's so surprising. 

You're standing in the doorway looking angelic, all things considered. Your features softened by powder, wearing a white Christmas sweater with dainty beaded snowflakes and a plaid skirt. You look pretty, and Steve's not one for dramatics but he wishes he was dead. 

"You look nice," he says pathetically. 

"You, too," you say. You clear your throat. "I mean. Uh-" 

"You okay?" he asks, pushing hair out of his eyes. 

Your smile falters. You look at his naked chest. Steve worries he's making you uncomfortable and turns as nonchalantly as he can to his closet again, says, "I can't find my sweater. It's…" He lifts a bundle of jeans up. "Horrifying." 

"I can help." 

You step into the room. Each footstep silent, you've already discarded your shoes. He looks down to your stockings and then up again, ignoring the blush that wants to emerge at the sight of your thighs. 

"It's brown, and it has a weird red thing hanging off of it. Rudolph's nose." 

You step close enough that he can feel the heat of your arm and run a hand down the shelves. It takes a couple of seconds at most and you've found it, pulling it from the pile carefully. He loves the way you move, each inch deliberate. 

You press the sweater into his chest. His hands come up, his fingers cover your own. 

When he's with you, Steve feels as though everything — every movement, every moment — is broken down into its finest details. He thinks he could draw your fingerprint if asked, each miniscule line embossed into his skin as you touch him. 

"Steve?" 

But that's ridiculous. 

"Thanks. I think I got tinsel in my eyes or some shit," he mutters, averting his gaze.

"You're welcome. Robin sent me to see what was taking you so long. I'll tell her it was a Rudolph related crisis." 

You stroke his arm. 

He loses his shit internally, hand reaching for your retreating figure as you turn your back. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he would’ve kissed you.

"Steve?" you ask, now standing in the doorway. 

He recalibrates, muddled. "Yeah?" 

"Get dressed,” you encourage. You give him a short smile, blinding, and laugh quietly as you leave. 

He's hopped up on hope as he gets dressed, a smile plastered over what had felt to him like a seasonal scowl. He's no idiot; arm-touching, your tinkling laughter. Maybe his crush isn't as hopeless as he'd thought. 

He smooths down his hair for much longer than necessary, listening as the door opens and closes and opens again, friends trickling in with happy hellos and complaints about the weather. It's cold but too wet for snow, and evidence of it trails in from the front door through the hallway where shoes lie discarded in clumsy pairs.

He picks over them and finds his friends, ones he made willing and otherwise, draped over his living room like old throws. Max and Lucas have stolen the couch where they sit laughing, clearly gossiping about something. The rest of the lunch club stick close by, bowls of snacks already claimed and in cross-legged laps. 

"Steve," Jonathan says, "what the fuck is that?" 

"Fucker," Steve says. He's the butt of too many jokes, then, and he glares at Robin even as she plates him some still-warm pizza. 

"Sorry," she mouths. 

You curl up on the couch next to Max. He appreciates the unlikely friendship you've formed, sort of a sistership. You only know her through Steve but he genuinely thinks you'd pick her over him, and that makes him like you more. 

That's all he does, lately. Finds new ways to fall in love with you. 

"That is the ugliest sweater I've ever seen," Max says.

Fucking Christmas. 

—

Steve's been in a bad mood since he came downstairs, and you're not okay with it. Despite your shameless meltdown in his bedroom at seeing him shirtless, you don't quit. You spend some time with Max on the couch, and when she seems a little less agitated you track him down. 

He's definitely hiding. 

"I think Max's glasses are hurting her nose," you say. 

Steve looks over his shoulder at you, and he smiles, the slopes of his face kissed by the open refrigerator light. "They'd hurt anyone. The lenses are like, five inches thick." 

“Poor girl,” you mumble, more to yourself than him. 

He turns back to the fridge and pulls out a two litre of coke. “You want a drink?” 

You shake your head. His hair looks incredibly sweet from this angle, and you don’t mean that in a condescending way. It curls toward the bottom of his neck, that tiny bit too long compared to his usual cut. His neck moves as his head swivels, and there’s ligaments, there’s muscle, the bump of his Adam’s apple, all of it commanding attention. You think about stepping forward to touch him, his neck, to curl your finger around the side of his throat and hold him in place. If there’s one thing about Steve lately, it’s that he’s always fucking moving. He can’t sit still. He looks between you and the empty glass in question, twice, a third time. 

“I don’t read minds,” he says eventually, near pleading. 

You decide some flirtation is in order. 

“I’m glad you can’t,” you say lightly, crossing what’s left of the kitchen tile between you to stop at his side. You pretend that you’d wanted a drink, taking a glass down from one of his cabinets so he can fill it for you. Something he could’ve done himself. You hope that’ll be clear enough for him — the blatant want to be close. 

It isn’t, unsurprisingly. 

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, I think…” You lower your voice,a private confession. “That sometimes what I’m thinking, it might be- Uh, telling.”

Poor Steve. That hadn’t come out anywhere as smooth as you’d anticipated. It’s harder to tell him now you’re confronted with him, his every detail. And Steve, sweetheart, angel Steve, he misses the mark. Forget different pages, Steve’s reading a separate chapter, and your flirtation reads as a deeply unromantic confession. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. “Of course not.”

His eyebrows jump and his forehead crinkles. “You sure?” His protective tone melts into something softer. “Let’s hear it, whatever it is.”

Steve isn’t patient. You know that about him. His temper is short and fierce. You like how hot he runs, love his agitated pouting and his dark-eyed scowls — he’s handsome in every expression. 

He isn’t patient, but he tries. He’s kind, and if you wanted to sit and talk about the hypothetical that isn’t bothering you, he’d listen. 

“I actually wanted to ask if everything was alright with you,” you say gently. 

His hand wobbles, fastening the coke cap. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’ve noticed you don’t really like Christmas.”

He smiles, and soon the smile catches, a shy lip bite that has you fighting with your hands to keep them where they hang at your sides. 

“You got me.”

Steve pushes the twin glasses of coke back and then turns around, resting the small of his back against the countertop. You step in front of him without thinking, head ducked to catch and keep his eyes. They’re such a lovely brown, light and earthy, potted with white dots from the fluorescent kitchen light like falling snow as his eyes slip down. You swear, Steve is looking at your lips. 

“Is there something I can do?” 

It’s a terrible time to ask because you genuinely mean it, you’re not just trying to cop a feel. He doesn’t smirk or laugh as you’d thought he would, he only smiles. 

“Thanks, but I’m good.” He tips his head back, criminal, neck arched and ever-enticing. “Fucking sick of this itchy straight jacket,” he groans, pulling at the collar of his sweater like he’s hot. 

He is hot. You’d both benefit from a sudden winter breeze. 

His head drops, eyes lit with confusion. “What? Something on my face?”

“Something,” you agree. 

You look behind you to check what you’d thought you’d seen was truly there. When it is, you turn back to Steve with a feigned concern. “Here, come step into better light.”

You hurry into the doorway, frowning. 

Steve frowns in turn and follows you. You give the game away without meaning to, looking up at the sprig of mistletoe pinned sloppily above you. 

He sees it. He lights up. The happiest he’s looked all month, Steve scrubs a hand over his face and into his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he comes to meet you. Your stomach flips with excitement, because oh shit, he looks like he wants to kiss me. 

“Butler, I’m in need of one of your finest cokes, please.”

Oh, no.

Eddie bounces into view with a certified shit-eating grin, hair decorated with tiny metallic baubles. His sweater is surprisingly normal, a black and white knitted affair with reindeer and snowflakes. 

He comes to a stop beside you. “What’s happening?”

Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look-

“Shit, hey! Mistletoe.”

Eddie opens his arms. You sigh, to his delight, and lean in so he can give you a chaste kiss on the cheek. You try to look at Steve and find your view blocked by a mass of hair.  

“Wow, sweetheart. And I thought we were friends,” Eddie says good-naturedly. 

You scrunch your hand in his sweater to push him away, not unkindly. Guilt gets the better of you and you pat the place over his heart. “We are.”

He makes a kissy sound and dives in toward your neck. Startled, you squeal, stumbling away from his rabid affection and back into the kitchen. He follows, though he doesn’t try anymore kisses. 

“Harrington! I wasn’t joking about the coke. Can I-“

“Help yourself,” Steve says. 

He sounds miserable. 

—

There isn’t time or opportunity to smooth things over with Steve that night. Actually, a week becomes two, and neither do you kiss nor talk about kissing. You want to explain to him what he probably already knows — you really had been standing there for him, hoping for a kiss, a proper kiss. 

He’d looked crushed. You don’t use the word lightly. Steve looked as though somebody had stepped on his chest and pressed all of their weight against his ribs. Frazzled, unhappy. You can’t get the look out of your head, and Christmas doesn’t feel so cheerful with the gap that yawns between you, an icy crevice. 

You try to explain and things get in the way. At the video store, you show up with a plate of apology cookies hoping for a second chance and suddenly the radio breaks and gets stuck blaring ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ like a storm siren. You meet up for games night with a twig of mistletoe in your purse hoping to be a tad more brazen about it and he sits on the opposite sofa, doesn’t take any pee breaks, effectively foiling your plan with inactivity. You ask him out for hot chocolate over the phone and he can’t come. 

“My parents are flying home. I gotta pick ‘em up from the airport.”

You don’t know whether he’s lying or not. His parents actually being home feels outlandish. If he is lying, he doesn’t want to see you, and if he doesn’t want to see you… 

He doesn’t like you. Not the way you like him. 

You worry you imagined the whole thing, his enthusiasm, his starry eyed smile. 

So you’re giving it one last shot. If it doesn’t work you’ll spend your Christmas heartbroken and sulking, but if it does you might actually get to kiss him. It’s a huge thing, and your hands are shaking with more than the cold as you bump up the small step to Steve’s front door. 

The green wreath hanging below the peep hole jitters as you knock, a fragrant twining of pine and cinnamon sticks. 

The door opens all at once.

“Hi,” you say, biting the tip of your tongue. “Hi, I’m, uh-“

The man who’s answered, who you summarise to be Steve’s father despite never having seen him, looks disinterested. “Steve,” he calls. “One of your friends.”

He walks away with nothing else to say, a dark brown liquid lapping at the sides of his small glass. You pull the wrapped box in hand closer to your chest, shifting from one numbing foot to the other as a small tumbling sound comes from upstairs. A pair of hinges squeal, and Steve is halfway down the stairs before he’s even looked up. 

He slows as he approaches the bottom. 

He’s in pajamas. Sweatpants, nondescript, but his too-tight shirt clearly of the Christmas variety. A snowman smiles over his chest. 

“It’s laundry day,” he says. 

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go out with you-“

“Steve,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is that… for me?”

The box in your hands is wrapped modestly. You hadn’t wanted to shove Christmas down his throat, trading reds and greens for a shiny silver paper pressed with fine glitter snowflakes. 

“Yeah. It’s for you.”

Steve stares at you. You stare back. 

“I’d invite you in, but…” He shakes his head. “Let me get my coat.”

Steve doesn’t close the door, to his father’s annoyance, deep grumbling echoing from the kitchen area. You watch him shove his socked feet into a pair of sneakers and scramble to grab his coat and a scarf. 

