#these next batch of fics are still pretty vanilla but after i work my way through them it's demon time me thinks

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

Maybe it's because Hyunjin day is so close but, I am feeling motivated today

[zebrabaker]

An Odd Saltinette Fic; Chapter 3

Fuck it, this is written out pretty far ahead. Lemme know what you think. 

Marinette bounced around the kitchen, her hair in a sloppy bun. Felix was coming over after dinner to study, and she had a plan to surprise him. He adored proper beignets, so she was whipping up a quick batch. They were one of the first things her mama had taught her to make. As she rotated the first batch in the oil, she thought over her first week at school. She had made friends with a small blonde boy, named Mitskuni Haninozuka. His younger cousin, Takashi, was actually an old friend of hers. She remembered seeing him at tournaments when she was younger. He’d probably make a decent sparring partner. She moved on autopilot, dropping the third batch into the oil, when she heard the elevator ding. She draped a damp towel over the cooling first and second batches, and called over her shoulder.

“In the kitchen, mon chevalier!” She heard Felix set down his bag, and walk into the kitchen. She was putting the fresh pastries onto a plate when she felt him wrap his arms around her waist. He kissed the top of her head, and rested his forehead on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, cherie?” Felix heaved a sigh.

“Father is bugging me about college. Again.” He groaned. Felix’s father was rather overbearing, and often pushed him more than was healthy.

“What do you mean, again?” She growled. More often than not, she disagreed with the Culpa patriarch over his treatment of his only son.

“He tried to use you against me at one point. ‘What about Marinette? How will you provide for her?’” He huffed. “Maman ripped him a new one for that one.” Marinette giggled. Marie Culpa was a firecracker of a woman, who looked just like her son. She was a French woman, who often tamed her husband’s rather poor parenting skills. She turned her head, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Guess what’s under the towel.” He hummed.

“Is it Danishes?”

“Nope.”

“Macaroons?”

“Not even close. Do you give?”

“Last guess. Donuts?”

“Uh-uh. Beignets!” He perked up, pulling back. He removed the towel, and snagged one of the powdery treats. He stuffed half of the thing in his mouth, and moaned appreciatively. Marinette giggled.

“You are the best thing to ever happen to me, ma petite coccinelle. What would I do without you?” Marinette smiled.

“You’d have to go without pastries.” He swallowed the rest of the treat, and snagged another.

“Truly, a cursed existence. C’mon. I’ll help you with your Algebra if you help me with my German.” Both chuckled. Where Marinette was a bit of a polyglot, Felix was better at the hard sciences and math.

“That’s a deal!”

X0X0X0

A week later, Marinette strolled through the halls. Her parents had received an order for ten dozen French macaroons, each batch a different flavor. Her Papa hadn’t arrived in Japan yet, so her and her Mama had woken up at three in the morning, gotten to the bakery at three thirty, and baked till five. By six, they had all one-hundred twenty filled and packed. The order was for the Host Club that she knew her school held, so she was in charge of delivery. She had Shoto help her carry the batches in, before stacking the crates on a dolly and wheeling it into the school. She headed straight for the elevator, expertly maneuvering around the corners. She soon reached music room three, and knocked gently. The door creaked open (did it not get oiled?) and she was slapped with the scent of roses as dozens of petals drifted past her. Standing arrayed around a blond she recognized as the chairman’s son, Tamaki Suoh, was an eclectic selection of boys.

“Welcome, princess!” Six voices chimed. The two twin redheads she thought might be in Felix’s class, and she knew Mori and Hani. The other black-haired boy she didn’t really recognize.

“Hello. Hi, Takashi-kun, Hani-sempai. How have you been?” Hani bounced forward, Usa-chan in his arms.

“I’m good, Mari-chan. What are you doing here? I thought you were engaged to Culpa-san?” He tilted his head, puzzled.

“That I am! I’m here to drop off your order, actually.” She slipped into business mode, pushing her thin glasses up her nose (she was out of her contacts) and snagged a clipboard off the top of the crates. “Two dozen raspberry macaroons, two dozen pistachio, two dozen strawberry, two dozen chocolate, and two dozen classic vanilla, correct?” She glanced up, seeing the lanky blond standing before her.

“You ARE new! Oh, how delightful! Tell me, princess, how do you know our Hani-sempai?” He swung an arm around her neck, slipping a finger under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“We trained together in our families’ dojos. Can you tell me if the order is correct or not?” She kept her voice dry and even, not happy with his proximity. The boy wilted as she shrugged his arm off her shoulders.

“The order is correct, Miss Dupain-Cheng. I am Kyoya Ootori, vice-president of the Host Club. Mori, could you set the crates over on the tables.” Mori nodded, ruffling her hair on his way past. “Gently, please, we don’t want the shells to crack.” Marinette eased the first crate off the stack, and carried it over to the table.

“There’s no need to do that.” One of the twins said, easing up behind her.

“Yeah, we don’t want such a pretty young thing getting hurt. Do we Kaoru?” The other asked, leaning against the table.

“Of course not, Hikaru. Do you really think she’s pretty?” The first twin, Kaoru, pouted.

“Not as lovely as you.” Hikaru swept his brother into his arms.

“Are they always like this?” She asked Mori, mildly unsettled.

“Yup.” He squatted slightly to pick up another crate.

“That’s…I don’t even know what to say. How had training been going? Are you still fighting with your brother, Hani-sempai?” She asked, walking past the older boy, ferrying the final of the five crates to the table.

“Training has been okay. Chika-chan and I are still having our…disagreement, but I’m sure he’ll come around eventually. How is Culpa-san?” He rubbed Usa-chan’s ears, morose.

“Felix-kun is doing good. He’s helped me with a few homework assignments so far.” She smiled. Felix really was great.

“WAIT! ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THE FELIX CULPA?!” Suoh yelled.

“The ice king?” Kaoru whispered.

“He-who-could-rival-Kyoya?” Hikaru muttered.

“Pfft. That’s him. My fiancé has never been the best with social interactions.” Marinette giggled at the monikers. She was so using those on him.

“FIANCE?” The three yelled as one.

“Hm? Didn’t you know? Mari-chan and Culpa-san have been engaged for almost three years now. They’ve been friends forever!” Hani enthused.

“Yeah.” Mori said.

“I’ve got to go; I’m going to meet with Felix in the library before classes start. Wanna meet in the dojo after school, Takashi-kun? I need someone to work out with during the week.” Mori nodded, and Hani bounced from foot to foot.

“Can I come, Mari-chan? I haven’t seen you fight in forever!” He widened his eyes, pouting slightly.

“Sure, sempai. I’ll see you then.” She ruffled his hair, and headed for the door.

X0X0X0

“Ma petite coccinelle.” Felix’s voice came from behind her, and she turned her head to smiled at him. Her smile dropped when she saw how utterly exhausted he looked.

“What’s wrong, ma chevalier?” He flopped into the seat next to her, dropping his bag onto the floor. She rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades.

“I got a B+ on my literature report. It was on color symbolism in Macbeth. I’ve read the book twice, and I got a B+!” His voice was a strangled whine.

“Is that all?” He sent her a mild glare from where his head was propped on his arms. “Felix, a single B+ isn’t going to make you fail. It probably won’t even pull down your grade. Now, would you mind walking me to music room three? I need to pick up the bakery crates from the Host Club.” He sighed.

“Why did it have to be the Host Club? Even the school newspaper would have been better.” Marinette tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and the two set off for the third floor.

“From what you’ve told me, the newspaper club couldn’t afford an order that big.” He nodded his head to the right a little, his way of showing agreement.

X0X0X0

Marinette and Felix strolled through the doors of the Host Club, ignoring the eyes that turned to them. She waved softly to Hani, who came bounding over.

“Mari-chan! Are you here to get Takashi for your spar?” He bounced, eager.

“Not just yet, sempai. The two of you still need to finish up here. Right now, Felix-kun,” She gestured to the blond beside her, “and I need to get the crates back downstairs so that my driver can take them back to the bakery. On that note, how were the macaroons?” Stars filled Hani’s eyes.

“They were so good! No-one bakes like your family, Mari-chan! And they were even batter since you helped make them! You left your signature flowers painted on the shells, so I knew you had helped!” The small blond boy was near-vibrating with enthusiasm.

