the floured apron

i want a gf so i can surprise her when she comes home from work by finding me in the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron with flour all over my ass

for @loveallmyotpswaytoomuch <3

If you’d ever be around a small town called Heavensville, and you were to ask for the best bakery in town, everyone within a few miles would tell you to go to Dean’s Doughy Delights. There was no better bakery than this, and you’d never meet a sweeter man. 

You could find Dean in his bakery, selling cookies and bread and pies and cakes, or in the kitchen behind the bakery, baking delicious goods all by himself. It was quite a large store for only one man since Dean was alone, and it was more than enough to keep him busy every day. You’d wonder if Dean ever rested because it seemed like he never did, but he always smiled and always laughed and seemed never tired of his job.
One look at him would tell you that his soul was good. His eyes were bright, his nose was covered in freckles, his teeth white and his smile charming. You wouldn’t call him heavy or fat, but his body showed he tasted plenty of his own pies. But like Dean said himself, ‘a baker needs his love handles to show how good his products are’. And he was right.

On a quiet Monday, Dean was busy in his kitchen, like any other day, kneading the dough with his large hands filled with skill. His fingers stuck to the dough just enough and he hummed a song, moving around his beloved kitchen to get some flour, squeezing himself in between two piles of boxes with decoration he hadn’t unpacked yet. He was just busy making one of his beloved pecan pies, unknowing that his life was about to change.

He heard a sound from inside the store, a thump. He put down his dough, rinsed his hands under the tap and grabbed a towel. The red blush from hard work on his freckled cheeks contrasted with the white flour on his apron, but he cared about neither. While still drying his hands, he pushed the swinging door open with his back and walked into the store.

There was a man standing in his store, unlike anyone else. Next, to the dirty clothes, the man’s hair seemed long and unkempt, alike the dark beard. But most of all, he stood behind the display and was holding a cream roll in one hand, and a partly eaten slice of one of the freshly baked pies. On the counter lay several loaves of bread hastily pushed into a brown bag.

The man stared at Dean with large, frightened eyes and swallowed, but didn’t say anything.

“So,” Dean said. He was used to getting strangers in his bakery, but not strangers who stole his goods. “… I guess I’ll call the police, then.”

“Please,” the man choked. His voice sounded like gravel, but his eyes were warm and begging. “I- I can explain, don’t… Don’t call the police.”

“Alright,” Dean said to the other’s surprise and he put down the towel. “Give me a reason not to turn around and walk away now. Give me a reason to not call the police.” Dean was known for his kindness, but this man either hadn’t heard of it or hadn’t believed because he seemed to be too confused to answer for a moment.

“I- I… I saw your advertisement.” He said hastily once he seemed to find his speech back. “About needing help.”

Dean had put up a little note on his bakery’s window, asking for assistance, but no one seemed in need of a job.

“Well… I didn’t really mean stealing my food.” Dean frowned.

“I’m sorry, sir, I am… I wanted to walk in here and ask about the vacancy, but then I walked in and… Everything seemed so delicious and- I-” The man looked down to his feet. “I haven’t eaten in four days. I think I lost control when I saw all of this displayed and…”

“Sit down,” Dean demanded and grabbed one of the small, plastic chairs at the side and pulled the table along. “Sit down and finish your food. I’ll get you some water as well, I’ll make you a proper sandwich as well and then we’ll talk.”

When the man had settled and was wolfing down on his food, Dean sat on the other plastic chair and watched. He’d closed the shop so they wouldn’t get interrupted. This was important, the guy was starving and he, Dean, had food enough. Never would he have anyone starve if he could help it.

“Alright, first of all, I’m Dean.”

“Castiel.” The man blinked. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean.”

“Likewise.” Dean gave Castiel a gentle smile. “Alright, buddy, tell me.” He continued, moving forward a little. “How did you end up here, like this?”

Castiel took a sip of his second glass of water. Now he’d eaten a little, he spoke more.

“I lost my job in my hometown last week,” he told, “… I worked at my mother’s restaurant, but I wasn’t good enough and since I’m her only son who isn’t religious… I was kicked out first.” He shrugged softly. “I lost everything that day. So I walked, and walked, and searched for work, but no one wants a man with nothing to give. And today I ended up here, and then…” He nodded at the almost finished sandwich Dean prepared for him. “I was very hungry.”