“Okay?” he asks, stepping out onto the path and closing the door behind him. 

You don’t answer, distracted by his hands suddenly held up, the scarf thrown neatly around your neck. He does a single knot and tucks it under your jaw. “Awesome,” he says. 

You walk down his street. Hawkins is half woods, and soon you’re weaving between naked trees, no destination in mind, not one unspoken feeling acknowledged between you. 

“Why do you hate Christmas?” 

It’s just dark enough for Steve’s clouded breath to show against the sky. “I don’t,” he says.

Your footsteps break over leaves so frosted they crackle. 

“I mean, I guess I do,” he says. “I don’t know. I think I want it to be better than it is.” He stops under a tree that’s clinging to its last handful of leaves and gives a low-hanging branch a playful shake. “I never enjoyed it, as a kid. Or, I don’t remember. I’m sure I liked it when I was still snot-nosed.”

“So, last year?” 

He chuckles warmly. “Exactly.”

You walk a little further, too awkward to hand him his gift. 

“I don’t hate it. But it’s cold, and everyone’s rushing, and the bad outweighs the good.” He sounds tired. 

He breaks your heart like that. 

You stop walking and Steve takes your cue, the two of you toe-to-toe, your sneakers dirty, his socks odd. One white and one grey. 

“I got you this because… um, I have something to tell you. I don’t think I can say it out loud, but- but I hope it adds something to the scale.” You extend the box slowly, your fingers stiff with the cold. “You deserve some good. You deserve a lot of good.” 

You laugh, flustered, and Steve joins in, chest lifting with it as he accepts his gift. 

He rips off the wrapping paper, at first carefully and then less so, shoving little pieces into his pocket as he goes. You take the bigger scraps from him so he can look at the box itself. 

Your gift is actually multiple gifts contained inside, and the first isn't technically a gift at all. The Family Video copy of The Christmas Star.

"Is this-" 

"I've been meaning to give it back to you. I'm sorry, I know it's not a real gift, I just figured- I mean, you've never seen it. I thought we should watch it, and that you'd like it if you did. Or maybe you'll hate it, and that would be fine too." 

He nods and moves to the next gift, lips twitching with an emotion he won't share. 

"That's your size, hopefully. I asked Robin but she didn't know. I kept the receipt." 

Steve smiles at you. "Would you hold this?" he asks. 

You put your hands out and take the box back, worried, but he's only unzipping his coat. Quick as a flash he's shrugging into the sweater head first. It's a simple thing, red wool, soft to touch. A Christmas sweater, though there's no decoration beside a tiny holly leaf embroidered at the collar in dark green. 

"This is fucking sweet," he says. 

You agree. He looks good. 

A shiver racks his spine. 

"Put your coat back on, you're gonna freeze," you say gently. 

He beams at you. "My dead body will be the best dressed in the morgue." 

"Don't joke about that!" 

He laughs and gets back into his coat, zip right up to his neck. He still looks cold. 

The third present is a gingerbread house kit. The fourth, a sprig of mistletoe. They're obvious now the sweaters in action, and Steve seems mildly confused by them. You leap to explain. 

"I thought, I mean- I want a do-over." You tilt your cheek toward your shoulder, scared and fond at the same time. "I wanted you to kiss me. I think you wanted to kiss me, and then Eddie," — you laugh loudly, cheeks burning with the cold — "was being himself. And Steve, I brought that stupid plant with me to Robin's house last week hoping we'd be alone, and to work the week before. But you're hard to pin down." 

You take a deep breath before continuing, eyes determined at his collar, "If you don't want to kiss me, that's okay. That's why I brought the gingerbread house, because ours was awesome before it fell apart, and I'm pretty sure Robin gave us a dud on purpose. We made something really cool together, and I think we can do it again." 

"I did want to kiss you. I do." 

You bite the inside of your lip, nose scrunched up in happiness. "You do?" you ask, and there's this feeling in your chest like you could burst, and all the cold shrinks into nothing. You're warm in your arms, your fingers, your fingertips. 

His hand comes up to his face briefly, shielding his eyes. "Am I obvious?" 

"Am I?" 

His exhale tickles your cheeks. "No," he says breathlessly.  "No, you're not." 

He says it like it's a good thing. A great thing. 

"Everybody else knows," you say similarly. 

"I know." 

He brings a hand to your cheek. It's cold, cold as your face, but he still winces and rubs at the apple with his thumb. "You're freezing," he says as he inches forward. 

His lips are warm. More gentle than you'd imagined, hesitant, and the box you're holding stops him from getting as close as you want him to get. He kisses you once, then he pulls away and kisses you again, his lips slightly parted. 

It's better than you'd thought it would be. His palm stroking your cheek, the pressure, the heat. Knowing he wants to kiss you now as he wanted to then. 

"No fucking way," he says, tilting his head back. 

You tip your head back too. Something wet falls in your eyelashes, a drop of rain. 

Not rain. "It's fucking snowing," Steve says. 

It's snowing. Because it's Christmas, and the powers that be are on your side. 

"Happy Christmas, Harrington," you say jovially. 

You're given another kiss in reward. Reward, or to shut you up. You're not sure. 

—

Steve is impartial to Christmas. He doesn't want to get into it but he will, because you love it. 

The snow — the snow, which had fallen thick and fine as powdered sugar, which you adore, and which makes coming to see you in the days leading up to Christmas near impossible. It's something out of a movie, Steve, seriously, and you need to appreciate what's happening. 

The music you play when he comes to see you, records on your record player and cassettes in your tape deck lying on your chest, knee to knee and thigh to thigh with him. Your quiet humming; you won't sing, but the small sounds alone are enough to make him want to kiss you (though everything does now). He can't hate Here Comes Santa Claus when you hum along under your breath, lips skipping over the skin of his bicep, your hand scratching a rhythm into his hair. 

Everybody knows Santa's coming, I don't see why they have to have a whole song about it. 

Are you jealous? I'll write a song about you. Or maybe I can steal one. You ever hear Santa baby? We can make it Stevie baby. 

Christmas music? Not his thing. You calling him baby? Fine, he can get behind it. At least until January. 

Christmas sweaters! He fucking hates them. They're ugly, they're scary, he doesn't wanna walk around with a pom pom on his chest thank you so much, but he has to allow them. Has to. If only so he can watch you get dressed with one eye hidden in your pillow and the other wide open. Thank little baby Jesus in the manger for Christmas sweaters so you have something to tuck into your skirt, so you have a reason to wear a skirt at all, and a reason to take one off. 

Christmas snacks he can get behind. Or, he can get behind this. You on the couch, a needle threaded in your hand. A bowl of popcorn in his lap, and your face as you lean back. 

He throws a kernel and it lands in your open mouth. 

You both holler, twin expressions of unadulterated joy, popcorn spilling over the sides of the bowl. You just look so happy, he climbs on knees to steal a kiss. A smiling kiss, the very best kind. 

"Aren't you supposed to do this stuff before Christmas eve?" he asks. 

"I've been a little busy." 

Steve digs his face into your neck so you won't see him blushing, hands curling around your waist in an impromptu hug. Yes, he supposes you have been. 

You kiss his temple sweetly. 

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs. He really, really means it. 

❆

thanks for reading! im so out of practice but hopefully this is okay!! i meant to post it yesterday but anyhow, i hope you enjoyed <3

[dudeitiskarev]

Maybe Someday | Ch. 7

A Spencer Reid mini-series

Pairing: Spencer Reid x female reader

Chapter summary: you visit Spencer. And Henry.

Tags/warnings: food consumption.

Word count: 1.6k

Author’s note: can you tell I’m bad at summaries

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | SPENCER MASTERLIST

Neither of you mentioned it—the almost-kiss. 

It didn’t make things awkward either, which could only mean it wasn’t that big of a deal. Even when it became all Spencer thought about. 

Day and night he craved having that close to you again; to hold you tight, smell your hair, and inhale you until you became a part of him. 

He missed you, and you didn’t mention the almost kiss, so why would he? Everything was as normal as it ever was. 

Except… that it wasn’t. 

Two weeks went by since the most wonderful moment, a few texts here and there, but he needed to see you. So when he couldn’t handle your silence anymore, he showed up at ‘Moramor’. Your face lit up the same way it did the first time but all you said was ‘Hi, what can I get for you?’ as if he was any other customer. He asked for a cup of coffee with a donut, as usual, and after you placed his order on the counter, he sat at a table for one, as usual. He was the only customer that morning while he was there but you didn’t go sit with him for a few minutes, as you usually did during slow mornings. You only glanced at him every once in a while and tore your eyes off him when you made eye contact. That wasn’t like you, he admitted, and part of him wanted to walk up to you and talk to you about it. But he didn’t. He left the cafe with a tight-lipped smile, a wave of a hand, and an empty chest yet full of things he needed to say. 

That night, the only person he had to talk to was a two-year-old toddler. 

“I probably shouldn’t tell you all this,” Spencer said to Henry. 

He’d agreed to babysit Henry for the night while JJ and Will went out for a very much-needed date. Henry was an easy kid to look after, so once Spencer gave him his dinner—sweet potato puree—they sat on the floor over the playmat JJ brought.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a TV for you, but I got you this chessboard the other day.” Spencer opened a small box. “It has flat cardboard pieces for your safety but this way you can familiarize yourself with the game until you’re old enough to play with actual pieces,” he explained, displaying the game. 

It seemed boring now that he had opened it. Still, Henry showed interest and immediately brought one piece to his mouth.

“Okay.” Spencer gently took the piece from him.

“Uh-oh,” Henry babbled. 

“Yeah, uh-oh,” Spencer chuckled. 

His house phone rang, making him stretch his body just enough to reach it while still sitting down. “Hello?” 

“Hey, you’re home.” That was your voice on the other line. His heart began to race.

“Y-yeah, I’m home.” He played with the cord. 

“Good because I’m outside your door. Open up.”

His mouth was left open as you hung up before Spencer could reply. 

“Looks like we have a visitor, Henry.” Spencer stood up rather quickly but gathered himself so he wouldn’t look too excited. He put the long front pieces of his hair behind his ears and adjusted the tie around his neck. He walked to the door, never losing sight of Henry, and opened the door for you. “Hey.”

You opened your mouth to greet him back, and your eyes went past his shoulder, widening. “Hey, there’s… a kid in your living room.” 

“I’m babysitting for the night.”

You quirked a brow. “You have a side job?” 

“No?” he laughed, stepping aside for you to walk in. “I don’t think I need a side job. And even if I did, I doubt I’d choose babysitting. That’s Henry, my godson.”

“Oh.” You took a step back. “ I should’ve called earlier. I’m so sorry. I can go.”

You had a take-out bag in one hand from your favorite Chinese food restaurant.

“No! No, come in, please.” He opened the door all the way. “We uh, we were just playing some chess. We— we would love your company, actually.” 

And by we he meant himself, of course. Henry had no idea who you were but once he met you, Spencer was sure he’d love your company too. 

“Are you sure? Because I can go.” You insisted, your eyes darting from Henry to Spencer. “We can hang out some other day when you’re not too busy.”