“You can fight, Dupain-Cheng-san?” One of the girls, the one with thick lips scoffs.

“What an uncouth skill.” Another murmurs.

“My mother would never let me learn how to fight. It’s far too undignified.” A third sniffs.

“Yes, I can. My Grandmother is of the Rong family, the first daughter born in eight generations. She taught my mother, who taught me. It’s family tradition, as the Rong family is matriarchal. If I didn’t learn, it would be an insult to my heritage. I’ve trained in aikido, karate, taekwondo, judo, and muay thai. I also learned dance, as is proper for girls of the Cheng family, which my grandfather is head of. I know tap, ballroom, ballet, salsa, basic breakdancing, and bon dori. Felix, let’s grab the crates and go. I need to get ready for the spar.”

“Of course, ma petite coccinelle.” He escorted her from the room once they had gathered the crates, leaving with a dark glare at the girls who had dared insult his little ladybug.

[mandy23bwrites]

“What’s Cookin’ Good Lookin’?”

@olderguysandcutiepies Surprise! Happy birthday! It’s late but it’s still the 23rd so it counts ;) I love you lots and I hope you’ve had an amazing day!

This is prompt #23 from @hellsdemonictrinity‘s Angst/fluff prompt list

This fic was inspired by the beautiful cookie decorating done by (@)the.graceful.baker on Instagram

Fandom: Bloodline (Netflix)

Character/Pairing: Danny Rayburn x Reader

Tags/Warnings: Gender neutral reader, nonbinary secondary character (OC)

Disclaimer: I have only watched most of the first season of Bloodline so this is based on that and discussion I’ve read and had.

Word Count: 1330

Summary: One of the pros of working with your boyfriend is teasing him all day. One of the cons is him teasing you all day. 

Readable on AO3

Your keys jingle as you open the back door of your bakery, the sunshine entering into the cool kitchen with you.

Your business partner, Jordan, looks up from where they’re shaping bread loaves and smiles when they see you step inside. You exchange greetings as you tuck your bag into one of the staff lockers and they bring you up to speed on the day's happenings. The morning rush had ended and the shop was in its usual afternoon lull. And although you liked the occasional adrenaline rush of a busy shift, it was quiet hours like these where you excelled.

As Jordan disappears into the cooler with the now covered loaves, you poke your head out of the kitchen door to check on the shop. Sitting at the counter was one of your cashiers, a college student, with a textbook open in front of her, taking advantage of the quiet to do one of her readings. 

Only three tables are occupied: a businesswoman on her laptop, a couple reading silently in the corner, and a study group made up of what looked like high schoolers. Amongst them is your boyfriend, wiping down the empty tables. As he moves on to the next one, he catches you looking and smirks, giving you a small wave. You roll your eyes but smile and wave back.

Content they don’t need any help, you duck back into the kitchen and make your way over to where Jordan’s standing at the main counter. They glance at your approach and hold up a hand as if to ward you off.

“Before you come to scold me about working overtime, I’m almost done cleaning; then I’m gone.” You can’t help but laugh.

“Smartass. I wouldn’t have to yell at you if you actually paid yourself overtime”

“Yeah, yeah, okay mom.” They grin at you as they finish tucking ingredients back onto their respective shelves.

“Get out of here before I ground you.” They snicker before stepping into your shared office and you shake your head, pulling out the tub of powdered sugar and bottle of vanilla extract.

You give Jordan a goodbye hug before heading to the cooler, grabbing a couple of eggs and the container of sugar cookies you had made the day before.

Decorating cookies was your favorite thing to do. It was calming, repeating the same couple of designs over and over, but having to concentrate to make sure the design was consistent. You loved coming up with new patterns, and for this spring week, you decided rain clouds, rainbows, and suns were a fitting trio.

You start with the clouds first, grabbing some food coloring and decorating sugar, and set about whipping up some light gray and blue icing.

Pouring the icing into piping bags, you find some music to listen to on your phone and take a deep breath before launching into your work. You pipe the clouds big and fluffy, then quickly cover them with the clear sugar crystals. As the icing sets, you go to the previous cookie and add a multitude of raindrops; then you repeat.

You’re so focused that you don’t realize you’re halfway done with the clouds - so focused in fact that you also don’t hear the footsteps behind you until there’s a pair of hands on your waist and a voice in your ear. 

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” You gasp, and in your shock, squeeze the piping bag too hard, making a rain puddle rather than a raindrop. You know that voice, all too well.

“Daniel Rayburn!” You can’t help but yell (hoping the patrons in the shop don’t hear your outburst beyond the closed kitchen door) as the man in question makes a quick getaway, giggling. You look around and lunge to grab a fistful of powdered sugar to chuck in his direction. It floats down onto him like a mist, making him laugh even harder. He’s put the island counter in between you two and his laughter has dissolved into a coughing fit, but even then he can’t wipe the grin off his face. 

You stand with your arms crossed, scowling at him as he recovers, still smiling. 

“Danny, you ruined that cookie!”

“Ah ah ah, I believe you ruined that cookie. I just helped.” 

“One of these days you’re going to make me ruin someone’s order and then you’ll be in big trouble.” He snorts in response.

“Give me a little more credit than that; I know the best times to sneak up on you.” 

“Is that so?”

“Mhmmm. But I’m not going to tell you - then you’d know my secrets.” You shake your head as he begins to make his way back around the counter towards you. You uncross your arms and reach out to dust the powdered sugar from his face once he gets close enough.

“Tryina sweeten me up?” Now it’s your turn to snort as you ruffle the powder from his hair and brush off his shirt until he’s clean. His hands move to your waist and pull you closer as you quirk an eyebrow.

“This isn’t very professional behavior, Mr. Rayburn.”

“Nor is throwing sugar at your employee.”

“Okay, you got me there.” You lean in and give him a quick kiss. There was a mutual understanding that at work you would behave professionally. After hours were free reign but the bakery was off-limits. Although the occasional kiss would sneak its way in. “That was a terrible line, by the way.” He grins.

“I don’t know… as a chef, I thought it was pretty good!”

“We’re not in your kitchen, chef, we’re in mine. And I say it was bad.”

“One day you’ll see that cooking is superior and you’ll leave this baking nonsense behind,” he teases.

“Ha! You’re not very convincing given that you’re working in my bakery.”

“I’m a Trojan horse, here to take you out from the inside.” 

“So dating me is part of this grand scheme of yours?” That earns you a sheepish grin.

“The enemy is very charming…” You dissolve into laughter and he quickly follows. Taking his face in your hands, you press a long kiss to his lips. 

“Alright troublemaker, if distracting me is also part of your plan, you’re doing a good job. Come over here and help me.” You pull away and return to where you were working, piping a couple of lines onto the ruined cookie, relieved to find that the royal icing hasn’t hardened and is still workable. You break the cookie in two and hand him half as he pulls over a stool to sit next to you. 

Putting him in charge of adding the decorating sugar, you quickly fall back into an easy rhythm. You turn off your music and talk, asking how each other’s day has been. As you move onto the next design, you work together like a well-oiled machine, with him making you new batches of icing or putting away the finished cookies. When he doesn’t have something to do, he sits down next to you and watches you with a childlike fascination. 

As much as he loves to tease about your dynamic as a chef and baker, you know full well he supports what you do. And considering he doesn’t receive that same support from his family, you’re grateful.

You pause after finishing a rainbow and turn to him: “You know I love you, right?” He looks taken aback by the sudden proclamation and can only nod. “Good,” you say with a smile. It takes him a moment to recover but he does.

“I love you too.” You lean over and kiss his cheek, marveling at his blush. Turning back to your cookies, you vow to make sure he never forgets how much he means to you. And as the evening goes on and you close up the shop, you part ways only to drive home in your separate vehicles, determined to spend the rest of the evening reminding him.

[cassiopeiassky]

The Potato of Mass Destruction

Hello, everyone!  Here is a little something to make up for all the angst I’ve been writing lately.  This is my submission for @ruckystarnes Rae’s Summer of Satire Challenge, the prompt is  “If I’m dying, let me eat cake.”/“You’re not dying.”/“Let me eat cake anyway.”  The prompt is in bold.