“Jesus, man, your mom’s one hell of a… ya know.” Dean huffed, then held up his hands. “Sorry, but it’s gotta be said.”

Castiel gave him a careful smile. “You’re the first person I tell this. The first I really talk to.”

Dean observed Castiel in silence. There was something about him he couldn’t quite place, something graceful and warm, something that told him whatever would happen, he would never forget Castiel.

“You could work here,” Dean offered. Castiel almost dropped his food.

“What? You wouldn’t… I stole your food.”

“Not really,” Dean pointed out. “And… I know how it is to be hungry.” He confessed, giving Castiel a slow nod. “You’re living on the edge, man, and if I can pull you back to solid ground I’m happy to do so. Plus, I could really use that help and you said you used to work in a restaurant.”

“Correct.” Castiel shrugged, not quite sure if Dean was making a good decision yet. “But remember that I have no papers, no clothes, let alone a house or a place to sleep. I’m not the most beneficial employee one could imagine.”

“I don’t care,” Dean shrugged because he simply didn’t care if he was beneficial or not. “I live upstairs. You can get a shower and a few hours of sleep, I’ll get you some money ahead to fix you some clothes and necessities and we’ll find a way to make it work.”

“I… I can’t-” Castiel took a breath. “I can’t accept your offer, Dean, it’s too big… too generous.”

“Well, if you don’t take my offer, I’ll have no choice but to call the police.” He raised his eyebrows at Castiel. Dean knew he’d never report him if he declined, but Castiel nodded.

“That’s comprehensible. I… I will accept it, then. There is no way I can thank you for your generosity.”

Dean’s chuckle created dimples in his cheeks.

“None of that, Cas. Well, let’s get you all fixed up first. I’ll show you the bathroom so you can shower.”

Dean walked upstairs and Castiel, still a little hesitant, followed upstairs.

If you’d ever be around a small town called Heavensville, and you were to ask for the best bakery in town, everyone within a few miles would tell you to go to Dean’s Doughy Delights & Castiel’s Crunchy Cookies. Dean wasn’t alone anymore. With him was Castiel. The two of them put love in all they did and shared it with the people who came to them. For both knew that a simple, generous gesture, could change anyone’s life for good.

@owl-librarian Can we have Jack/Bitty’s proposal  now?! Was it embarrassing or adorable? OR both?

I figure Bitty has had a terrible day at work. Nothing is going right. He’s burned a pie. He’s dropped a plate of cookies. Some asshole customer has yelled at him for accidentally giving them back the incorrect amount of change. 

Jack is at practice or something so he can’t pick up the phone when Bitty calls him but he gets listens to his five minute long voice mail while sitting in the locker room, half dressed and telling his teammates that he can’t go out tonight because something has come up. 

He calls Bitty back but it goes right to voice mail because he had to go back to work and he has to stay late because he’s fallen behind for tomorrow’s orders and he didn’t want to be distracted by twitter….

So Jack shows up at the bakery with a bag of take out from their favorite little hole in the wall diner and the door is locked and the lights in the front are off but if he cups his hands to the glass and presses his face against it he can see light coming from under the kitchen door. 

 Bitty’s phone is still off so he has to bang on the glass and after awhile the kitchen door swings open and Bitty comes storming out with flour all over his apron and face and he looks pissed because he’s just done with people for the next seventy years. But he softens instantly when he sees Jack and the food and the look on Jack’s face that slips between worry and fondness and back again. 

“I had a long day, honey,” Bitty says into Jack’s chest when he wraps his arms around his middle.

Jack takes two chairs off the table by the window and they eat their dinner by the light of the street lamps.

Bitty keeps his foot hooked around Jack’s ankle and Jack let’s Bitty eat one of his chicken tenders. (it’s true fucking love you guys)

So after dinner Bitty expects Jack to go home because he had a long day too but Jack follows him into the kitchen and helps him roll out dough and make pie filling and press sprinkles onto the tops of cookies.