“Not busy. Just… with a toddler.” Spencer chuckled.

“Oh, okay.” You walked in hesitantly but made yourself comfortable anyway, taking off your shoes by the door. “Have you eaten? I brought some Chinese.”

“I was starving, actually. I don’t know why I didn’t think of making myself some food before JJ dropped him off.” 

You made your way to his kitchen, Spencer right behind you.

“I’ve got it.” You smiled. 

Okay, Spencer nodded and picked up Henry to sit with him on the couch.

“Are you looking after him all night?” Spencer could get a glimpse of you from there, moving around the kitchen as if it were your own. The sounds of plates and silverware being placed over the counter brought an odd warmth to his place, making it seem like it wasn’t made for someone to live alone.

His stomach rumbled. “I don’t think so, no. They dropped him off two hours ago. They’re usually gone for four hours,” he explained. “I also usually go to their place but this time JJ asked if she could bring him here. I don’t know why.”

You walked to him with the plates, placing them over the coffee table. “Probably because they intend to make another baby after their date,” you casually said, licking the tip of your finger clean.

“Oh.” Spencer's lips turned downward. “Didn’t think of it that way. Now we’re… traumatized.” He looked at Henry whose blinks were slowing down while looking at you.

“Sorry,” you laughed, taking your first bite. “He’s sleepy,” you smiled, looking back at Henry. 

“Yeah, it’s past his bedtime.”

Yet he fought hard not to fall asleep. Henry was too entertained watching you eat.

It didn’t feel as awkward as Spencer thought it’d be. Maybe because he didn’t allow it by talking nonstop about every little thing that made Henry… Henry.

“You’re a natural,” you commented.

“I don’t know why but kids love me,” and just he said that, Henry stretched his arms towards you. 

“Well, they love me, too.” You put your empty plate over the table. “C’mere big boy.” You were gentle to take him from Spencer and sat the kid on your lap. He stretched his little arm and caressed your cheek. “Oh, thank you, you’re so gentle,” you said, using a subtle baby voice.

Spencer’s chest swelled at the sight, and just like Henry, he stayed looking at you. 

“What?” You frowned at him.

“Nothing,” he merely said, shaking his head. “It’s just… you’re a natural, too.”

“I think he’s gonna fall asleep in my arms.” You made yourself comfortable, sitting further back on the couch, and adjusted Henry so he’d be lying down. “I might fall asleep, too.”

He could assume by your work clothes and the subtle undereye bags that you’d picked an extra shift. “That’s okay.” Spencer glanced at his watch and then back at you. You rested your head back and closed your eyes. “JJ should be back in about thirty minutes, so you can sleep if you want.”

You shook your head, glancing back at him, weary-eyed. He wanted to scoot over and hold you and Henry while he stroked your hair and fell asleep in his arms. He almost did, but he held his urges and just gave you a soft scratch on the top of your head and stood up. 

“I… I’m gonna clean this little guy’s mess,” he said. He picked up every toy, packed Henry’s bag, and did the dishes all in eleven minutes, and soon, JJ was knocking at his door.

“Hey, Spence.” She walked in and as soon as she saw you she gave Spencer a knowing look, subtly widening her eyes. 

You were on your way to her already with Henry in your arms. “Hey, I… he just fell asleep on me and I didn’t want to wake him to put him in the stroller.” You sort of apologized, looking down at him. “He seems so cozy.” And there was your subtle baby voice again. 

“It’s perfect. It’s the only way he falls asleep, actually.” JJ reached for Henry and you gently peeled off him until he was gone from your arms. You crossed them over your chest right away. “Will’s waiting for us.” JJ looked up at Spencer. 

“Yeah, I’ll go with you.” Spencer went to get Henry’s bag and hung it over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said to you. “I’ll be right back.”

You only smiled at him and wiggled your fingers goodbye. 

JJ wasted no time while going downstairs. “You’ve never mentioned how pretty she is,” she commented.

“I haven't?”

“I’ve never seen you that nervous around a girl either.”

“Yeah, she’s not any girl.” He was quick to reply. 

It was JJ, and she knew about you. To a certain level.

“Oh?” she raised her brows. 

“What?” he asked without a clue.

“You really like her.”

“Of course I like her.” 

“Does she know you like her?” 

“I think she does.”

JJ stopped in her tracks. “So, what’s stopping you?”

“Stopping me from what?” Spencer frowned. 

“Spence,” she said in an isn’t-it-obvious tone and nudged his arm. “From making her your girlfriend.” That was a question he’d been asking himself, too. And the only answer he came up with as he made it back to his apartment was you.

I hope you liked this chapter!!!! 💖

NEXT CHAPTER

[oftenwantedafton]

Night Shift - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Mike Schmidt x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Rating - Explicit

Warning for sexual content, dub con, bisexual characters

Also available on AO3

Seated in the quiet dark of Mike Schmidt’s sedan outside of your apartment, you can still feel Steve Raglan.

The scent of him clings to you and your boyfriend’s bodies. You can taste yourself because he’d placed that flavor there with his incessant tongue and ardent fingers.

Your hands are balled into fists on your lap to conceal the violent tremor of desire that still wracks through you. You feel like an addict that’s gotten another hit, finding it dangerously insufficient; your brain chemistry already altered so you need a higher dosage of depravity.

“Just tell me one thing.”

You glance at the young man seated beside you, resisting the urge to seize his mouth and search for more of the older man’s essence that he’s left behind.

“We’re doing this because we have to, right? For Abby?”

“Of course.” The lie slips between you, a fragile bit of sound.

***

Another evening, you’ve burned dinner in your distraction and Mike waves your apologies away, ordering pizza and rummaging through a stack of DVD’s while you watch his sister color, selecting a bright shade of yellow to fill in the anthropomorphic rabbit she’s just drawn.

“Who’s that?”

Abby shrugs, her soft brown curls swinging slightly with the movement. “I don’t know his name. My friends tell me about him. He’s really nice. He likes pizza, too.”

You smile, remembering Mike had mentioned his sibling’s imaginary friends previously.

“He does look friendly. I like his purple bow tie.”

The young girl finishes coloring in the last of the rabbit’s long limbs and slides the picture across the kitchen table to you.

“You can have it if you want. I have plenty more.”

“Thanks, Abby. I’m going to put this on the fridge when I get home.”

“Abs, we need to clear the table,” Mike calls over his shoulder as he moves to answer the doorbell.

You help the child slot the tubes of paper wrapped wax back inside their container while she unwinds some paper towels from their spool.

“Not too much. Save some for another day,” Mike reprimands gently, setting the pizza box on the counter. He rests a hand on the small of your back as you reach for a stack of plates in the cabinet, all three pieces of dinnerware mismatched, orphans from various sets. “You’re so good with her,” he murmurs.

“She’s a great kid.”

He presses his lips against your hair in a gentle kiss.

“Ew, gross.”

You smile, moving to lift the lid of the corrugated cardboard box and challenge Abby to select her first slice on the count of three, laughing when she chooses the largest piece, dripping bits of cheese and toppings before her selection reaches the plate.

By the time the comedy movie Mike’s selected reaches the halfway point, Abby loses interest and retreats to her room, leaving the two of you alone. He draws small circles with his thumb on your shoulder, cradling you against him. He lifts the opposite wrist and curses when he sees the sequence of numbers on the digital display.

“I’ve got to get ready for work soon.”

“It’s ok.” You straighten up in your seat. “This was fun.”

“I appreciate you staying the night to babysit. I don’t know what happened to Max. She won’t answer the phone,” he says, referring to the young woman that usually watches his sister when he’s away.

“It’s no problem, really.”

“You’re the best.” He kisses your forehead.

“You can kiss me on the lips you know. I’m okay,” you assure him. Ever since the night at the movie theater, Mike had seemed to be reluctant to do so.

“Yeah, I…I’m trying. I don’t want everything tainted by Raglan.”

You’d been very purposefully keeping yourself distracted from thinking about Steve, but here he was, intruding into your lives again with just the mere mention of his name.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. It’s so fucked up.” He scrubs at his hair, mussing the chocolate curls. “I should never have had you come to work with me. All of this is my fault.”

“Hey. I don’t blame you for anything, okay?” You reach for his hand and squeeze it.

“The shit he makes us do…”

You firmly resolve not to think about it. “We’re going to get through this.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

He rests his forehead on yours, hesitating before his lips tentatively brush against your mouth in a chaste gesture of affection. You respond with a firmer one of your own, hearing his inhale of desire.

“Ugh, you’re doing that again?”

You both jump, startled to see Abby standing in the doorway leading to the living room. Mike frowns, releasing you and standing up.

“I’m going to go get ready. You need to go brush your teeth,” he reminds his sibling as he walks past her.

“I’ll do it in a minute.” She bounces on the vacated seat next to you. “You really like my brother, huh?”

“I do.” You nod, lifting the remote and aiming it at the television set, the lit screen extinguished.

“He likes you a lot. I can tell.”

“You think so?” You comb your fingers through her curls affectionately.

“Mmm-hmm. My friends told me.”

You blink, surprised. “They did?”

“Yeah. They said the yellow rabbit likes you, too.”

Frowning, your hand stills. “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen him before you drew me the picture tonight.”

She shrugs. “That’s what they said. I’m gonna go brush my teeth now.” She slides off the couch, leaving you to ponder the strange conversation.

It’s just her imagination, you think. Perfectly normal for someone her age.

Mike reappears, shrugging into an oversized ink colored vest with a bright SECURITY logo decorating the right shoulder.

“I just got her tucked in. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll make us breakfast. Probably safer for everyone, you know?”

“Hey! I can cook. That was an accident.” You slap his arm playfully.

“Sure. I’ve gotta get going.” He wraps his arms around you, his mouth more confident on yours this time.

“Have a good shift. Be careful,” you add, thinking of the many staring eyes of the cameras mounted throughout the abandoned pizzeria, their gaze reflected back to the cramped security office with its clusters of monitors that keep their dark secrets.

You tidy up the kitchen before bed, your fingers hesitating over the crayon illustration Abby had created for you earlier.

The yellow rabbit likes you, too.

***

Mike comes home the next morning looking exhausted, carrying a box of donuts and a tray with a pair of paper cups.

You fold your arms, scowling. “I thought you were making breakfast. That’s cheating.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m not up for cooking today. Another day for sure.” He sets everything down on the counter.

“I’m only teasing. How bad was it?”

He shrugs, yawning. “It was okay. Abs up yet?”

“Yes she’s dressed, I just helped her with her hair.”

“Thanks, babe.” He turns his face, his voice louder as he calls for his sister. “Abby! We’ve got to leave in twenty minutes!” He removes a gallon of orange juice from the refrigerator, shaking it before he pulls the top off and fills a glass for his sibling.

“I could take her to school. I’m sure you want to crash.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You do too much as it is. Abs! Donuts!”

His sister seems to materialize out of thin air, bounding into the kitchen.

“Yeah I thought that would get your attention.”

“Did you get sprinkles?”

“Have a look.”

She tears the sticker sealing the box shut and lifts the lid, squealing in delight and grabbing a glazed donut drizzled in pink icing and covered in colored confetti sugar strands.