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2745

Summary: It’s your kids’ birthday party today, and everything is going well until some of your family arrives with an early birthday present for the boys.  Chaos ensues.  It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt; Bucky, to be exact, when he is the victim of an extraordinarily random freak accident.

Warnings:  There’s not much here, kids.  Some mild profanity (but seriously, you should expect that from me by now), mentions of guns, Bucky gets hurt.

Also - I used some characters from one of my other fics (WEMtbB), so this story *could* be viewed as kind of a spoiler, however it can also be read as a complete story by itself.  I hope you all enjoy it!

Oh!  And the pic at the bottom - yes, I did that.  I am that extra.

The clock reads shortly after eleven in the morning as you hum along with the radio.  Despite the fact that you’re currently operating under a time crunch, you’re in your happy place.  Zen mode.  Relaxed and at ease in creative bliss.  As the smell of vanilla wafts through the kitchen, you painstakingly create a one eyed minion on top of a cupcake.

Your twin boys are turning eight next week, and you had suggested a private birthday party for their friends.  The boys had no problems with their friends coming to the family party, but you did.  Your extended family happens to include Captain America and Iron Man, among others, and their dad is the infamous Winter Soldier. Your boys’ friends know this and are perfectly capable of acting like decent human beings when surrounded by people who save the world as their full-time job, but their parents tend to get a little…intense…especially two of the single moms and one of the single dads.

To get around the inevitable secondhand embarrassment – and to keep the attention on the kids, where it’s supposed to be – you’d proposed two separate parties on consecutive weekends. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it to make sure they get the birthday they deserve.

The goggles on the current minion finally meet your standards, so you carefully place it on the platter with the completed cupcakes and…wait…weren’t you finished with 11 cupcakes?  Instinct has you whirling around, fears immediately confirmed.

“Bucky, no!  You can’t eat that!”  You snatch it back, inspecting it for any smudges in the icing.

Your husband stares at you, eyebrows drawn together, empty hand still held up to his wide-open mouth.  “I can’t have even one?  You always let me taste test.”

“No, Love, I’m sorry. These are for the boys’ ‘friends only’ birthday party this afternoon.  The first batch failed miserably – it’s a new recipe and I had to play with the temp and timing – so now I have exactly the number of cupcakes needed for the number of guests.  It’s a good thing I decided to make the boys a small layer cake to blow out their candles or I’d have to uninvite two kids.”

“So…just make more?” he suggests hopefully.  “I like cupcakes.”

You pick up another cupcake and begin to decorate it.  “Buck, I promise you can have all the cake you want next weekend when we have the family party.  And honestly, next week’s cake will be better cake.”

“But it smells so good, Doll, please?  You love baking,” he steps behind you and wraps his arms around your waist as he nuzzles into your neck, “and I love when you bake.  See?  Win – win.”

You snicker at his antics as you lean into his embrace.   “I would if I could, Buck, but I can’t.  The party is in less than two hours. Besides, I’m out of rice flour and can’t use regular flour until after the party because I can’t risk any cross contamination in the kitchen.  So many of the kids have allergies that I had to make these gluten, dairy, egg, and nut free.”  

“Gluten, dairy, egg, and nut free – what the hell is holding these things together?”  

“Xanthan gum and flax seed.” You shake your head as you laugh, “One of the little girls that’s coming is allergic to all of those, plus citrus.  I was so surprised when her mom told me that, I asked if her daughter survived on rainbows and unicorn farts.  I mean, what else can she eat?”

Bucky chuckles as he stealthily reaches for the bowl of icing, but you catch him in your peripheral and bring a wooden spoon down on his knuckles.

Every now and then you manage to impress yourself with your reflexes.

“Ow!”

“Bucky!  I took me six tries to get decent tasting dairy free icing and I don’t have any to spare, so if you can’t keep your hands to yourself, get out of my kitchen!”

“I just wanted some cake,” he grumbles as he pouts.

You turn to him and take his face gently in your hands.  “Bucky, my love, I know and I’m sorry.  I promise you’ll have all the cake you want next weekend.  I’ll even make some with extra frosting – I’ll pile on the old lady flowers so it’s an inch and a half thick, just like you like.  I just don’t have any to spare right now.”

“But next weekend is so far away,” he whines.

Your fingers slide back and tangle in his hair, and you press your lips to his before whispering, “I’ll make it up to you later tonight, okay?”

He pretends to think about it for a few seconds.  “Deal,” he smirks before pulling you close and kissing you deeply.

Who knows how long you were wrapped in each other’s embrace before you hear the door open and close – could be thirty seconds, could be ten minutes – you can never tell when you’re like this with Bucky because time stands still.

“Aw man, they’re at it again.”  Jimmy tries to sound disgusted, but you happen to know that he secretly loves that his mom and dad are affectionate.  It makes him feel secure.

You giggle at your son’s observation, but Bucky doesn’t break form.  He takes kissing his wife very seriously.

“Do you really have to do that here?  We have people coming over.”  Artie does a better job at sounding irritated, but when Bucky finally breaks the kiss and you turn to him, you can see the small smile on your son’s lips.

“Yes, I do,” Bucky replies before you can shoo them away.  “I will have you know that, as your father, it is my solemn duty to show you how a man should treat his partner.”  Bucky’s hands rise to cradle your face as he speaks, “If you don’t see me treat your mom with love,” he pauses to press a sweet kiss to your lips, “adoration,” another tender kiss to your forehead, “and respect,” a gentle thumb glides over your cheek as he kisses the other, “then how are you supposed to know how to treat the person you love?  You can think it’s gross, but I’m doing my best to raise my boys to be loving, respectful men.”  He gets a mischievous glint in his eyes.  “Besides, your mom’s hot.”

“Oh, gross,” Artie makes gagging noises while Jimmy rolls his eyes.

The conversation is interrupted by a brief knock on the front door.  “Hello!  Everyone decent?”

“Grandpa!! Uncle Eddie!!” The boys run to the door and into the arms of the two men standing there. Technically it’s your grandpa and uncle, but Great Grandpa and Great Uncle Eddie is just too much.

“Hey boys, guess what?”

Your uncle has an impish glint in his eye…you know this look.  You don’t know what he’s holding behind his back, but whatever it is isn’t good. “Uncle Eddie, no.”

“Uncle Eddie, yes,” he declares, presenting what he was holding behind him.  “Happy birthday kiddos!”

“What the hell is that?”

You speak at the same time Bucky does, but louder.  “No! You are absolutely NOT giving my seven year olds a potato gun!”

“We’re practically eight, Mom!”

“Wait, it’s a what?”  Bucky looks both confused and delighted.

Your uncle smirks at the chaos he’s sown.  “It’s fun!”

“It’s a weapon of mass destruction!” you shoot back.

Uncle Eddie shoots you an unimpressed look.  “You’re being a little dramatic here.”

You march over to your uncle and lift the white plastic barrel of the gun.  It still has its old Scooby Doo sticker on the side of it – the one you’d put there as a little girl. “It’s your old gun??  The one you souped up to make it even more powerful?!   No.  NO.  And I’m not being dramatic – it’s works by combustion and the barrel is wider than two inches – it is classified as a weapon of mass destruction.”

“She’s not wrong,” Bucky interjects, sounding slightly impressed that you knew that.

“Aw, come on, peanut, you know we’re safe!  You let Bucky teach them gun safety and you’ve let us take them deer hunting for the past two years.  You trust us, you already know they’re in good hands!”

“Okay, first of all, the reason Bucky taught them gun safety is because there are guns in the house.  They’re inaccessible to the kids, but he did it as a precautionary measure.  Second, I am a grown ass woman.  I officially outgrew the nickname peanut years ago.  Finally –“

“No,” your grandpa interrupts gently, “You were my first grandbaby.  You’ll always be my peanut.”

“I – okay, fine.  But finally, your gun safety isn’t in question, the potato gun is.  It doesn’t even have a safety!”

Uncle Eddie grins as he pulls the can of Aqua Net out of its chamber.  “There, satisfied?”

You fold your arms and glare at your uncle.  

“Please, Mom? Pleeeeeeeease?”  Twin sets of beseeching eyes turn your way.  “Just until the party?”