He screws up a lot. Bitty laughs a lot. He helps Jack fix his mistakes and Jack really pays attention and does so much better the next time he tries it. 

Bitty leans up on his toes and presses a kiss to his cheek then smooths back Jack’s hair, tucking a strand of it behind his ear. It’s getting a little long. There’s a streak of flour in it and Bitty’s ready to chirp him about going grey and getting old but….

Jack sighs and leans into the touch but most of his focus is on the lattice work in front of him and Bitty thinks about the first time they did this years ago in the kitchen of the Haus. They haven’t been back in a few years. Everyone’s graduated. Bitty doesn’t know the name of anyone on the team. 

And it hurts but maybe that’s okay. 

Maybe they’re not meant to know.

The Haus is holding onto new memories along with the old ones.

There might be new names on the chore wheel but Shitty’s by-laws are still written on the wall in the basement. 

They might only come into the kitchen to heat up Ramen but Bitty’s oven is still there. 

Maybe someone else will fall in love in that kitchen. 

Right in front of that oven. 

Maybe it’s happening right now. 

Jack bumps his hip into Bitty’s. 

Jack says “how does this look?” at the same time Bitty says “will you marry me?” 

And then Bitty says “it looks great, sweetpea” at the same time Jack says “yes.” 


Type: ???

(A/N) Hey, guys!! So, I know this wasn’t requested but I just saw Spiderman: Homecoming and it was AMAZING so I thought I would write a fic about Tom Holland’s Peter Parker. (: (I also decided to test this fic in second person so PLEASE tell me what you guys think!!) Sorry if any of you guys are lactose intolerant!! Should I also make this a series? Idk….

Warnings: small cursing

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Originally posted by peterbparkerr

Peter had been acting extremely strange ever since he went on that Stark internship and you sure have noticed. He kept disappearing at band practice and even at study hall. He was also a lot more nervous than usual.

It was Saturday, which meant that it was yours and Peters traditional ice cream day. You threw on your vans and send a text to Peter saying you would be at the nearby ice cream shop. You wave your mom goodbye and hop into your car, double-checking your phone for Peter’s reply. Nothing.

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Mornings Like This

Summary: (Request) Where Bucky helps his daughter make Mother’s Day cards and breakfast for the reader.

Word count: 354

A/N: I’m not sure if this is what you wanted but it’s my first time writing domestic Bucky so hopefully, it won’t be so bad

Bucky feels a slight tug on his shirt, making him shift on his bed. The sun shines brightly across the room, her soft skin against his, legs tangled up with Y/N still wrapped in their blanket. A small smile appears on his lips because this is what his life turned in to. This is what God gave back in return for all the years he’s spent in a living nightmare. She is his own forever, his own happiness. She is someone to come home to with tender kisses and—


This little 3 year old peanut.

“I’m up, sweetheart.” He yawns, rubbing his eyes in hopes to keep him awake. Bucky rose out of the bed with his daughter following him to the bathroom, gently picking her up into his arms from the sink after watching him brush his teeth. “Your arm’s cold.” She squeals and rubs her father’s metal arm with the palm of her hand.

“Shh,” Bucky quickly rushes out of their bedroom. “We don’t want to wake mommy up just yet.” She giggles, placing a finger in front of her lips.

2 broken eggs and a stack of pancakes later, Bucky starts chasing after their child with a handful of flour, screams and laughter filling the house. Y/N leans against the kitchen counter, trying to hide the smile on her face. He immediately dusts off the flour on the ridiculous apron Tony got him on his birthday, finally aware of his wife’s presence. “What’s going on?”


“Mommy, look at what daddy made!” Right next to the bouquet of flowers was a card made of pink construction paper and pancakes soaked in maple syrup with a warm cup of coffee. 

“You did this?” Y/N asks and he shrugs, a chuckle escaping his mouth. Bucky scratches his head and walks towards her.  “I did get a little help from our peanut right here.” Placing a kiss on her forehead

“Thank you.” she mouths.

“Happy Mother’s Day, doll.” 

And he quietly thanks the universe and the stars and Y/N, because he was lucky enough to have mornings like this.