“Hot chocolate okay?” He hands you one of the cups and you nod gratefully.

“That’s perfect, thank you.” You remove the lid and blow on the steaming liquid, studying the array of pastries before selecting one dipped in chocolate.

Abby’s donut disappears alarmingly fast and she takes a few sips of her juice, declaring she’s ready to leave.

“She’s going to have a sugar rush now. Her poor teacher,” Mike mumbles, snatching his keys off the counter. “I’ll be back soon.”

You watch the pair leave, sipping on the warm beverage for a few minutes before deciding to get started on cleaning.

You’d noticed last night that Mike had more dirty clothes on the floor in the bedroom again; using a laundry hamper just didn’t seem to be a priority for him. You shake your head in mock disgust, collecting the random scattered garments, adding them one by one to a growing pile in the basket, pausing when you notice something shoved under the bed, one corner of a dress shirt barely sticking out. Mike had probably kicked it by mistake in his hurry to get ready, you figure, snatching at the fabric, about to toss it into the bin when you freeze.

It’s the shirt he had worn on your date at the movie theater.

It positively reeks of Raglan’s cologne and you inhale sharply, your pussy instantly throbbing. You’d been doing so well barricading the older man from your thoughts, enjoying the domestic moments with your boyfriend, but here he was tearing back through that blockade like it was made of tissue paper.

There’s a suspicious stain near the hem of the charcoal button front shirt and you hate that no matter which man the jizz belongs to, you find it horribly erotic.

Your hand lifts the shirt to your lips, Steve’s scent heaviest by the collar, and it’s all you can do to refrain from shoving your hand inside your panties right then and there.

“Hey babe, I’m back! Where’d you—” Mike is about to enter the room when he jerks to a halt just outside the doorway, staring at you rapturously inhaling his shirt, the words dying on his lips.

The security guard’s mouth parts, his breathing suddenly harsh, shoulders rising and falling in rapid succession as his lungs struggle to find more air.

He crosses the room faster than you’d thought possible given his short stature, fingers curling over the shirt but not tugging, keeping the fabric trapped between you as he pushes you against the wall.

The renewed handling of the material releases more of the career counselor’s scent into the air around the pair of you, cruelly teasing you, challenging you to imagine his presence beside you. Mike grabs your free hand and presses it to his crotch and fuck, he’s so hard already, straining against his fly. You’ve never seen him aggressive like this, so out of control, pupils blown with desire, the rough chafe of the hair lining his jaw scraping you when his mouth finds your throat, the shirt trapped just beneath, as if he’s kissing both you and Steve at the same time.

The phone rings, startling both of you. Mike jerks back, looking surprised to find himself in this situation, struggling to regain his composure, answering the phone somewhat breathlessly while you let the shirt drop back to the floor, your heart thudding in your chest, an echoing heartbeat in the crease between your thighs.

“Hello? What? No, I was…out running.” He sinks onto the bed. “What? No, I’m sure I locked the doors. Yes, the gate too. Fuck.” He drags a hand through his hair.

“Mike, who is it? What happened?” You sit beside him.

He mouths the name Steve and your stomach flutters.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll come down right now.” He slots the phone back on the receiver and turns to face you. “Someone broke into Freddy’s. They trashed it.”

“What?!” You gasp, covering your mouth.

“The owner wants to report it to the police. Raglan’s trying to talk him out of it.”

He stares at you, the implication of what that meant very transparent.

“We have to go.”

He drags a hand against his thigh nervously, as if just touching the phone that he’d used to communicate with the older man had sullied him.

“There’s never going to be an end to this at this rate. He’s just going to keep blackmailing us.”

“Maybe he made it up? What if it’s just a trick to get us to go there?”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s legit. He sounded furious. And I swear I locked up. I know I’m tired but I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

“I believe you.”

He sighs shakily. “I wish I’d never met him. You have no idea how much I regret going to that office.”

“I know,” you say, your eyes finding the crumpled dress shirt on the floor and you wonder if he truly regrets it as much as he says.

***

From the outside of the building, you don’t see any destruction that’s immediately obvious.

The interior tells a far different story.

Mike holds out an arm to bar your path, cautioning you about the broken glass littering the floor. The sunlight that struggles to filter through the glass front doors falls on scattered tokens from the tipped over change machines, making the gold coins glint on the confetti printed carpet.

“Christ,” the security guard swears, head swiveling to assess the damage. The cases for the pinball machines are shattered, the prize counter reduced to pulverized shards of glass. Chairs are knocked down and tables overturned, the long forgotten salt and pepper shakers and laminated menus now decorating the dining room floor.

The door slams behind you and you turn to see Steve standing there, crossing the room swiftly with several long legged strides, ignoring the glass that crunches beneath his feet.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He tosses the greeting to you without so much as glancing at you, his pale eyes glaring at the man standing beside you. “Look at this mess.”

“I promise I locked the doors,” he protests.

“Well they clearly found another way in. And I doubt they broke inside during broad daylight. So what were you doing this time instead of watching the monitors?”

“I swear I was watching. I didn’t see anything.”

“The damage in this room alone is going to cost a lot to repair. There are a lot of unique items that are vintage. Irreplaceable.” He gestures towards the destruction and chaos.

Mike gulps. “I’m sure we could work something out. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s even been using this stuff. It’s just sitting here collecting dust…”

Raglan takes a threatening step towards Mike, each word he issues clipped, his ire barely held in check. “This is someone’s personal property. It doesn’t belong to you. It’s not up to you to decide its value. You’re being paid to prevent things like this from happening.”

“I’m sorry,” your boyfriend says helplessly.

“That apology doesn’t sound very sincere, Mike. I think we’d better see how bad the damage is elsewhere.” He brushes past you, shoving at the Employees Only door.

You trail after him, Mike’s hand clammy and cold in yours as he escorts you through the same passage illuminated by the emergency lights.

The career counselor veers to the right, bringing you into a large kitchen area. A fan built into the wall across from you turns lazily, making a soft whirring noise. There are pans and dishes and pizza boxes scattered everywhere, steel shelving knocked to the black and white checkered linoleum flooring. Steve kicks at a stray pot with disgust. “Absolutely ruined.”

“I’ll clean it all up,” Mike says hurriedly.

“Of course you will. That’s part of your job description after all. You’re supposed to be keeping the place tidy. Which still doesn’t cancel out the damages or count as an apology, might I add.” He removes his glasses, setting them down on a free space amid the clutter on the counter. “Come here, beautiful.”

“I’ll help him,” you blurt out.

“No. This is his mistake. He’s got to learn his lesson. Actions have consequences. Come here,” he says again, more firmly this time, and you feel your feet moving, unable to resist the command. “Have you missed me, honey?” he murmurs, wrapping one arm around your waist and dragging you against him. He’s always so warm, borderline feverish beneath his clothing; you can feel it sizzling just beneath the surface.

Mike glowers but begins picking things up when Steve’s eyes snap back to him warningly.

The older man tucks his fingers underneath your chin and lifts your face up. Without the glasses he looks so different, those wide eyes even more intimidating without the lenses to shield them. You could drown in those pools of ice.

His mouth covers yours and your hand reflexively clasps the back of his neck. For a moment you forget about Mike completely, forget there is anything in the world other than the hungry lips moving against yours, the muscle thrust between them stroking your tongue, the arousal that had begun earlier reignited with a fury.

“You did miss me,” he whispers when you part for air, and you don’t deny it. “I didn’t say you could stop,” his voice hardens, directed at your boyfriend.

Mike slams a tray further down on the steel counter and Steve abruptly releases you, lunging for him instead. His fingers grab a fistful of the shorter man’s shirt, shoving him against the hard surface, sending more cookware scattering. “What’s the matter, Mike? Upset your girlfriend is getting some action? Or maybe you’re jealous that you’re not getting any of that attention. You’ve had a hard on ever since I walked into the restaurant.”

“Fuck you.” He spits, saliva landing on the corner of Steve’s mouth.

You gasp, thinking Raglan will strike your boyfriend for sure, the sound evolving to something needier when you see Steve drag his fingers through the fluid, grinning darkly before he clutches a fistful of brown curls and jerks Mike’s head back. He licks his way inside his mouth and you hear the younger man moan.

“Wouldn’t you just love to?” Steve muses, reaching for the fly of Mike’s work pants.

Another groan escapes when those deft fingers work their way inside the younger man’s boxers, stroking Mike’s leaking cock briefly before he releases him, stepping back.

“Let’s clear a space for your girlfriend. Over here, sweetheart.” You move forward as the career counselor sweeps an arm over the steel surface, sending the remaining items to the floor with a loud clatter. He unfastens your jeans and shoves them down at the same time as your panties, then lifts you up so you’re seated on the edge of the counter, dragging the rest of your clothing free.

“This too,” he murmurs by your ear, tugging on the hem of your shirt, indicating for you to pull it over your head, the bra soon following. You’re completely nude now, exposed before Steve’s ravenous gaze, shivering from the metallic surface touching your skin and the anticipation of the older man’s next move.

“Lay back, honey.” You lower your torso, fingers clutching the edges of the counter for balance, Raglan’s broad hand snaking around to support the movement so you land gently. He drags a calloused hand over one breast, trailing down to your navel, stroking small circles around the divoted space before he bends to kiss you, his mouth following all the places his hand had just been.

He hovers just above your mound, his breath tickling your skin before he gently wedges a hand between your clamped thighs, prying them apart, the tensed limbs falling slack. He hisses appreciatively, kneels down and slides his tongue between your lips in a brief teasing lick and your back arches off the counter.

“You’re completely soaked, sweetheart. You’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t you?” He plants a kiss on the inside of one thigh, turning his face slightly to address the man standing behind him. “Are you going to just stand and watch, or are you going to help your girlfriend out? Not that I’d mind keeping you all to myself.” His lips hum by the fork of your legs and you shiver, squirming restlessly, eager for more contact.

Mike’s face appears and you crane your neck in time to see him flick his tongue over your clit.

Your head snaps back and you whimper, the sound overly loud in the spacious kitchen. You feel a finger at your entrance and instantly recognize it as Steve’s, the long digit slipping inside and curling expertly, tearing another sound of pleasure from you.

“I don’t know how you stand having this around you all the time, Mike. My face would be permanently buried between these thighs,” the career counselor mutters, working the finger in and out while your boyfriend’s tongue strokes over your pussy.

You could cum right then, but you refuse to let yourself get off so easily, wanting to prolong the feeling. A second finger joins the first, scissoring within your tunnel, Mike’s mouth sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves swollen and erect against his tongue.

You hear your boyfriend moan and think Steve must be touching him again with his free hand. His head lifts, smeared with your juices, the hand that had been curled supportively around one thigh abandoning you in favor of winding Raglan’s tie around his fist and dragging his mouth to his. The fingers working inside of you move more insistently, bringing you closer to release. The sight of the two men kissing so heatedly sends you careening over the edge, your hips rocking wildly against the older man’s hand.

Steve breaks the kiss so he can reward your dripping cunt with one instead. “You’re so fucking delicious. Such a good girl.” The praise sends a spear of warmth through you.