You can feel Bucky’s stare boring into the side of your head.  He’d never contradict you in front of the boys – the two of you always back each other’s plays, and if ever there’s an issue it’s discussed later – but you can practically hear his curiosity begging for permission.  

It’s pretty clear you’re outnumbered.  And, truth be told, it’s practically a right of passage in your family.   There was a time when it was you and your uncle begging your mom…

“Fine,” you relent, “but it needs to disappear before any of the kids get here for the party.”

Five beaming smiles are your reward as your boys, grandpa, and uncle race to the back door to get to the back yard.

“You know they’re gonna be fine, right?”  Bucky holds in his excitement to pull you into a reassuring embrace; even now, your well-being is his priority.  “Your family is really good about firearm safety, even by my standards.”

“You do realize that I just agreed to let my uncle – who drove through town last Saturday night with his bare ass smushed against the back window of his car while my aunt drove – take our boys out back to fire a homemade device that has enough power to shoot a potato over 200 yards?”

Bucky grasps you by the shoulders as he pulls back, eyes wide.  “When you put it that way…”

All you can do is nod when you see his curiosity overtaken by common sense.

“I’m gonna go…supervise…” He doesn’t even have the sentence fully out before he’s speeding toward the door.

“They’re gonna be fine.   It’s fine.  Everything is fine,” you mutter to yourself as you return to the cupcakes.

* * *

It’s about a quarter past one, and the cupcakes are finally done.  The boys’ friends will probably start arriving within the next 40 minutes or so, so you take the platter of cupcakes and the boys’ small cake for the candles and head out to the back yard to set up the cake table.

When you step into the afternoon sunlight, the sounds of giggles and shrieks meet your ears.  They’ve been busy – all of the folding tables that had been placed are now decorated for the party.  The potato gun is sitting on top of one of the tables, abandoned for a game of chicken.  Jimmy is on Uncle Eddie’s shoulders, and Artie is on Bucky’s as they race around the yard.

As you lay out the cakes, everyone comes over to see what you’ve done, including the squirrel that lives in the tree providing the shade.

“Mom, those are so cool!” Jimmy’s practically jumping up and down.

Artie wraps his arms around your waist, “You’re the best momma ever,” he whispers, and your heart promptly melts.  

Unbeknownst to any of you, the squirrel had shifted to get a better look at the brightly colored confections, not catching anyone’s attention until it let out a loud squeak as it fell out of the tree.  This wouldn’t have been exactly catastrophic except that it landed just right on the potato gun, somehow managing to fire a potato straight into Bucky’s crotch from 20 feet away.

The former assassin drops to the ground like a sack of apples.  His mouth opens in a silent scream as the blood drains from his face and he curls into the fetal position.

“Bucky, are you okay? Bucky?”  You rush to kneel next to him, trying to offer whatever comfort you can. You’re reasonably sure that this can’t kill him, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.

“Oh my God, I think this is the end of the line for me,” he groans, trying unsuccessfully to roll to his knees.  “I can see flashing lights.”  He gives up his efforts to move and curls into a ball in the grass.  “This isn’t how I thought I would go.”

“Buck, you’re going to be okay.”  Recognizing by his tone and actions that he isn’t in any actual danger, you have to swallow back the laughter that’s suddenly threatening to bubble out of you.

“No, I’m not.  I really think I’m dying, and if I’m dying, let me eat cake.”

Yep, he’s fine.  In pain, but fine.  “You’re not dying.”

“Let me eat cake anyway.”  He grins up at you with watery eyes.

You sit back on your heels, unable to fully hide your relief as you mutter, “You’re a shameless little shit.”

The boys approach slowly. “Dad?”  There’s a hint of fear in their voices, and this is enough for Bucky to pull himself together.

“I’m okay,” he whimpers as you help him sit up.  “I’m okay.”

They both kneel in front of him.  “Are you sure?” Jimmy whispers.

Bucky nods while grimacing. “It’s just your standard potato to the balls, not much worse than Auntie Nat’s cheap shot in a fight.  I’ll be fine, just gotta walk it off.  Now help me up.”

As the boys help their dad, your eyes turn to your uncle, who is trying unsuccessfully to hide behind your grandpa.  “Seriously? You forgot to pull out the hairspray and the potato?”

Uncle Eddie stares at you in mild terror.  “I’m, uh, I should probably take that thing and leave because you have guests coming soon. See you next weekend, guys!”  You’ve never seen your uncle walk so fast in your entire life.

You turn to your grandpa, and he starts chuckling.  The laugh you’d managed to hold back earlier comes out in a snort, and the boys, understanding now exactly what happened, begin giggling uncontrollably.

“I can’t believe I still don’t get cake.”  The disappointment in his hoarse voice is crystal clear.  Shaking your head and completely unsuccessful at stopping your laughter, you pull his arm over your shoulders and help him limp back to the house.  When you pass the fridge, you pause to grab a bag of frozen peas for him to ice his tender junk.

* * *

Later that night, after the party is done and the boys are all tucked in, you do what you can to make up for Bucky’s ordeal.  He’ll be fully healed by tomorrow – the bruises are already beginning to fade – but you still feel bad for him.  

Giggling to yourself as you put on the final touches, you listen carefully for any sign of your husband. Not that it really matters – if he doesn’t want to be heard, he’s as silent as night.  Satisfied that he’s still upstairs in your bedroom either reading or writing in his journal, you snap the lid onto the dish, grab a fork, and make your way to him.

When you enter your bedroom, you realize why you were able to get away with preparing your little surprise.  He’s outside on the balcony with the doors closed.

Bucky turns his blue eyes your way when you join him, smiling softly as he reaches for you before noticing the thing in your hand.  Immediately recognizing the cake carrier, his eyes grow wide with delight.  “Is that for me?”

You smile as you gently place the dish in his lap.  “Mmm hmm.”

He removes the cover and bursts out laughing at what he finds.

A chocolate cake, decorated with an abundance of flowers and frosting at least an inch thick all the way around, with a message that leaves no room for misunderstanding as to whom this cake is for.

“Here’s your damn cake, you little shit.”

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[softhaos]

FRAGMENTS OF AFFECTION

pairing – kim mingyu x reader genre – angst + slowburn + non-idolverse description – everyone knew he was too good to be true. from the way he looked at you with eyes too loving to his proximity too close whenever you intertwined hands. everyone knew except you. warning – mentions of alcohol but no consumption song rec – hard to love | bolbbalgan4 word count – 2,002 words author’s note – i wanted to post this days ago as a “holy crap thank you so much for reading my fics and leaving nice messages once in a whilef” but that didn’t work out oops but hey, better late than never !! look this is my attempt at angst,,,, maybe i should stick with fluff heh,,

When people told you that Mingyu was too perfect a boyfriend, you took it as a compliment. He gave you the world which merely consisted of a gracious amount of skinship and sweet words that reflected his overflowing adoration for you. It was a small world you lived in, but as long as he was the sun in your life it was more than enough. You were certain that the string you tied around one another wasn’t going to tear.

When people begged to differ, you were confused. Perfect didn’t exist and Mingyu was too good. They were convinced that Mingyu was the epitome of chaos behind his angelic demeanor. You assumed they just didn’t want you to be happy for once even after the countless heartbreaks and countless exes you had been put through.

But with time, you figured they had been right all along.

When you encountered Kim Mingyu the first time, namely in a small cafe just two blocks away from Subway, he didn’t necessarily catch your attention the moment he stepped into the coffee shop. Meeting him was the aftermath of yet another blind date set up by your friends who thought they’d do you a favor. Not that Mingyu wasn’t attractive – quite the contrary, he was one of the more good-looking fellas you’ve seen around, but he just looked so neat and shy and plain in that black turtleneck, same colored slacks and beige coat buttoned up all the way. At this point, you’d rather escape to Subway and go through the hassle of ordering a sandwich. Nonetheless, you refrained from doing so.

What was originally supposed to be a date over a cup of coffee turned out to be a full-hearted conversation based on mutual feelings on particularly peculiar topics over the span of two cups of coffee and five batches of chocolate chip cookies. At first, his true colors were veiled behind the natural awkwardness he possessed and unusual jokes that took you a good minute to comprehend. His gaze wandered everywhere except at you yet whenever you talked and your gaze drifted outside to stare at the pedestrians and occasional vehicles passing by, you could sense his eyes on you, the brightest star right then.