-he’s really quiet

-but when he does talk its usually some smart ass sarcastic comment, a pet name or a command

-he calls you Little Bird because compared to him you’re little

-he would take a long time to warm up to you but would always have a soft spot for you

-since the first time he saw you on an Umbrella Camera and saved your ass from Zombies he had a thing for you

-but first! you had to let the few months of living together in the Underground Umbrella living space create enough sexual tension to act on

-so lots of catching him staring at you

-and getting kind of mad he wouldent talk

-and then once he starts talking you pick up on movements and little micro-expressions that helped you learn a lot about him

-your first “date” would really just be him cooking you dinner and sitting there in mostly silence while he stares at you but for the first time its not super predatory

-he would soften up to you so much after that

-and the first time he called you Little Bird would melt your heart

-you’d be the one who’s more touchy but when he does do things like grab your hand its really sweet

-he’s actually a gentleman, he holds doors open for you always, he can actually cook (and wears a cute white apron because flour would wreck his black clothes), he always answers your calls when he’s on missions (even if its not a great time), he lets your curl up to him when he reads (i feel like he reads a lot down there by himself)

-he’d do the most to make you happy

-like any time he left the compound he would bring something sweet back

-you’re his weakness (other than his foot, you know what im talking about)

-super hella kinky rough table and wall sex

-yeah i dont know where that came from^ but its here now so go with it

-it would take something extreme for him to admit he loves you because its hard for him to talk about his feelings, like he thought you died or something and when he sees you alive he has to tell you

-he works out a lot and one day you stumbled across his gym deep in the compound 

-sex on gym equipment

-he’s so protective but in such like an ernest, he doesn’t want you to get hurt kind of way

-he actually really likes cuddling with you. i mean, he doesn’t cuddle. you cuddle next to him and sleep on his chest, but he loves it

-his biceps are literally the size of your head. he’s huge.

-grabbing his face and smushing it to kiss his cheek

-him allowing the grabbing his face and smushing it to kiss his cheek

-you smacking dat ass at least once

-he’d absentmindedly play with your hair while you sleep next to him when he reads late at night

-he likes looking at you. for him to have been either alone or with dumbasses for so many years, for him to finally have something beautiful to look at… he doesnt waste a moment of it

-it takes a special person to get to a level to have a relationship with Wesker (cuz he’s picky and quiet and those are not a good combo) but once he found you… it just clicked

FicRequst: Bucky’s Cake

Fic Requst: Bucky’s Cake
Bucky x Reader, soulmate AU
Word Count: 1678
Warning: Fluff
A/N: I’m not very happy with this one, but I need to stop messing with me. I hope you like it @elaacreditava

Originally posted by caps-bucky

After Steve brought Bucky back to the Avengers tower, he was focused on healing and getting used to his new arm, the idea that he might have a soulmate out there wasn’t even in his vocabulary. Even if he did have a soulmate, surely she died years ago. He had stopped looking at the words written on his wrist years ago. Why do you get the bed? They hadn’t faded, as is what typically happens when a soul mate dies, but who knows what the serum did to his body. Before he had left for the army, back when the biggest worry he had was Stevie, the thought of hearing those words made him smile. But none of that mattered anymore. He was alone and would remain so as long as he lived.

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Kisses With Flour

This might suck but I did make it. “I…I made cake?” While reader is standing there covered in flour 

A/N: short but sweet, maybe too sweet.

Jason walked into your shared apartment shutting the door shut behind him. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it on the coat rack. He walked into the living room expecting to find you watching reruns of old shows covered in blankets only to not see any sign of you being there.

“Y/N?” he called out looking around for you. Jason heard noises coming from the kitchen, he turned a corner to spot you covered in flour.

“What are you doing?” he questioned looking around the messy kitchen.

“I-I made cake?” you replied wiping off some flour on your apron. “For whom?”

“It’s for you dumbass,” you rolled your eyes at Jason’s smug face. ”Knew it,” he walked up to you placing his hands on your waist.

You looked up at him, ”then why’d you ask?”

“Just wanted to hear you say it but I imagined it in a more endearing way, not me being called a dumbass,” Jason chuckled.

“Aww but you’re my dumbass,” you cooed making Jason fake gag, ”that was so fucking cliché.”