He stands up, using the table for balance, immediately reaching once more for Mike’s cock, squeezing the base. “Not yet,” he cautions, his other hand jerking the younger man’s face up. “You don’t get to cum just yet.” His next kiss is rough, sucking loudly, teeth pulling Mike’s bottom lip until they release the flesh with a loud pop. He glances at your form still lying on the edge of the counter. “You haven’t fucked her yet, have you?”

You can see Mike’s jaw tighten, a blend of anger and frustration. “No,” he says quietly.

“Didn’t think so. Well, let’s change that, shall we?” He pushes Mike between your legs, one hand still firmly clenching the base of his cock, holding him just shy of your opening. Your boyfriend’s hands clutch your hips as Steve moves to the side and guides him forward, helping him fuck into you.

Mike grunts at the feeling of your wet pussy greeting him, hips automatically snapping forward to bury himself deeper inside, halted by the frustrating barrier Steve’s hand provides.

“Gently, Mike. She’s still recovering. Feels like heaven though, doesn’t it?” He reaches for your breast, fondling the nipple. Every time your boyfriend moves it brings Raglan’s hand with it, the contact between the three of you heightened. You thread your fingers through those still caressing your breast, your eyes meeting his.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Raglan’s voice is so tender, so at odds with the hard snap of Mike’s pelvis against your body, his pace quickening. You don’t even know how to phrase it; if the vocabulary for it has been invented yet. Your entire body feels magma hot, senseless liquid around Mike’s impatiently driving prick. Steven lifts your fingers to his face and kisses the inside of your wrist, his tongue tracing circles along your pulse point and you feel yourself shatter. He releases his hold of Mike’s cock and thrusts the fingers between the younger man’s lips, letting him lap at the taste of both of you.

“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Mike announces, his movements more frantic now that he has better access, your still spasming canal massaging him, wringing out his orgasm.

Steve shoves the younger man out of the way, kneeling down, his mouth back at your entrance, sucking and licking Mike’s cum back out of you.

You watch him bring that mouthful back to its owner, jerking his head back roughly and spearing his mouth open, seed spilling back onto Mike’s tongue. He moans when your boyfriend tears at the zipper of his trousers, shoving his fingers over his dripping cock, sending the older man over the edge.

***

“You can start cleaning up tonight,” Steve says, the first words spoken since the three of you had hastily cleaned up in the restroom before exiting the building. He tugs on the handle of the driver’s side door, his gaze alternating between Mike and then you.

“You’re going to convince the owner not to file a police report, right?”

The career counselor’s lips twitch slightly as he reaches for the glasses tucked into his shirt pocket. “Sure, sweetheart.” His eyes flick back to the security guard. “You should go home and get some sleep. You have a long, busy night ahead of you.”

Mike nods, sliding behind the wheel and slamming the door. You hesitate, fingers running absently over a spot of rust on the frame of your boyfriend’s sedan, unable to look away from the prison of Raglan’s stare.

The small, secret smile returns, making something flutter inside of you.

[johnnys-breastmilk]

Steve Harrington x Male reader — So like, your boyfriends, which is a surprise in itself cause like steve didn’t think he’d fall for a guy, but you find yourselfs in the back of “family video” fucking, STEVE IS BLOWING YOUR BACK OUT- this could include (before hand) and assemble of touching, shy chaste kisses and sarcastic (but cute comments) which leads to steve punishing your sorry ass in the back (riding him-) 🫣

yasss lemme put u on somethin' (also sorry for this being late, writer's block do be kicking my ass into next tuesday)

a/n — this has some crackfic to it, but to be fair, Stranger Things is full of crackfic humor sooooo