But once you tore down bits and pieces of the walls he had built around him, you caught a glimpse of the klutz that defined Kim Mingyu, the tongue-tied man he was whenever he was nervous or had too many thoughts occupying his mind simultaneously, the suddenly much more likable guy for adding cereal after milk. You noticed how pretty his eyes were, how much depth and innocence his gaze held and detected the slight lisp he held. It was the little things that made him stood out from your past romances and flings. Then again, you always paid attention to details in every person and that had been your mindset with everyone before him.

Theoretically speaking, he shouldn’t have intrigued you as much as he managed to. In the end, what he revealed of himself wasn't something you hadn't heard before. Being a great cook might have been impressive for some others, but with the handful of people you met, it was no longer mesmerizing. You heard all of his stories too many times as if the same record was playing over and over again but each time in different stereos.

There were many reasons that spoke for why Kim Mingyu was nothing more than a fling if you took the chance and way too little arguments why Mingyu would be right this time. But when you met him in the supermarket for the third time out of the three times you went grocery shopping after that not-so horrible tragedy of a date, you started to question your rationality.

Though still as plain when it came to his choice of clothing, Mingyu was definitely bolder than on your initial meeting. He was the one who dared the first step and stirred up the conversation, the one who would ask how you were doing, the one who pitched into the same direction on the way home but took a left turn at the second crossroad. His stories remained as common as ever, nothing that wowed you, yet behind his words lied the charm laced in his voice that pulled you in. At one point, he built up enough courage to invite you over to dinner and as much as your reason desperately tried to pry him off, you said yes.

You didn’t regret your choice.

Besides finding out that Mingyu did live up to his self-proclaimed title as an amateur chef, he finally showed his true colors, ranging from the warmest hue to his darkest sides he was unwilling to unravel right away. Neither of you was intoxicated by an alcohol rush – hell, all he had was apple juice, all sorts of coke and water – but if anyone were to barge in and interrupt your two-man fiesta, they would’ve staked out the entire apartment looking for some nonexistent stash. What started out as a small conversation about minuscule life updates while enjoying pasta evolved into questions about different types of potatoes as you got tipsy on water and hiccuped on vanilla and cherry coke mixed together.

That was also when you took notice of his slight lisp, his habit of tangling his fingers in his jet-black hair after a good laugh, his lips pressed together as he tried to suppress his grin. In a matter of hours, there was no longer any trace of the diplomatic Mingyu who cracked some awful puns when he was feeling humorous. Instead, a carefree and significantly more resolute Mingyu who didn’t shy away from pulling you onto the couch and spilling a bit of cola along the way took his place.

Reminiscing about past memories, slurring about precedents and laughing about disastrous ways to end a date in the hospital made the evening worthwhile. Topics that you never even thought of were brought to light and made you realize that there was something more in the vessel that belonged to Kim Mingyu. All the while as his slender fingers softly tugged on the roots of your hair and as he looked at you with so much affection it proved his soberness, he didn’t dare to delve into deeper territory. In the back of your mind, you were fairly sure the evening was going to escalate to you staying the night and waking up under the sheets in his embrace the next morning. Though once you saw his reluctance and restraint to bruise your lips (more or less), you were proved wrong.

Appreciating his self-control and the boundaries he didn’t want to cross at this early stage, maybe your rationality had been wrong about him the entire time. You enjoyed the pace he was opting for, acknowledged his effort and was utterly affected by his entirety. Throughout the night your lips never touched once, but his touches still ghosted on your skin even when he was no longer near. Slowly but surely, he became the center of your world and so did you become his. That was how you began to love him, little by little.

It was a long process to get where you were now, but the long journey made the result so much sweeter. Innocent touches and intertwining fingers in public was how you started off before Mingyu finally pulled himself together and pressed featherlight kisses on the top of your hair and cheek. The memory of your very first proper kiss in the middle of the night while watching reruns of Spongebob was initiated by you – a quick peck on his lips before he no longer cared if he looked like a tomato and pulled you into a second, deeper one. Out of your fairly long list of past lovers, nobody had managed to strike you as hard as Mingyu. Of course, he was aware of your previous relationships but that had never caused him to look at you in a different light. If not, it urged him to cherish you even more. Even though he wasn’t your first in anything, he made it feel as if he was your first.

Everything was perfectly fine. You were perfectly fine and the only trouble was the whirlwind of emotions that overcame you every hour of the day caused by him, but you wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

Kim Mingyu held your heart in his hands and you wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

You had reached the level where you confined your trust in him, where you sought comfort in him and where you saw home in him. There were no secrets kept hidden from one another and throughout the months of being together, not even a single catastrophic fight had taken place. A few playful bickerings here and there had happened but there had never been a gigantic tear in your relationship that blew it out of proportion. You knew the huge storm would come up sooner or later but you didn’t expect it to destroy everything.

The thunder resounded at a party and truth be told, you should’ve seen it coming. Though the jealousy was running thick, you chose not to intervene just yet despite your fathomable desire to give him a piece of your mind. You still didn’t say a word when you saw him feverishly kissing someone who wasn’t you as if his life depended on it. Knowing Mingyu for so long, you knew he couldn’t hold his liquor well and had impulsive tendencies when he was intoxicated by the burning rush.

But when he pulled back and gave you a perfect sight on his dark eyes which weren’t clouded by anything, but crystal clear with nothing but soberness and intense warmth reflected in them, that was when the lightning struck. You knew that gaze too well, the look he sent you every time because he was so infatuated with you and had no filter to hide any of his affection. But what differed the affection he displayed at that moment than like he usually did was that those feelings weren’t directed towards you.

The second major difference you noticed was that the unconditional adoration radiating from him was more real than the love he had ever shown you – if what he gave you had been real in the first place.

You didn’t need anyone to tell you whether what they shared was a fling or actual love that was blooming unbeknownst to you while Mingyu was supposed to be exclusively yours. Of course, it was the latter. You might’ve been oblivious to it before, how his love for you slowly died out and how hard he struggled to make it work (as pointed out by your friends once when they noticed his torn gaze lingering on you for a second too long or his posture suddenly tense for an unfathomable reason), but the only fact that mattered was that he didn’t choose to stay.

Just like that, your entire world crumbled down until only remnants of what used to be remained.

You couldn’t bring it over yourself to not feel anything for him. Mingyu left a scar too deep in you and nothing could ever stop you from being emotionally invested in him. But you also couldn’t welp in eternal sorrow and infinite lovesickness or hope that he’d come back with clean hands. It was clear that nothing could equal to your relationship before. Mingyu would never let that happen and neither would you.

If you couldn’t diminish your feelings for him, you had to change them.

And so, all timeless love you harbored for Mingyu turned into unceasing hate.

[dragon-temeraire]

Fool For Your Pastries

Summary: Derek the food critic meets Stiles the pastry chef.

Notes: Sorry I haven’t posted fic in so long! My real life has been a series of disasters lately, and I’ve just gotten behind on my writing. Also, I’d like to say that I know nothing about fancy pastries—I’ve just been watching too many episodes of The Great British Baking Show. (This is how I found out that ‘choux’ is pronounced like ‘shoe.’) (On AO3)

Derek stares down at the pastry, the taste of the first bite still lingering in his mouth. The choux is wonderfully light, a perfect juxtaposition to the thick, rich crème patisserie that it’s filled with. Not only that, but it also looks elegant, with a light dusting of cinnamon sugar and a swirl of dark chocolate ganache.

“Wow,” he says after savoring another bite. “Whoever made this, I want to marry them.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” someone says suddenly, sounding amused. “But I’m not sure I’m ready to settle down just yet.”

A young guy pulls out the chair across from him and sits nonchalantly in it, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth.

“You made this?” Derek asks, not insulting, just a little disbelieving. French pastries are difficult to make and harder to master, and this guy doesn’t look older than twenty.