You leaned closer to him, ”that’s the point babe.”

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” he grinned. You smiled at him before closing the space between each other and giving him a sweet kiss he smiled in the kiss but you quickly pulled back as you caught a whiff of something burning.

“Oh no, my cake!”

Long Lost Daughter

Word count: 596

Pairing(s): Alfie x Reader

Warnings: language

Tags: @james-k-delaney @yjrevolution

Send me a request.

“(Y/N)?” Your husband called and you emerged from the kitchen in a flour-caked apron. Alfie looked at you and grinned appreciatively. “What are you makin’ darlin’? It smells lovely.”

“Baked ham with trimmings and a sweet cherry pie.” You hummed, planting a kiss on Alfie’s cheek. You were a younger than your husband by about 15 years but you loved him dearly.

“Sounds delicious, doll.” Alfie wrapped his arms around you, hands coming to rest on your rear, as he leaned to whisper in your ear. “What’s the occasion?”

“We have a guest for dinner this evening, if I recall our conversation from this morning correctly.” You purred, gently pushing him away. Alfie growled in discontent.

“Yeah, his name’s Tommy Shelby, he’s from from a Brummie gang.” He muttered. “Lovely lad, I trust him.”

You froze.

“Shelby? Tommy Shelby?” You asked in shock, not quite believing what you’d heard.

“Aye, you know him?” Alfie seemed to notice your sudden change in demeanor. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I… He’s my father.” You whispered, voice breaking as you stared into space, an anxious look falling upon your features.

“I thought you said you didn’t know your father.” Alfie remembered, guiding you to a seat at the kitchen table.

“I never met him. My mother was 14 when I was born, she only told me Tommy’s name. I never really thought about trying to find him - I don’t think he even knows I exist.”

“Fuck. So he doesn’t know, then?” You shook your head.

“My mum ran away as soon as she found out - she thought he’d want to get rid of me.”

“Listen, sweetheart, I’ll cancel the dinner. You can come to me office and talk it out with him, alrigh’?”

“What do you mean you’ve got someone I need to meet, Alfie? Don’t fuck about, I’ve got other things to be doing.“  Tommy complained,  fixing his coat.

“Trust me, mate, you’re gunna wanna meet her.” Alfie guided Tommy into his office. Tommy sat across from Alfie’s office chair, which you were sitting in. “Tommy, this is my wife, (Y/N)… She’s uh, she’s also your daughter.” You smiled sheepishly at Tommy.

“She’s…. what?” Tommy asked quietly, trying to come to terms with the situation.

“I’m your daughter. Mary (Y/L/N), she’s my mother.” You quickly explained.

“Mary? Jesus, I haven’t seen her in - .”

“20 years.” You interjected, looking hopefully up at your father through your eyelashes. “She didn’t tell you because she didn’t think you’d want me. Her mother wanted her to get an abortion so she ran off to London. 20 years later and here we are.”

“She didn’t think I’d want to know my own daughter?” Tommy was horrified.

“Tommy, you were 14, she just thought it would be too much for you to handle.”

“Mary was only 14 herself. She moved to London alone - I could have helped her.” Tommy’s eyes welled with tears. “You need to know, (Y/N), I loved your mother as much as I could at 14.”

“I know. She knows, it’s okay.”

“I have a daughter.” Tommy chuckled, the good news finally settling in, until his gaze found Alfie. “You’re married? What the fuck, Alfie, that’s my daughter.”

“I guess I could call you Dad now, Tom.” Alfie chuckled, a cocky smirk on his face.

“You bloody well can’t. Call me that again and I’ll fuckin’ cut you.” Tommy frowned.

“You’ll do no such thing.” You giggled. You were happy that this situation had turned out so well; you could finally know your father after all these years.

Mother’s Day (Auston Matthews)

Prompt: Hi can you do a auston matthews sister imagine where you’re like 16 and you live with him in Toronto and you cook for him and clean for him and the rookies and you guys are super close. And the boys and auston decide to celebrate you a couple days before mothers day bc you always take care of them and if you could also play hockey and you’re like insanely good at it? thanks!