warnings — 18+! Smut, Steve blowing your back out with his massive-

words — 1.84k

summary — check the request!

~~~

The slowly repeated clack of one sole computer key bringing down the equally slowly refreshing digital screen set the tone for the imminently stale afternoon: utter boredom. Each name flickered on the digitizer as your eyes trailed along the lines of information, checking one vital row running down the screen in solid green lettering—the account holders of Family Video's current rentals and if they were overdue to return any of them. 

Surprisingly, the lessees renting videos from the store managed to indemnify everything on time, making your job a slog since everyone was responsible when presented with a deadline. You were looking for people who refused to return what they borrowed for whatever arbitrary reason they listed and calling to convince them to remit the fines.

What was less of a surprise was that it didn't bring much joy to scroll through the hundreds of names of the residents of Hawkins that all had an account at this here neon-consumed video store. There were far too many people to actually get through the list in one day, let alone the last couple hours of your shift. 

It could have gone faster if two people were plowing through the list, but Steve, on the other hand, seemed to be having a blast restocking the final few shelves in the store with different videotapes. You gave your eyes a break from the straining blue light by looking over to check on his progress, praying that he was nearly done furnishing the shelves to help you with this, to which he was still hunched over, placing cheesy romance movies of all kinds along the bottom row. 

You were about to get back to the grind of checking for overdue rentals when something from earlier in your shift urged you to connect the mental dots that formed in your brain. Your shift rotation started at noon, and you had arrived only to dash to the back to check for any new shipments as a new feature film had finally hit video, and you had no plans to miss out on being the first to own a copy. Not only did you love the movie, but you wanted to get it for you and Steve to watch together. Regardless, nothing new had arrived, and the back room was full of boxes containing dozens of restocks for every movie you could think of, along with their corresponding promotional posters. 

Returning to the front area of the store, you found Robin and Steve chatting in between the shelves for romance and comedy as Steve filled the bottom ledge with a few boxed films before inconspicuously pulling them off of it and placing them back into the cardboard box they shipped in. That would mean that Steve had been purposefully cycling through the same work all day, avoiding the worst tasks required by the job's standards.

You turned on your chair, smugly leaning over the forest-shaded counter with your arms easily sliding into place over the other to give you an equally derisive look to match. In a jeering tone, you teased your co-worker, "Didn't you already stock that area, Harrington?"

He turned to look at you, the harsh neon-orange lighting of the display shaming the half of him facing away from you as it competed with the golden glow from the front windows. He hung his head in defeat, admitting under a low mumble, "Yeah."

You pressed on, "Then why are you doing it again?"

Steve returned to placing each tape on the shelf, "To memorize the titles."

"I thought you didn't like romance movies? You always said that your hair had 'more charm than a prince on the screen.'"

"And I thought I didn't like guys, but here we are."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, what's up? Did King Steve finally lose the title of employee of the month? Or run out of Faberge products this morning?" He finished stocking the shelf for what you guessed was for the second time that day, and your eyes followed as he stood and paced over to the check-out counter with a vexing look on his face. 

"Don't disrespect the hair," Steve spoke, setting down the vacant box in his hands and pointing a single finger to his carefully cared-for hair. 

You were leaning far enough over the counter to stretch your arm out to the nape of Steve's neck, ushering it further northbound into the mess of his dewy yet soft hair and pulling him closer to you until he was a short breath away, "What's the real reason, Steve?" 

“Do I really have to say it?" Steve uttered quietly with a hint of snark and raised his shoulders in defense, letting them fall as he admitted how he felt, "I’m bored at work.”

You waved what he said off as you spoke, distancing yourself from him as you casually fell back into the stool near the computer, “With me around? Never.”

A glint of something more rose to the gloss of Steve's eyes, reflecting in the neon lighting lining the walls—an idea had come to him, but you didn't know what it could be. “You’re right—hey, uh, can you help me with a new shipment in the back?”

Your brows knitted together faster than a grandma determined to make the itchiest Christmas sweater imaginable. Somehow, both seemed unpleasant on you as you spoke, "But I didn't see anything earlier."

He neared the entrance to the storage room, turning on his heel and letting his back softly press against the door, "I know, but there's something else you could help me unpack."

"Steve Harrington, you are insane," You mused while shooting up and rounding the shaded counter, closing in on Steve as he backed into the door of the supply closet, a hand of his embracing the small of your back as the other reached for the handle. He flung the door open and pulled you into the small room meant for new shipments and stock, not bothering to shut it. Guiding you to a few stray and scarcely stocked shelves next to the door, Steve reached down to fish out a condom from the pocket of his flares before carelessly throwing it onto the rack behind you and attacking your neck with aggressive kisses.

You turned your head to give him better access, leaving the open door in plain sight. Keeping the room visible was risky, for one thing. No one would be at the counter to ring someone up, and anyone with a curious eye could stumble into the room and see what was happening. But it was a slow day, and Steve was anything but slow when it came to getting his hands on you. He parted from your supple neck, and within seconds, you had rid each other of the dark green vests and underlying shirts, leaving the both of you exposed from the waist up. 

You pulled him in for a quick buss as your hands traversed his bushy chest and along the line of hair trailing down his abdomen until you reached the buckle of his pants. Loosening Steve's flares—which grew increasingly tighter with each second of contact that passed—proved to be an easy task, and with that, his boxers went down with the rough denim and bunched at his ankles.

There was a brief moment where you eyed his cock and realized that Steve's glory days could be traced back to the thing between his legs; being a massive dick in high school really reflected what he was packing his pants, and what he sported was a heavy hitter—just like him on the baseball team, as he could make you see the same stars he aimed to hit every home run to at each game. From the tip of his thick slugger to his sagging baseballs, Steve Harrington was perfect.

"Let me see that ass," Steve ordered, flipping you around so that your hands rested on the cold shelves behind you as he shoved down your pants.

He stretched a hand past you to reach for the rubber idly waiting on the shelf, his hand disappearing out of view. Only the sounds following it could inform you of what was happening from behind, being a tear of the packaging and a slight hiss of air before the soft crinkle of the rubber unfurling down his length.

"Guess extra-large isn't enough," Steve remarked, admiring how the lubed elastic barely managed to reach the base of his cock, the dark hair surrounding it meeting the taut ring at the bottom.

You turned your head, looking back to him, "Really? I guess you can't read because that says it's small." 

He took a step forward, his hand cupping the folds of your ass, "You wish it was." 

Steve removed one hand to get a hold of his girth, slipping himself past your cheeks with ease and towards your hole. A sudden jolt of sharp pain from your back-end sent you forward, going limp against the rack of shelves you leaned on for support, the palm of your hand coming down atop the surface of the metal with one hard smack and an ensuing moan. For as big as Steve was, you were surprised that his previous endeavors in the bedroom hadn't left your ass used to his thickness.

He pumped inch after inch into your ass, watching as your hole stretched wide for his shaft, which was a far cry from the tip of his cock, needing much more courage to take the further he went. While his impressive size clouded your mind, your own pleasure trudged through the fog, searching for something to take hold of. Steve didn't waste any time burying himself into you, though, and a hand took hold of your cock, stroking it with a single hand. His other hand, however, claimed the spot next to yours on the shelf, using it for stability as his movements inside you became greedy.

Steve repeatedly buried himself deep into you, addicted to the sounds of his skin smacking against yours when he bottomed out with each swing of his hips. It seemed like each one was a tick to count the moments building to the mounting climax inside him, and his increasingly louder noises only proved that theory. Minutes passed, and you started to feel the same.

Like rewinding a watched video tape, Steve was sick of being stuck at the end and holding off for his own pleasure. With a few final thrusts, he spilled himself out inside the rubber confines and kept pumping your shaft until you did the same. Your load splashed over the empty shelf sitting inches below your crotch, meeting your knees as they buckled against it.

Steve was quick to pull himself out of you, shucking off the condom filled with his load, placing it on the shelf, and was standing in the empty stock room. You shifted around to face him, "What are you doing, Harrington?"

"I just—" He paused, "—can't believe that really happened."

[saintbryde]

bound to the jinni | pt 1

Content Warnings | Tropes : breeding kink, noncon, dubcon, huge monster peen, somnophilia, sex slave and master dynamic, primal, dom/sub power exchange, squirting, creampie, fingering, bondage, drugged state from aphrodisiacs, instalove, raspberry sherbet flavored cum which is also an aphrodisiac

A/N : Please don’t use this as a reliable sex resource, the sex slave and master dynamic presented here is in no way meant to be a true representation of a healthy BDSM relationship

Parts: pt 2

Heather was vaguely aware of the sun dipping below the horizon as she manned the counter, serving a line of customers that went out the front door. The holiday rush was an exciting and exhausting time for Heather and her two sisters, but they couldn’t complain. After all, it was good business.

“Holly,” Heather shouted to her youngest sister, who was finishing up hanging festive flowers from the wooden ceiling beams. She whipped her bubblegum pink head down to the gift wrapping station that adjoined the counter in the centre of the shop. Three eager customers waited with their purchases clutched in their hands.

“Right!” Holly’s witch hat fell to the floor as she lowered herself down like a kid on the monkey bars, and quickly threw her hat back on as she made her way to the gift wrapping station. “Sorry for the wait. Which gift wrapping would you like? We’ve got shimmering blue snow, golden tinsel, or my personal favorite, pink petals for the coming spring.”

Holly could be a little frantic, but her passionate spirit brought warm smiles to the customers’ faces. Or frazzle and dazzle is what Holly would call it. The thought made Heather snort under her breath. The windows quickly became coated in a light frost as nightfall hit.

Hazel—Heather’s other sister—had brought the fire to life in the hearth and with a wave of her hand, conjured a swirl of wind to maneuver a broomstick across the floor, sweeping up fallen flowers, dirt and dust. The chiming of the bell that hung before the front door signaled the departure of the last few customers as Heather smiled and greeted the last person in line.

“Would I be able to see that one?” said the customer.

Heather’s eyes followed the customer’s finger, pointing to the large glass case on the top shelf behind her. It made her stomach churn like a bubbling cauldron. This dildo was inside a display case because it’d been a great effort to capture the entity that now hosted it. It was big, and such a dark purple that it was almost black. But it was also Heather’s greatest mistake.

“I’m sorry, but that one’s not for sale.” Said Heather.

The customer appeared heartbroken. “Why?”

It was the first mistake Heather made when she launched the business. She’d summoned an ancient Jinni and captured it without striking a deal. And Jinni’s were quite vicious, especially if they’d been forced into something that wasn’t a lamp.

Heather couldn’t bring herself to release the Jinni, as horrible as that made her feel. She was terrified at what it could do to her for payback.

A blur of white hair appeared at Heather’s side. “That’s the Annabel of dildos. You don’t want to touch it.” Hazel stated with caution. Heather nodded. “It’s a safety hazard. The jinni inside it isn’t friendly.” “May I make a custom order, then? I don’t see any other dildos in your shop that are giant like that one.”

Heather and Hazel eyed each other. In the heat of starting up a business, they hadn’t thought about custom orders yet. But now that someone had shared their desire for it, hundreds of other residents in Shadow Falls would want it too. Heather grabbed a notepad out from under the counter and grinned at the customer from ear to ear. “Tell me how you would like it to be customized, and I’ll see what we can do.”

***

As the three sisters locked up shop, they prepared their tasks for the next morning and subsequently outlined their schedule for the rest of the week.

Heather heaved a cardboard box from the storage room and emerged from the hallway, plunking it in front of Holly onto the counter.

“The first order of business tomorrow morning is to deliver these massage oils to the Bathhouse by nine.” Said Heather, before eying Hazel. “Then Hazel, you’re manning the counter for the morning while I get the next restock of dildos for the next summoning. Do you have questions, comments, or concerns?”

Holly clasped Heather’s sleeve, pleading babyishly. “Please tell me we’ll be closed for Solstice, Heather?”

Hazel leaned against the counter. “We know you love striking the iron while it’s hot, but we’ve made plenty of profit for the holidays already. Don’t you think it’s time we slow down and enjoy it?”

For a moment, Heather didn’t know what to say. Had she overworked her sisters too hard? Occultic Pleasures was her passion and Heather let her sisters tag along for the ride. She tried to recall the last time she had a day off and… she couldn’t.

Heather prided herself on being a savvy business woman, but sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder if she was working to her own detriment. She could have owned a house by now, been married or had kids. But she was rooming with her sisters at thirty-four with a dildo business that was popping off.

It’d been years since she dated seriously, and she wasn’t lighting up at the prospect of small talking other males. At least Heather could get her own pleasure in her shop.

“Do you have more shifts at the Hostess Bar?” Heather quirked a brow at Hazel.

She nodded. “Aunty is being very generous.”

If the boss was giving Hazel more nights at the Hostess Bar, perhaps it was time to slow down. And Heather knew as much as Holly loved to frazzle and dazzle customers, she also grew enchanted flowers in her spare time that could cast a curse or make a wish come true.

Heather regarded her two sisters with a warm smile. “We can finish early tomorrow on Solstice Eve, and have Solstice off. You guys can have the week off, too. I’ll work the shop.”

Holly collected the box of massage oil with fervor and made for the back door with a skip in her step. “Thank you, sis! I’ll set this down by the door so it’s ready for tomorrow.”

Hazel frowned at Heather. “You need a break too. I’m not talking about a day’s break. You need a few weeks off.”

Heather smiled at her sister’s open concern. “I’m fine, Hazel.”

She rolled her eyes and begrudgingly accepted Heather’s stubborn answer. Hazel gestured around the room. “Do you need help with anything else?”

Heather waved a hand. “Nothing, you guys head to bed. I’ll lock up.”

“All right,” Hazel padded to the back door. Their loft was above the shop, the only access an iron staircase beside the back entrance. “Goodnight, Heather.”