“Sure did,” he says easily, clearly not taking offense. “Choux is one of my favorite pastries to make, I love how much it puffs up.” He slants Derek a look, gives him a more genuine smile, and says, “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

“I’m Derek,” he replies, a little shortly. His conversational skills have never been great, but they’re worse around someone as attractive Stiles, and the fact that he’s an accomplished baker only adds to Derek’s interest.

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says. “You offer your hand in marriage after eating dessert very often?”

Derek has to swallow down his embarrassment before he can answer, with a straight face, “Only if it’s really good.”

“Well, don’t get ahead of yourself—you haven’t even tried my mille-feuille yet, or my delicious—”

“Please don’t tell me,” Derek cuts in quickly, smiling a little at Stiles’ enthusiasm. “Or I’ll never leave.”

“Would that be so bad?” Stiles asks softly, in a way that makes Derek’s heart race. He cocks his head, fingers lightly tapping against the table, and asks in a more normal tone, “So, what brings you to the restaurant?”

He’s polite enough not to end it with all alone?, but Derek hears it anyway. “I’m a food critic,” he says, hoping Stiles will want to keep talking to him anyway.

“Oh, cool,” Stiles says brightly, and Derek breathes a tiny sigh of relief. “I have nothing to do with the entrees—those are Lydia’s domain. And she’s pretty, uh, exacting, so quality is very consistent here. I only make the desserts—which is a lot more fun, in my opinion.”  

“You make all of them?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised. “By yourself?”

“I usually have an assistant,” Stiles says easily, shrugging. “But I learned to make most of them by myself, so that’s usually when they turn out best.”

“It obviously works,” Derek says, taking another bite of pastry. “Because this is perfect.” He watches Stiles’ expressive face for a moment, the way his eyes dart from Derek’s fork to his lips and then back again. “What’s your favorite thing to make?”

“Honest answer?” Stiles says like it’s a secret, eyes practically glowing. “My favorite thing is a batch of chocolate chip cookies, hot and fresh out of the oven. I know my job is to make all these beautiful, complex desserts—and I love them, I do—but sometimes I’m just in the mood for something more simple, you know? Is that weird?”

“I don’t think so,” Derek says, eyes catching on the slight flush on Stiles’ cheeks. “I love to cook fancy things myself, and obviously I eat expensive food for my job, but sometimes when I go home I just make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner.”

Stiles gives a delighted laugh. “But are you one of those people who makes a ‘simple’ grilled cheese with fresh herbs and three different kinds of cheese?”

“Not at all,” Derek says, grinning. “In my opinion, nothing can top the perfect simplicity of crispy, buttery bread and rich, melty cheese.”

“Agreed,” Stiles says, and even though it’s for nothing substantial, Derek still feels pleased. “And I did want to tell you: my favorite thing to make here at the restaurant are the buche de noel cakes I do for the holidays. I make a dark chocolate one with mocha buttercream and ganache, and a white chocolate one with maple-vanilla buttercream and thin slices of fresh strawberry.”

“You’re killing me,” Derek groans. “It’s only April.”

“Don’t think you can make it until December?” Stiles asks teasingly.

“No,” Derek grumbles, trying to hide his smile. It doesn’t work. “And I’m going to end up in here trying all your pastries for the next few months, I just know it.”

“I think you’ll like them all,” Stiles says, just a little bit smug. “But I’ll make you a deal.”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”

“Well, as I said before, I’ll have to turn down your proposal—” Stiles says, and Derek pointedly rolls his eyes, “—but I am interested in a date with you. I usually make a few batches of the buche de noel throughout the year, just to keep in practice. You could come over after we have dinner, try a slice or two, and then we can do whatever you want after that,” he adds with a wink.

Derek’s pretty sure he flushes all the way down to his toes. “Yes,” he manages to get out around his surprise.

“Awesome,” Stiles says brightly. He tears off the corner of Derek’s napkin and scrawls his number across it. “The restaurant is closed tomorrow, so I’m free. But now I better get back to the kitchen before my assistant starts freaking out.”

Derek nods, trying to hide his disappointment. Of course Stiles can’t stay with him all evening. “I’ll pick somewhere amazing,” he says, fingers curling around the scrap of napkin.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Stiles says cheerfully, and gives Derek a little wave before he goes.

Five minutes later, a waiter brings Derek a lovely, delicate pastry that he didn’t order. There’s a smiley face drawn on it in chocolate glaze, and Derek laughs.

 *

 (True to his word, Stiles makes a buche de noel for him, and it’s just as delicious as Derek thought it would be. He monologues about the perfect combination of flavors and textures for a while, until Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls him into a kiss. Derek leans into it and kisses him back, grinning. He’ll tell Stiles the rest later.)

[darcyfirth]

I was made to keep your body warm

or that farm boy eggsy and baker harry au post i made finally becomes a real fic.

“Step away from the cookies,” the unexpected words of warning startled Eggsy into nearly dropping a piece of perfectly baked chocolate chip cookie on the floor. He raised his hands up to signal his surrender and took two hasty steps back from the counter, a sheepish smile on his face. It was quite early in the morning, the sign on the door of the bakery still said closed, but Eggsy wasn’t a customer.

“Sorry, Mr Hart. Couldn’t help myself there. They smelled divine. Is this your new recipe?” he said conversationally. Mr Hart still had his white apron and beige mittens on when he appeared at the kitchen door, Egssy noted, and he had a tray of fresh gingerbreads carefully balanced on his hands. They all wore red icing as bowties and there were tiny white dots as buttons on where their shirts would be.

“Yes, and since it’s new, I’m not entirely sure it’s fit for mass consumption yet. They might taste like rotten eggs for all I know.” The baker made his way to behind the glass display and placed the batch next to two dozen tarts.

“Oh, have some confidence in yourself, would you? Everyone in this town adores your pastries, even Roxy who has never had a sweet tooth said she wanted to marry you the first time she tried one of your cheesecakes,” said Eggsy with pride. “Granted. Ours is not a big town, but there are three standing pastry shops and yours is the one people flock to.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Eggsy knew he should have said them much earlier, perhaps it was the way a rosy bloom spread itself across Harry’s pale cheeks and ears, or how he averted his eyes and attempted a cough to hide his pleased grin. They have known each other for half a year now, and Eggsy found that he never grew tire of the minuscule change in the man’s facial expressions. He had catalogued and stored at least twelve different sounds Harry made when he laughed, three general responses when being teased, and hundreds of sarcastic eye rolls.

Eggsy realised he was staring when the silence had become palpable and shook himself out of his day-dreaming. Mr Hart didn’t seem to mind Eggsy’s dawdling though, as he was wrapping up cookies and tying them in neat red ribbons.

With enormous regret that he hoped had not leak into his voice, he said, “I got your eggs in the storage room. That’d be my last delivery this month, we don’t open again after Christmas.” He fought back and I won’t see you for another full week with his entire being and the unnecessary grasp for dignity.

“Oh,” Harry paused in the middle of counting the bags and looked up, “does that mean-”

“Come to our farm for the dinner?” Eggsy said in a rush, at the same time Harry finishes his, “you would go to London?”

“London?”

“Dinner?”

Eggsy lifted a hand, they should really take turns, and his heart should really stop beating so hard, he fancied it would beat its way out of his ribcage and run joyfully to nestle itself in Harry’s shirt pocket. “Why would I go to London?”

“Your girlfriend? Miss Morton? I’ve heard from Michelle that she lives in the city.” Mr Hart’s eyes didn’t meet his when he said this.

“What girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend. Yes, she is a girl, and my friend. But Roxy’s got a girlfriend of her own. Her name’s Amelia.”

“Amelia?” asked Harry, incredulous.

“Yeah. They’ve been dating for two years. I invited them to stay at our farm this year, you know, show ‘em around and stuff.”

“Oh, I see,” breathed Harry, “I do apologise for assuming. I just thought, well, you are rather fond of her, it was only logical.”

Not the way I’m fond of you.

“So,” Eggsy started, “now that’s been cleared up. Would you come? to our dinner? We have one every year, it’s just my Mum and Daisy and me, and this year with Rox and Amelia, too. Mum says you are new to the town and worries that you’d be spending it all by yourself.” Did I just imply he has no one to be with? Wake up, brain.