Reader as sister

Requested: yeah

Includes: sister fic, baby leafs ensemble

Originally posted by brandoncarlo

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princess and the pauper | pt.1

You’re a fairytale I keep in my shelves, in my pockets and in the crevices of my heart. Whatever the universe decides, you will always be my prince in my kingdom.

➤ fluff; royal!au, pauper!jimin

➤ 3.1k words

➤ summary: royalty was no adventure to you. but when you find yourself in depths of the kingdom for the first time, you didn’t expect to find your favourite adventure in the heart of a pauper florist.

To your parents’ sheer disapproval and admittance, you were not by far the most prim and proper princess that every reader of a fairytale would expect you to be. And there was no reason for anyone to sugarcoat how ‘unique’ or ‘extremely charming in exotic ways’ you are because none of that sweet talk could compromise for your lack of dignity in this regal position.

Growing up with older brothers who find solace and extreme delirium in the most outrageous activities, you were quick to follow their boisterous ways. There was always the bubbling adrenaline that skirts your system like a roller coaster, quenching your thirst with new discoveries and adventures.

But the greatest adventure lies in the heart of the kingdom. A place, that a princess like you, was taught to beware of its possible dangers and festering communities in the isolated parts of the kingdom that speak nothing of ridiculous shenanigans. Your mind has always been beclouded by the foul knowledge and the warnings but it was too soon that you surpassed the age of innocence that you pondered over the fact that maybe, your parents, the king and queen, were just skeptical of someone like you to manage yourself into the real world. So for years, the fortress that you were reluctant to trust had taken away the unknown, the unexplored. For years, you let the walls hinder and barricade you from the impending thrill of discovery and you were beyond infuriated by the idea of it.

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Stupid coworkers

I used to work at a semi-fast food fried chicken and BBQ establishment. And I worked the kitchen, meaning I was breading the chicken, seasoning the BBQ, making soup, and other things.

Occasionally I would come up front from the bowels of the kitchen to refill a soda cup to keep myself awake.

I heard one of our customers ask for a cup of soda-water, and our cashier acted like that was the most foreign concept known to man. She asked the cashier next to her, and the manager behind the line what soda-water was, and apparently I was the only person in that establishment to know what the fuck soda-water is because I had to stand there for a few seconds before just grabbing a cup, I was decked out in a flour covered apron mind you, and fill a damn cup up with carbonated water from the soda machine and hand it to this guy who seemed so confused why everyone in the restaurant was acting like he was an alien…

anonymous asked:

Supercorp prompts: Kara and her love for food!

Though Lillian had never been exactly loving growing up, Lena had been remarkably close to her adoptive grandparents, spending much of her time off from school in their manor, spending holidays that Lex was away with the very people Lillian both spoke so fondly of and mostly ignored, often finding herself feeling lighter afterwards—feeling better.

(She sometimes wondered what had made Lillian so different, why her grandparents were so kind and tolerant and Lillian was so…Lillian.

She wondered, but she never went further than that, deciding she didn’t very much want to know if the variable that caused such a difference in parental style was Lena herself.)

When she was fifteen, she had spent nearly an entire summer with her grandparents, helping out her grandmother with odds and ends as her grandfather had fallen rather ill. She still could remember the afternoons she spent laughing as she and her grandmother attempted to make cookies though neither of them had experience with baking. It had always ended in chaos, the man who worked in the kitchens looking on at the flour caked hair and aprons riddled with raw eggs with poorly concealed amusement.

It was during one of those afternoons—attempting to make her grandfather’s favorite cookies—that her grandmother offhandedly joked that the way to anyone’s heart was through their stomach.

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tattered-princess  asked:

9. When baking chocolate chip cookies. Pretty please ;v;

“The Ways You Said ‘I Love You’” Meme

A/N: I feel like this is the only thing I can do for you at this juncture, to maybe cheer you up even a little? I’m really happy you chose to continue fighting, and you’ll be in my prayers! Stay strong dear.

“You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” -Winnie the Pooh

💕💕 Don’t give up! 💕💕

You never realised how impatient or perfectionistic Saeran could be until today.

“Are you done mixing? You’re so slow.”

“It’s off by 0.1grams. Seriously? I warned you about parallex errors just 10.2 seconds ago!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, the cookies are going to look horrible at the rate you’re dropping them on the pan.”