***

Heather finished lining the fireplace with some green and red tinsel, savoring how the fire warmed her skin. All she needed now was some hot coco and a chair to sit by the fire and she’d be content.

But as cozy as Heather’s little sex shop was, she knew she couldn’t sleep here. The shop was clean and ready for the next day. All she had left to do was take out the cash register drawer and hide it so no thieves could find it.

Hazel’s words came back to her as she went to the register. You need a break. While that was true, Heather couldn’t imagine handing over control of the shop to someone else for a day, let alone a few weeks. Occultic Pleasures was her baby, and she would not keep her eye off it for sometime soon.

It stressed her out to even think about it.

The bell chimed at the door, and Heather raised her eyes at the sound. The door had been blown wide open, and as Heather locked the register away in its shelf, she peered out the door to see if anyone was there.

When all she found was a snowy footpath, she locked the door. I thought I locked it before?

When she turned, the lights suddenly went out. The fireplace cast dark, lingering shadows, burning low.

Heather swallowed her panic, and searched for the light switch which was behind the counter. But when she turned all the lights back on, she found the glass cabinet on the shelf above her was empty, the door left open ajar.

Heather’s stomach sank.

The dildo had disappeared, so to the angry Jinni inside it.

Oh God.

In that moment, Heather didn’t see—but felt him coalescing into the air like smoke. The lights shuddered before cutting out, and no matter how many times Heather flicked the switch, they wouldn’t turn back on. A hulking shape stalked out of the shadows beside the hearth, and Heather’s heart stopped. A phantom breeze swirled at his feet—or where they were supposed to be—like his presence commanded a silent storm. His upper torso was exposed among the smoke, purple rippling muscles promising violence. The jinni flashed her a menacing smile. “Your business model has been fruitful. Capturing entities against their will and shoving them into your products.” His voice boomed, ancient and deep, full of contempt.

The most dangerous jinni had escaped. Heather swallowed, trying not to shrink as his tall form crept closer, leering down at her. Maybe if Heather explained that it was a misunderstanding, this Jinni wouldn’t burst her into flame. “You were a mistake. Every entity we summon into this shop strikes a mutual deal with us and agrees to inhabit our products.”

“Their consent doesn’t matter.” He brought his mouth to her ear, forcing her back against the shop window. “You’re greedy Heather, selling them for your own gain.”

���Please Jinni,” she begged. “I know how unfair it was for you. If I could reverse your capture, I would.”

“Why did you not set me free, then?” Heather had tried on many occasions, but the threat of this jinni exacting revenge always made her stop before she could finish the last step. The step that could set him free into the world. Part of her felt rotten for it, but the fear was too much.

When Heather didn’t answer, the jinni’s tone turned almost gleeful, his assumption correct. “You’ve felt not a drop of guilt for what you’ve done. I think it’s time you knew how it feels to be a captive.” With clawed hands, the jinni conjured a dark cloud of smoke and forced it Heather’s way, swallowing her whole. She stumbled away in terror before everything went black.

[efingart]

Just What I Needed - Chapter 25

ao3 | tumblr: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two| Twenty-Three |Twenty-Four|

Word Count: 5043

Frank Woods x CoD Bell

Frank and Mila go on something that looks a lot like a date, but it isn't a date.

The plastic groaned in protest as Mila pressed the speaker closer to her ear. The record store fell away as the synth beat took hold of her.  It was unlike any music she had ever heard. She could become lost in it. She was used to holding in her feelings, not giving away much that was on her mind. But the sound inexplicably made her want to move.

But how would anyone dance to this?

Mila’s eyes flicked up to the woman behind the counter. She was the one who had set up the tape player for her to listen. The counter was much higher than the floor, likely so she could quickly spot if anyone was pocketing one of the tiny cassette tapes. But for the most part, the woman looked bored. She flipped through some kind of booklet. Like a magazine, but there was a homemade quality to it—splotched black ink across its neon paper cover. The title hand written in black permanent marker. The woman tossed her head to get her pink-streaked bangs out of her eyes before ducking her head back down to read. The pink-streaked bangs fell back into her face.

Mila felt tension on one side of the headphones, drawing her gaze away from the woman. Frank tugged on one of the speakers, pulling it away and leaning into her, turning the speaker towards his own ear to listen.

“You like this?” He asked. His voice was loud as he tried to talk over the music thrumming in his ear. He listened for another moment before turning the speaker back around.

She pulled the headphones off and let them dangle from her neck.

“Yeah. You said I should pick something happier. Can’t get happier than that.”

Frank’s eyes traveled over her face, then he shrugged and turned to the woman behind the counter.

“This one, too,” He said. She didn’t respond, not even a nod. Still, she popped the tape out of the player, putting it back in its jewel case and adding it to the stack of music Mila had already accumulated.

“Anything else?” Frank asked Mila.

She shook her head and neatly placed the headphones on top of the tape player, then pushed the player towards the woman.

He dug into his back pocket for his wallet. Then, he shifted his attention to something behind the woman.

“One of those, too,” He said, pointing to a box on the wall behind her. In her bored way, she turned to the wall, picked up the box, and held it up to verify that it was what he wanted. He gave her a nod, and she began to ring up the items.

“Come with batteries?” He asked her as he studied the box. She shook her head. He sighed. “Course not.”

Mila watched this exchange with some curiosity. She couldn’t quite read the box, and the product name wasn’t giving anything away—something to do with walking. Frank counted out the bills and change, and the woman bagged their purchases.

“All right, come on,” He said, throwing an arm over her shoulder as he guided her out of the store. “Gotta make another stop.”

He pointed to a camera store across the street. In the wide front window, there was a large cardboard display. As they approached, Mila realized it resembled a camera. But not like one she had ever seen. There was a lens and a viewfinder, but the camera's base was long and flat. The design of it was so clunky she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to carry it around. Someone had cut a large slit across the base, and a flat sheet of cardboard with a photograph on it repeatedly slid in and out of the base.

Maybe it was advertising a new kind of development process?

But as she scanned the display she saw that the large camera was surrounded by boxes of the real thing.

She turned to ask Frank about them when she heard a click and a whirring sound. A man was standing in the shop doorway, one of the strange cameras in his hand.

“Just got the brand new model in today. Come in and take a look.”

Having a business owner so invested in speaking to them was odd. But the camera shop likely got its fair share of tourists, which may have motivated him to be friendlier. He handed her the paper that had come out of the camera.

She stared at it and turned it over—blank white on one side and black on the other. However, something was happening on the front of the paper. A splotch of brownish yellow was slowly developing.

“You’ve never seen an instant film camera before?”

She shook her head and tried to hand the paper back to the man, but he waved her off. “It’s yours, keep it.”

Frank interrupted their exchange and asked the man, “You got any batteries?”

The man led him into the small store. Mila stayed outside, watching the display continue its methodical movements.

After a moment, Frank stepped out again and dropped a pack of batteries into the paper bag.

“How’d it turn out?” He asked her, nodding towards the paper in her hand.

She looked down, and to her surprise, she was now holding a photo of her and Frank looking at the display.

“What-”

“Instant film, don’t ask me how it works. Em’s got one of those. She’s constantly taking pictures,” He said, shaking his head. “I’ve gotta have about a hundred of me holding David for the first time. I’ll show you.”

“Instant film,” She repeated and looked longingly at the display. She’d love to have a camera like that. She had enjoyed taking and developing pictures for the various missions the CIA had sent her on. And with her memory, it would be nice to have some kind of physical evidence of her life besides that old photo Frank had found. Feeling Frank’s eyes on her, she blinked and turned away from the display. The nice thing about Frank is that he never asked too many questions. He seemed to know that if she wanted to talk, she’d talk. He plucked the picture from her hands and tucked it into his front shirt pocket, giving the pocket a little pat.

“For safekeeping,” He said. Then he threw his arm back in a wave, gesturing her to keep it moving. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

“Burger Town?” She joked.

“You know I’ll never say no to that. One of these days, we gotta take you somewhere nice, I guess.”

“Not today,” She said.

He chuckled, “Not today.”

They sat at one of the outdoor tables in the sun. She couldn’t remember the last time she spent so much time in the sun. The bag of food was between them, and she watched him reach into it to pull out a burger. His knuckles were turning red, and a smattering of freckles had appeared on his hands. She hadn’t realized he freckled in the sun, but it made sense with his complexion. It gave her a warm feeling just to know something more about him. Something that wasn’t related to his job or military life.

Frank Woods freckles in the sun.

She cataloged the information away in her mind.

Mila reached into the bag for her burger and placed it on the table before her. Then she carefully peeled the wrapper away, smoothing it out on the table and creating a placemat for herself. She thought she heard Frank let out a soft chuckle, but when she glanced up, his soft gaze was focused behind her as he chewed his burger. Mila picked up her burger and was about to eat when a thought occurred to her.

“What’s that thing you bought? That needed batteries?” She asked, nodding towards the paper bag set next to him on the bench.

He held up a finger and reached for his drink as he chewed. Grasping the drink by the lid, two fingers on either side of the straw, he took a long sip.  Then, he set his burger and the drink down and wiped his hands off in his jeans before he opened the bag.

“I figured if you’re gonna have your own music, maybe you don’t want to be tied to the stereo in the living room,” He said. Then, while looking at her pointedly, he added, “You can use the stereo in the living room anytime you want, though.”

When he said that, her eyes moved from the bag next to him to his face. Frank seemed to notice everything. Or maybe he had recognized one of his own habits in her. He knew she was trying to leave the smallest footprint in their apartment. A strategy she employed in the hopes that if he never felt like she was in the way, then her place there was safe. She shifted in her seat, somewhat uncomfortable with the feeling of being so seen by someone else. There was something else, too: comfort.

She ignored it and instead turned her focus back to Frank, who was moving his burger aside so he could place the box in front of him. He pulled out a pocket knife to break open the thick tape, holding the box shut. Then he opened the flap and grabbed hold of what was inside while tipping the box so that gravity would help him ease its contents out.

Inside was a smaller black box surrounded by styrofoam packaging and a small pair of black over-ear headphones. Frank flipped the styrofoam over onto his hand. He tossed the packaging back in the paper bag and dusted off the smaller black box. She could see it was made of heavy plastic. There were buttons on the top. Frank reached back into the paper bag, feeling around momentarily, before producing the pack of batteries. He popped off a panel in the back and put in four batteries. Then he took out one of the cassette tapes, popped its case open, and slipped it into a slot in the front of the box.

He plugged the headphones into the box and handed them to her.

“You can listen anywhere now.”

She put the headphones on. The sound wasn’t as good as in the record store or at the apartment, but it was nice to be able to listen anywhere. She noted he had put in the tape he recommended, Pat Benatar.

You’ll like this one, he had said at the store.

And he was right. She took a bite of her hamburger as she listened. She knew she could definitely enjoy listening while in her room at night. And maybe even between sessions.

“Like it?”

She nodded.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

He waved his hand, dismissing her comment.

“You might as well have some music wherever you want it.”

He stopped the tape.

“Thing drains batteries, though, I’ve got more for you, but just know that.”

She nodded again and removed the headphones. Frank gathered everything up and placed it in the bag.

“So what’s next?”

“I have an idea or two.”

Mila tilted her head curiously at him, but he didn’t elaborate.

Frank seemed to have his destination in mind, but occasionally, he would take them one way and have to backtrack. Then, he’d check the street name and head in the opposite direction. The place he was looking for must have been tucked away. Mila didn’t mind so much. It was good to be out and walking in the city. It had been some time since she had just walked around without purpose or hurry. She glanced around at the other people around them. This is what they did. She had yet to conjure up something more mundane from her adult or teenage years. Always running and fighting. Not being able to show her face in her home country meant long strolls in the park were risky. She had vague memories of spending time in what looked like East Berlin. But had the sense she was still traveling by night, working.

“There,” Frank said in a low voice.

He led her down a narrow side street. On the corner was a small building. Garage-style doors had been installed on either side and now, on this pretty day, they were flung up. She could clearly see the entire establishment from front to back.

She stopped.

“It looks like-”

“Yeah,” Frank said. Then he shrugged. “I kinda got the feeling you wanted to look around that place. And I know you like computers.”

He scratched the back of his head, suddenly seeming uncomfortable.

“Well, these are kind of like computers,” He added.

She nodded, and they walked into the arcade. Inside, the sounds, which were tinny and muted on the street, completely filled the space. The room itself was kept dim, lit by the sunlight outside and the glow of the screen on each machine. Every cabinet was painted with brightly colored characters. As she looked at the displays, she realized that these were what the players were supposed to imagine the tiny pixelated characters to be. Again, it was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

Being in the arcade brought back memories of the fake American town, and she wondered if small towns in America really did look like that. Many small towns in the movies she watched looked similar as well. The cinema, Burger Town, and arcade all together around a tiny town square. She knew it would be unlikely she’d ever get to see a place like that. Unlikely, she’d ever leave West Berlin, unless they were shipping her off to some prison to lock her away forever.

Mila pushed the thoughts from her mind and approached a free cabinet. She watched the looping demo of what must have been a car racing along a track that never seemed to end. Several cars whizzed by the player's car until one crashed into it. A computerized grinding sound filled her ears. The screen went black.

“You ever play one of these?” Mila asked Frank.

He shook his head.

“Heard it rots your brain or something,” He joked. “Come on, let’s go get some tokens.”

As they waited in line, he pointed to a game that involved a sloped wooden track with numbered holes at the top.

“Now that’s more my speed. Skee-ball.” When he was met with her blank stare, he clarified, “It’s like bowling. You do know bowling, right?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll show ya.”