He hurried to ask, “Of course, it’s fine if you can’t. Anyway, the more the merrier, you know?”

“I’d love to,” smiled Harry, and the sun came out twice that morning.

“Sure?” Air had made its decision to desert Eggsy’s lungs.

“It’d be my honour.”

“Brilliant,” Eggsy said and pulled out an invoice, “can you sign this? I’ve got three other places to go to.”

Before he left, Eggsy gave Harry the time and address of his farm, the man nodded and promised he would call prior to arriving.

That morning, Eggsy blasted Jingle Bells at full volume all the way to Antonio’s restaurant.

“Is he here yet?” asked Roxy from the couch. She was concerned, understandably, because Eggsy had been standing, rather patiently, at the window looking out the road in front of his house for twenty minutes. It was getting rather disconcerting, this crush of his.

“No,” sighed Eggsy.

“Come here, muffin,” she beckoned him to sit next to her. The seat was warm as Amelia just left it to go for a nap in their bedroom, she was a lightweight and a glass of bourbon didn’t help.

Obediently, he plopped down on the cushion, back hunched and facing the door.

“Do you think he changed his mind at the last minute?” said Eggsy.

“Why would he?”

“Because- I mean- Why would he come?”

“You invited him, for starters. And Harry is a man of honour, like you always said in every of our Skype session.”

“He is,” muttered Eggsy, his right cheek smashed in the firm press of the couch, “and so, so very dreamy.”

“Extremely dreamy,” agreed Roxy. She wasn’t lying, she had seen a photo of Mr Baker that Eggsy sent her in their chat room. Fuck, was her only reply to it.

“I bet he has pretty lady friends who hold posh parties that he’d rather attend in the city.”

“Does he?”

“I don’t know. It’s a working hypothesis.”

“Based on wild guesses and deeply pessimistic analysis.” Roxy took a sip of her wine, no amount of alcohol could get her through this conversation, but she could try. At that moment, something outside caught her attention and blessedly enough, she stayed calm about it.

“Look,” Roxy stood up and dragged Eggsy along with her, “I think you should give up.”

Eggsy frowned, “Give what up? I don’t follow-”

“Give. Up. On. Harry. Hart!” The clear punctuation and its sharp delivery was made all the more dramatic by her death grip on his shoulders. JB was sleeping in the next room and Roxy believed even that would wake the pug up.

“You are not making any sense, Roxy.” He was in denial, but his voice was raising as well.

“Oh? Am I the one being idiotic? Am I the one who pines after this man for half a year and not make any move? Am I the one who meticulously chooses the best, shiniest eggs for him?” Her theatre club teacher would be so proud of such beautiful enunciation.

“Face it Eggsy! You’re in love with him! And he doesn’t return your feelings, that’s why you’ve been mopping around all week!” Eggsy would kill her if he was telepathic and had eyes on the back of his head.

“Yeah! Fine. I admit. I am in love with Harry! But I, I just can’t- It’s not that easy, Rox. And I know you mean well, I just-”

Then came the tentative sound of knocking on the wooden door.

The pair inside the house froze, well, one of them was acting quite convincingly frozen.

“You should get that,” said Roxy as she smoothly picked up her opened book on the coffee table and her dear glass of wine. Eggsy shot her a confused look, she smiled tightly at him and kissed his cheeks, “I’m sorry. And good luck.” Then, she retreated to her room upstairs.

The knocking came again, this time less shy and more insistent.

Eggsy rushed to unlatch the door and braved the harsh breeze for his trouble.

“Hello, Eggsy,” said Harry in a dark coat, snowflakes clinging on his hair and shoulders and adorned his nose and cheeks a bright pink.

“Hi, Harry,” said Eggsy, his fingers still clutched the door handle. Apparently, all of his faculties hadn’t come back online yet, they tended to take leave every time he was in close proximity with Mr Hart.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I lost my way a bit and tried to call. But you didn’t answer,” Harry explained.

“Oh, God, erm,” Eggsy pulled out the phone in his pocket, the darn thing had run out of battery hours ago and he was too preoccupied with the thought of Harry coming over to notice. “It’s all my fault, here, come in. It’s got to be freezing out there.”

He stepped aside to take Harry’s coat, it smelled of vanilla and coffee and a hint of cinnamon, Eggsy ruefully put it on the coat rack. At this moment, he suddenly remembered.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“How long did you wait to knock?”

“Well, I just got here.” The man was fibbing, months of observation and this was what it got him, he could tell immediately when Harry wasn’t telling the truth. His eyes shifted slightly, once, to the right, and back again.

“Really?” whispered Eggsy, he couldn’t look straight at Harry now. Not when he knew rejection was coming and heartbreak was waving at him at the next stop.

“To be honest? Long enough.” To hear everything was unsaid.

Eggsy sucked in a lungful of air, steady, heart. He opened his mouth.

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble, you know,” but Harry beat him to it.

“Oh.” So Harry planned to let him down easy, ever the gentleman.

“I mean, you don’t have to keep hiding it,” he continued, “because the feeling is mutual, Eggsy.”

Ten thousand bells rang in Eggsy’s head. He heard none of them. 

“For the past months, I thought, well, assumed that you had a girlfriend and accepted the fact. Quite ready to do so, if I might add, since I’m not used to affection or the expressing part of it. Besides, I’m twice your age and just a baker in a small town.”

“Harry, shut up.” He had to stop the man’s ranting, despite how endearing and adorable he found it to be.

“What?”

“Just. Shut up.” Eggsy growled and quickly marched toward him, afraid Harry might run away, afraid he would miss this chance.

He caught Harry in an embrace and felt him tensed slightly, like a prey would to being in the mercy of a predator.

“I like you, Harry. A lot. Too much to bear sometimes, I think. But I had to get used to it, to breathe better,” whispered Eggsy.

The rigid lines of Harry’s shoulders relaxed and a hand slid up to cup Eggsy’s neck.

“Is it better now?”

“No. Still feel a bit like fainting.”

“Should I let go? Would that help?”

“No. Then I’d just faint. You’re holding me up, that’s good.” Somehow, his arms managed to tighten the hold on Harry’s waist.

“How long have you.” Felt this way. Liked me. Wanted to tell me this. Hidden this from me.

“When you called me back to give me the banana bread.” An answer to all of Harry’s questions.

“That was.” Our first meeting.

“Yes.”

Harry’s hand was making slow circles on Eggsy’s back now. They made an odd picture.

“And I didn’t notice,” sighed Harry.

“We can both blame you for that.”

Harry laughed, and Eggsy immediately filed it away as something new, he had never heard this before.

Slowly, he pulled back so that their faces were comfortably apart, so he could see Harry’s brown eyes and his dimples, so that his heart wasn’t too far from Harry’s.

“I brought your favourite tart,” said Harry out of nowhere. And that, frankly, was it.

Eggsy grabbed the back of Harry’s skull, gently, as if to coax him into the kiss, a wasted effort, for he went willingly. Their lips met and instantly, Eggsy vowed to record as many detail as the capacity of his memory could possibly allow. Every brush of the skin, every groan and gasp, and the singular sensation of being connected with Harry for the first time in six months. He parted his lips eagerly when he felt the tip of Harry’s tongue asking for entrance. His hands had inexplicably found themselves around Harry’s neck and with the press of his hips, their bodies had no gaps from sternum to knees.

His lungs protested but he didn’t care. He was careful, placing a trail of kisses along Harry’s jaw, his neck, and by the way Harry gasped and tipped his head back, he knew the gentle bite at the trapezius was a magnificent decision. After he had sucked at Harry’s collarbone a small bruise, he found his way back to the man’s lips and they both sighed into the kiss.

It was hot and wet and too much and too little all at once.

An undetermined amount of time passed, once Eggsy had given Harry’s cheek a lingering kiss, they finally broke apart, both a tad debauched and breathless. It was a good look on Harry, Eggsy thought, the man should wear it more often, preferably in a bedroom with Eggsy in it.

“So,” started Eggsy.

“So,” replied Harry.

“Welcome to our house, Mr Hart. Are you ready for dinner?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” said Harry as he looked Eggsy straight in the eye.

