it's always the bad boys

A Grocery Store Saviour

Request: Omg i love your writing sooo much <3 I was thinking if you could do a story based off Michael Buble’s ‘Just Haven’t met you Yet’. I understand if you wouldn’t want to do it but thank you for your time :)

Word Count: 2,852

Pairing: Newt x Reader

Requested by Anonymous but also tagging @dont-give-a-bother @red-roses-and-stories and @caseoffics


“Next!” You call, back aching and feet sore. Work usually sucks, but today it’s a living hell. Saturdays are the normally busiest days at the grocery store but add the fact that it’s the first day of spring that’s warmer than 50 degrees, and you’ve got yourself a full store. The bustle of people weaving around one another in the narrow aisles meant that you’d been sent to clean up five separate messes and help one bawling seven-year-old find his mother. His snot covered fingers had wrapped around your own until you’d found his mother who’d immediately decided to yell at you for not bringing him sooner. People bumped into you with every turn, resulting in scowls and foul language from some particularly angry customers. You’d had to ask people to repeat themselves four different times because of the clamor and been asked because of that if it were really right for a woman to be working. On top of all that, you wore heels today so your feet want to fall off and the store’s air conditioning hardly works, meaning hot sweat drips down your back and soaks your hairline.

Despite the annoying customers and the math involved, you’re almost grateful to work at the cash register now instead of work on the floor when you hear the horrific sound of gagging nearby. Your coworker Arthur rushes past you, mop already in hand.

Raising your eyebrows at the situation, you shake your head and take stock of everything a middle-aged man in front of you sets on the counter. He wears a dark suit and a cap to hide what you assume is a balding head. He’s muttering something to himself as thick beads of sweat slide down his face, over the patches of red dotting his cheeks and forehead and collecting on his upper lip. Every time he says something, a bead flings off its place above his lip, landing on the counter in front of you.

You cringe but reach for his items and pull them closer. Flipping the page on your notepad, you begin writing the costs of everything down.

“Do you not bother to keep your customers happy here?”

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