Then he turned his attention to the man behind the counter. Frank handed over a few bills to exchange for tokens.

He was spending so much money on her today. She felt uncomfortable unable to contribute. Of course, no one would give her money, nothing that she could potentially use to escape.

Not that she had anywhere to go. Beyond the walled city was a dangerous place for her. Outside the city was Soviet-controlled Germany. Even if she attempted to leave through the subway tunnels as she and Adler once had, she was an enemy of the state. Sure, they had thought she was dead, but likely that had been proven wrong when her face showed up all over the KGB cameras as soon as someone had reviewed the footage. And hey, why is a dead woman working with Russell Adler anyway?

If caught, the KGB would make sure she was dead this time, but not after grilling her for all the information she had about the CIA. Or if Perseus got hold of her again. The blonde- Ivanova went to great lengths to ensure she could hold her and torture her freely. She was sure the entire organization wanted her head for what she did in Solovestky.

“Hey,” Frank nudged her. The collection of dull coins jingled as he moved them from one hand to the other. “So, what do you want to play?”

She walked around studying each machine. The arcade wasn’t busy, so she could get a good look at the games.

One in particular caught her eye. It was one she recognized from the fake America town.

She approached the cabinet and watched the preview play before her of a small character dressed in green jumping over black blocks on the ground. She realized that the blocks were meant to be open spaces through which the player could fall. After watching the demo play, Frank handed her a coin, and she started up the game. He tucked his hand in his jeans pocket and deposited the remaining tokens.

“Got plenty of ‘em, so you can try all of the machines if you want,” He said, patting his pocket, causing the coins to jingle again.

She smiled at him and then directed her focus back to the machine. She bent down to deposit the token, and the music on the cabinet changed.

Frank leaned an arm over the cabinet and watched her play. It took her a moment to learn the controls. Her character died a few times, but it was easy to identify the gameplay patterns after that.

“Hey, you’re not bad at this,” Frank said.

She shrugged.

Then she made a silly mistake, and the timer ran out on the game. She managed to convince Frank to play a round himself. They spent much of the afternoon at the arcade. Occasionally, they’d find a game they could play together.  Boxing was entertaining because Frank would tell her about his brief experience as an amateur boxer as a teenager. Though with some of the stories, he’d end up distracting himself enough in the retelling that she could get several punches in at once.

After losing another round of boxing, Frank yawned and checked his watch.

“Getting late, we should head out. I wanted to get some things at the grocery store anyway,” Frank said. Then added, “Someone keeps complaining we don’t have any good food.”

“We don’t!” She said, following him out the door. He stopped short at a cabinet where a group of kids were gathered and rooted through his pockets for the remaining tokens. Then he dumped them into the hands of a girl standing on the outskirts of the group.

It was dark when they returned to the apartment, each holding one grocery bag.

She placed her bag on the counter and unpacked it, putting pantry items away as Frank stocked the fridge.

“Should I make us something?” She asked.

“Nah, I got an idea for us,” He said but didn’t elaborate. Mila wasn’t sure what to make of the smile that slowly crept across his face either.

“You, cooking?” She teased him.

“Hey, I can cook some things,” He said, feigning offense.

Mila chuckled. She wasn’t about to insult him if he was willing to make dinner for them. And she was a bit curious about what Frank would cook up. She leaned against the counter to watch him work.

“Let me know if you need me to do anything.”

“I got it. You gotta be tired after today anyway.”

He was right; she was exhausted, and she yawned as if on cue. She stretched her arms over her head and let out another long yawn. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that the message indicator on the answering machine was lit.

“Oh hey, Frank, you’ve got a message,” She said.

“Hit play for me, will ya?”

She depressed the button, and the tape on the machine whirred to life.

“Woods-”

Mila recognized the voice immediately.

“Is that Sims?”

“Shh-” Frank hushed her.

“- in town, and I’ve got some ideas for you. Well, for Bell. Come by tomorrow.”

The tape stopped, and the machine beeped. Frank continued his work without explanation. He had pulled out a fat tomato and was in the process of cutting it into slices. Mila watched him, waiting to see if he would elaborate.

When he didn’t, she asked him, “What was that about?”

Frank’s back straightened, and he cleared his throat before answering.

“Sims-” He paused, “He’s gonna help us.”

She bit the inside of her lip to keep herself from interrupting. She could tell Frank had more to say, but why was he taking so long to say it? He placed the knife on the cutting board but kept his other hand around the tomato as he turned his head to look at her.

“I’m not letting them drug you anymore, Mila,” He said firmly.

She hadn’t been expecting that.  In fact, she wasn’t sure she understood him clearly.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I told them. All of them. They need to figure something else out.”

Frank turned back to the tomato and finished slicing. He moved the slices to a plate.

“All of them,” She repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Park, Hudson, and Adler. All of them,” He said as he opened the fridge and pulled out a pack of bacon wrapped in butcher paper. He placed it on the counter. Frank then sprinkled some water on the pan, and it sizzled.

“Nice and hot,” He said quietly.

It was surreal watching him work. The conversation and the actions were incongruent. Frank was just making her dinner and casually telling her her entire life was about to change. That he- Frank Woods- of all people had made a decision about her life without talking to her about it.

This couldn’t be happening. Frank couldn’t do this to her.

Mila rubbed her forehead.

“Is that why you-” She stopped. She didn’t want to think that Frank took her out today to soften the blow of what would happen tomorrow. Mila ripped her hand away from her forehead and slammed her fist on the countertop.

Frank had just been about to place a slice of bacon in the pan, but he stopped and stared at her.

“Frank, if they’re not drugging me-” Mila started. She shook her head. The kitchen was a blur. She couldn’t make eye contact with him. She didn’t want to face the reality of it.

“If I’m not useful to them-” She tried again.

No, no, don’t say it.

“We almost lost you-” Frank said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Frank!” She interrupted, “This is my life. And you’re what, just making decisions for me?”

“What do you want me to do?” He said. He tossed the bacon back on the butcher paper. It made a wet slapping sound when it hit the paper.

“You were gone. You didn’t see you. Lost in your head. It’s the fucking drugs, Mila. You want me just to step aside and let them do that to you?”

“I told you that’s what I was good for,” She said.

“So you think you deserve this?”

She said nothing to him then. The answer was obvious to both of them. He stepped towards the sink and washed his hands. As he dried them, he turned back toward her.

“Sometimes I think you’d rather lose your mind,” Frank said sadly. He tossed the towel on the counter before reaching out for her, but she slapped his hand away.

“Mila-”

“Controlling my life. Just like Adler.”

“Hey!” He raised his voice then.

It wasn’t fair. She knew she wasn’t being fair. Frank wasn’t Adler. But the roaring in her head wouldn’t stop. She stepped away from him and swung around, heading to her room.

She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to hear his reasoning. He was probably right, but the prospect of it not working, of her being imprisoned forever. She’d rather be dead. Because it would be forever. Held in solitary confinement with no hope of ever leaving.

She changed into her t-shirt, leaving her day clothes on the floor.

On her bed was the bag from the music store. Frank must have put it in here for her. She placed her headphones over her ears and popped a tape in. Somber music did its best to drown out the sounds of Frank cooking in the kitchen.

And eventually, she fell asleep.

She had a dream of meeting a man in a bar. He was a stranger to her, but they sat and talked as if they were old friends. After exchanging pleasantries, she leaned closer to him.

“Please. Frank Woods. It must be him.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe he is a good man. I believe he will understand.”

Mila woke up hungry. She was no stranger to the feeling, but somehow, paradoxically, it was harder to ignore now that she was getting food regularly. Easier to let the feeling fade into the background and have sleep for dinner when there was never any dinner or breakfast to look forward to.

The bedside clock told her it was the middle of the night, and she wondered if Frank would still be awake. Her anger had died almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. She felt guilty for blowing up on him and knew she needed to apologize. And that he’d probably chew her out for it. Frank wasn’t manipulative. He wasn’t trying to control her. He’d likely be more angry that she’d even suggest that than anything else. But first, she needed to eat something.

Swinging her feet around, she carefully got up from the bed. She avoided a particularly creaky floorboard and made her way to the door. She placed her ear against it and listened, but with the exception of the usual sounds of the building, it was quiet.

Even still, she opened the door as quietly as she could. If Frank was in his room snoring away, he would never hear her, but she couldn’t be too careful. Mila made her way to the kitchen. She could assemble a sandwich quickly and bring it back to her room. Though she hated eating in her room. It made her feel like she was in a prison cell. She opened the fridge, and there on the top shelf was a plate with a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.

Frank had made dinner for her after all. Of course, he had. She picked up the chilled plate and turned to bring it to her room. But that’s when Frank emerged from the bathroom. A fleck of toothpaste dotted his beard. They caught each other’s gaze before he walked past her and through the kitchen. He was just on the threshold of the living room when he stopped. He raised his arm and leaned against the doorframe.

“Should have talked to you about it, but I wanted you to have a couple of good days before we had to figure things out,” He said. His hand formed into a fist, which he tapped against the frame before turning around.

The guilt crept in again. He had just been thinking about her again. His insistence on her rehabilitation had changed his living situation, his job, and his life. How much time did he spend thinking about her?

Mila set the sandwich down on the counter and stepped toward him.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” She said. It felt weak. After everything.

To her surprise, he nodded. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his bare chest.

“Yeah, me too,” He said.

She waited, she didn’t have much to say, everything that came to mind just sounded like an excuse to her.

“I’m not like him,” Frank said.

“I know, Frank,” She said.

“I’m not trying to control your life. Not interested in that,” He said.

He took in a deep breath. She shifted her weight on her feet. It seemed like he had more to say.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” She said when he said nothing.

He gave her a sidelong glance, and then a characteristic smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. He threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him.

“I’ve had worse,” He said with a chuckle. Frank reached over with his other arm and grabbed her plate. For a brief moment, she found herself enveloped in his arms. Face pressed against his chest. The scent of his cologne and the toothpaste filled the air around her. And he was warm, as always.

“Come on,” He said and guided her towards the couch. “No reason to eat alone. Unless you want to?”

She shook her head. They both took a seat on the couch.

“Thanks for the sandwich,” She said as she did. She sat down somewhat close to him, bending her legs and letting her feet dangle off the couch. She balanced the plate on her thigh and unwrapped the sandwich. Then she took a bite.

“Want some?” She offered to him. He shook his head. She covered her mouth with her hand and nodded, “It’s really good.”

“I thought so. Better warm, though.”

She wolfed down half the sandwich. In part because she was very hungry, but also to avoid conversation. However, when she finished, instead of picking up the second half, she said, “I’m sorry, Frank.”

“You said that already.”

He reached out and put his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her into him. He had to grab the sandwich plate before it slipped onto the couch, and he set it next to him on the armrest.

From behind her, he pulled down a blanket and draped it over her. She felt a strong desire to tell him everything that was going on in her head. Her worries, her fears, and even her hopes, however small, for her future. Mila looked up at Frank. Her eyes traveled over his face, the way the hairs of his beard curved to the contour of his jawline. The deep wrinkles that lead up to his eyes, his eyes, bright blue, so much hidden behind them.

Frank thought about her enough. She didn’t need to dump her feelings on him.

He must have sensed her watching him because he glanced down. He made a soft questioning noise to match the look on his face.

Mila rose up, allowing the blanket to fall from her shoulders, and pressed a hand to Frank’s chest before kissing him.

[heretohelpsstuff]

How to declutter and organize without being a minimalist.

Nothing wrong with minimalism but it’s not always reasonable to tell someone to get rid of everything they hold dear just for a clean house. Though it is easier to keep a space cleaner when things have proper places.

First the main concept I use is known as Swedish death cleaning (kinda intense name but it works). The basic idea is thinking about an item and what is going to happen to it once you die. Basically you think would my friends and family want and treasure this item or would it cause the a lot of trouble.

Examples:

My vintage teddy bear collection. Family would probably want it and if not they are worth a good amount of money so they would get something either way. I would keep this.

My cardboard box collection. Family would probably immediately take it to the dump and it would cause them so hassle for little return. I won’t keep it.

There are items that have personal value and significance and you shouldn’t give those up just because people tell you to be a minimalist. But there are other items that won’t serve you or anyone really and you shouldn’t hang on to them.

Next idea is the find a place method (I don’t think I came up with this concept but I don’t have a good name for it)

Basic idea is you find a place for everything you can and if you have things left over question why it was last to find a spot. Is it because it doesn’t give you joy or serve you in a way that it would have an immediate spot set for it? Or is it because you need to find better ways to organize your space? The answers will lead you in different directions the first one you will get rid of that item the other you need to find a way to store the item.

To better store items.

Baskets and bins are a great way to pair like items together and it looks neater than just put in to drawers haphazardly (it also uses the fun bins and baskets you (or at least I )have collected finding them a space as well).

Items used regularly can be displayed or placed where they use so it is convenient. But if you never use your can opener it doesn’t belong on your counter it belongs in a drawer.

Make use of wall space and hang up shelves and hooks to display treasured items and use them for decoration.

Things that should never be kept.

Clothes that don’t fit (don’t make your body fit the clothes make the clothes fit your body)

Unsanitary or unhealthy items

Things that bring up bad feelings/memories

This is not how you get those pristine minimalist houses this is how you pair down without getting rid of everything. I always do this once a year and it gets easier each time because you begin to do it naturally throughout the year.