“Because I’m,” he closed the distance Eggsy had tormented himself so hard to create, but they were a mere two inches apart when Harry’s voice dropped an octave and said, “positively famished.” And initiated their second kiss that night.

Dinner would have to wait, it seemed, and Eggsy was perfectly fine with that.

[roxashighwind]

Ward Off the Chill | Bruce/Valkyrie/Thor

Relationship: Bruce Banner/Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Thor

Characters: Bruce Banner ; Brunnhilde | Valkyrie (Marvel) ; Thor (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Cooking ; Polyamory

Words: 1361

Summary:

Bruce blinks. “Hot chocolate confuses you?”

“I do not understand why anyone would want to consume their chocolate heated,” Thor responds. “It’s perfectly fine as a hard or soft sweet.”

“Have you ever had it?” -

It's winter, and Bruce decides that Thor and Brunnhilde need to try real hot chocolate.

Notes:

Fourth prompt fill for the 2018 MCU Bingo! Ship: Bruce Banner/Brunnhilde/Thor ; Prompt: Chocolate

All of my fills (this first card and future cards) will be in a series, though they will not be related; each fill will stand on its own!

The hot chocolate recipe used/referenced in this fic comes from right here, though I cut the milk with a cup of heavy cream and almost doubled the amount of chocolate (and didn't use the chile powder or cinnamon stick). And the batch that Bruce makes is larger than the recipe makes, because he's sharing with two Asgardians.

{also on ao3}

Bruce blinks. “Hot chocolate confuses you?”

“I do not understand why anyone would want to consume their chocolate heated,” Thor responds. “It’s perfectly fine as a hard or soft sweet.”

“Have you ever had it?”

“Darcy gave me some the last time I visited with her and Jane.”

“Okay, well, I’m pretty sure she makes it from a packet with water.” Bruce looks past Thor to Brunnhilde snugged into the corner of the couch, feet tucked under Thor’s thigh. “Have you ever had hot chocolate?”

She frowns, thinking about it. “There was a drink on Sakaar that had a chocolate flavoring, but I doubt that’s what you’re talking about.” She explains after a second, “It was cold and had booze in it.”

Bruce and Thor share looks. Bruce sighs. “Well. It’s snowing, I want hot chocolate, and I’m going to make it right. I’d like both of you to try it.”

Brunnhilde shrugs. “Sure.”

Thor nods. “I am up for trying most things at least once.”

He smiles. “Thanks. I’m going to go make some, then.” He levers himself off of the couch and heads to the communal kitchen. It’s still early in the afternoon, but winter is already stealing the sun. It makes everything outside the big windows of the Avengers compound glow warm, blanketed in snow.

Bruce is grateful for Tony’s expensive tastes when it comes to chocolate. He finds bars of rich dark chocolate in one of the cupboards, and pulls a few out. He also gathers a jar of vanilla beans, sugar, and cinnamon. He’s not sure if he’ll add the cinnamon to the main batch, but he does like to have a sprinkle on his chocolate.

From the fridge he retrieves milk, and is happy to find heavy cream left over from Wanda and Vision’s last cooking experiment. Measuring cups and spoons are next on his list, as well as two saucepans and a glass bowl.

He carefully measures several cups of milk and heavy cream, cuts open a vanilla bean and scrapes out the seeds. He adds a couple tablespoons of sugar, the vanilla insides and bean, and the dairy to one of the pots and sets it on the nearest burner on the stove. Bruce sets the heat to low, and turns his attention to the bars of chocolate on the counter as the milk mixture slowly warms.

“Damn.” He forgot a cutting board. At least it’s easy to find one; the kitchen is well stocked and very well organized. He unwraps two of the bars and begins chopping them into chunks that will melt easily. He fills the other pot with a little over an inch of water and scoops the chocolate into the bowl. He waits until the milk mixture has just begun to bubble before trading that pan for the one with water in it.

Turning the burner heat up just a little, he lets it come to a simmer while turning his attention on the milk mixture. He uses a pair of tongs to fish out the vanilla bean, discarding it. When the water gets to a consistent simmer, Bruce takes the bowl of chocolate and sets it on top of the pan. He’s pleased to see that he picked a good bowl without having tested its fit on the pan - it sits above the water in the pan perfectly.

The chocolate takes a while to melt, coaxed along by his silicone spoonula, but it’s worth it when it smoothes out. He switches the pans again, gives the milk mixture a quick stir and slowly incorporates the chocolate into the milk. He swaps his spoonula for a whisk to really get the milk to accept the chocolate. He hums as he goes, pleased by the warm chocolate smell filling the kitchen. He wishes that he’d planned ahead and either made his own marshmallows or bought some; there might be a bag in the pantry, but he doesn’t care enough to seek it out.

Instead, Bruce adds a pinch of salt to the hot chocolate and stirs it before letting it slowly heat. He turns his attention to the remaining heavy cream, and the whisk, and the sugar still on the table. Sweetened whipped cream will definitely be a good addition to cut some of the richness of the chocolate. By the time he’s gotten the cream beaten into submission and nice just-shy-of-stiff peaks, the smell of the hot chocolate has drawn the Asgardians into the kitchen.

“That smells…”

“Delicious,” Brunnhilde finishes.

The Asgardians bracket Bruce, a half step back from the stove and counter as he gives the chocolate a good stir with his spoonula. “Tastes good, too,” he assures. “Just another minute or so. Can one of you grab mugs?” He waves in the direction of the cabinet.

Thor peels away to grab them, and they look small in his hands despite nearly being soup cups. He sets them carefully on the counter, nudging Bruce and Brunnhilde affectionately as he goes. “Anything I can do to help?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Nah.”

Brunnhilde sticks a curious finger into the whipped cream. She gives it a sniff before shoving her finger into her mouth. “Oh, this is good.” She pulls her finger away with a pop.

“Glad you approve,” Bruce returns with a little laugh. “This is almost ready. Can you grab a ladle from the drawer?”

She has to step away to find it, and she fits herself in front of Thor after she hands it over. She smiles when Thor wraps an arm around her and pulls her a little closer. Together they watch Bruce evenly fill the mugs, and add a dollop of whipped cream to the top.

Bruce dusts cinnamon across to top of his own cup, and turns the heat off on the stove. “Alright. Give it a try. It’s hot, so be careful.” He looks at them. “Not that liquid temperature really gets to you guys.”

Brunnhilde picks up a mug first, though Thor’s not far behind. She lifts it with both hands, and hums as the warmth works its way through her palms. She gives it a sniff, and she can’t hold back the soft appreciative sound she makes. “Really does smell good,” she says before bringing the mug to her lips. The sound she makes as she takes a sip is nearly pornographic.

Thor raises an eyebrow, and he wants to laugh at her reaction until he takes a drink of his own. The liquid is warm - not hot enough to burn despite Bruce’s warning - and rich. The chocolate coats his tongue, dark and just the right amount of sweet. “This is very good!”

Bruce has already drank half of his by the time Thor says it, and he just knows he’s got a whipped cream moustache. “I told you. Hot chocolate in winter is the best thing.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, and moves closer to Bruce. “Can we go back to the couch now?”

“With the rest of the heated chocolate,” Thor adds.

He grins. “Let me pour the rest into a thermos.” He waves them away with one hand, and sets his mug down with the other. He has to look through a couple different cabinets before he finds what he’s looking for, and then spends almost a full, frustrating minute pouring the hot chocolate from the pan into it.

They’re on the couch, Brunnhilde against her favored corner, and Thor almost a full cushion away. They both pat the space between them when Bruce comes back from the kitchen. He smiles, warmth that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate filling him up, puts the thermos on the coffee table, and settles into the space they left for him.

Brunnhilde immediately wiggles her toes under his thigh, laughing as he squirms. Thor lifts his arm, resting it along the back of the couch until Bruce leans into his side, and then he settles it around Bruce’s shoulders.

The movie starts again, some comedy that Tony had recommended. The three of them don’t pay it much  attention, more intent on cuddling together in the warm-but-not-warm-enough living room.

{thank you so much for reading!! if you’re enjoying what i’m doing here, please consider throwing a coffee my way. i’d really appreciate it, but don’t feel obligated ♥ should you feel so generous, please feel free to come back and ask for a bit of writing all your own! ♥♥}