“…Okay this is a lot harder than it looks. The batter is sticky as— Fuck! It’s in my hair!”

It’s really no surprise why baking isn’t the most relaxing of pastimes for him.

Your core muscles are starting to hurt and you find yourself having a punishing time trying to breathe in between your laughter. You can’t stop though, not with Saeran glaring at the mixing bowl and the ugly semi-circular blobs of batter on the tray as if they just slapped him in the face and called him ‘stupid’. And especially not when he has a couple splotches of sticky brown substance staining his bright, angry red hair, no thanks to his carelessness and impatience.

“Ha ha. Very funny.” Saeran has now turned his glare on you, having grabbed a couple sheets of tissue to rid his hair of the offending stains. He attempts to swipe them off, but given that he doesn’t have eyes on the back of his head, all he can do is aimlessly comb through his hair, inevitably slathering the batter on his hair like butter on toast in the process.

“Saeran, stop,” you say, still giggling at how irritated he looks, his nose scrunched, his eyes narrowed and lips turned down into a deep scowl. At himself, you or the batter, you’re not entirely sure. Perhaps it’s just everything and the disaster this baking session has turned out to be so far. “Let me help you.”

Almost begrudgingly, he hands the remaining clean sheets of tissue to you, before sliding into a seat so you can see better. His lips are pursed into a thin line, his arms are folded across his chest and his foot drums against the floor as he waits not-so-patiently for you to carry out your duty as promised. With some amusement, you can’t help but think he resembles a child throwing a tantrum after losing a game of tag.

It’s a little hard to get everything out of his hair since it’s all gooey and sticky. You even manage to grab two tiny chocolate chips out from in his hair, which you quietly hold it in your palm. Knowing Saeran, he’ll just pop them into his mouth without a moment’s hesitation. He’s rather averse to dirt and grime and the like, but when it comes to sweet snacks and candies, even the ‘Three-second rule’ can stretch to 3 hours. “I think you should take a shower to clean yourself up,” you suggest with a small grimace at the clumps of sticky and sweet-smelling red locks on his head. He groans at that, but shrugs it off. “Later. We should get these in the oven first.”

“All this just for chocolate chip cookies,” you mutter with a shake of your head, which he ignores. His sweet tooth will be the death of him someday, you conclude to yourself.

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~Tucker is not prepared to serve bagels to asshole bureaucrats commuting to the city at three in the fucking morning. So before work, he pounds back a bottle of vodka.

Wash would like a bagel.~


Words: 4,478

Characters: Agent Washington, Lavernius Tucker, Leonard Church, Agent Texas, Michael J. Caboose

Warnings: Canon-typical swearing, drinking, aftermath of trauma (sorry even when I’m being fluffy it’s still mean), gratuitous bagel puns

Ao3 link / @rvbficwars(ps im so sorry i haven’t had legit access to the internet all week and its grad week but i still wanted to do something)


Five in the morning. Who the fuck schedules a military hearing for five in the fucking morning on a Tuesday?

Wash adjusts his uniform in the bathroom mirror for the millionth time, suppressing the agonized screech he’s been holding in for hours. It’s stiff. Too formal, suffocating, all the tassels and the badges. If he could just exchange it for a suit, or a button-up shirt, literally anything that didn’t make him feel as trapped as he already is, he might be feeling better about this.

But this is a military thing, and because it’s military, they want him to testify as the soldier he used to be. Not the agent he became. Which means a uniform—the stiff, dull, cloth kind.

Fuck. He doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to stand before a bunch of military assholes for hours and let them dissect every second he spent with the project. Doesn’t want to sit on a train into the city in full uniform while civilians stare at him and wonder what kind of mess he’s gotten himself into. They wouldn’t be wrong to wonder.

Stalling for time, he sighs and combs his hands through his hair yet again—and as he does, his fingers brush ever so slightly over the scar at the nape of his neck and he freezes.

His hands fall to his sides. All he wants to do is get back in bed with his cats, lock every door in the apartment, and never leave. Maybe even scream into a pillow after cracking open a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. That’s his usual Tuesday night. But that scar reminds him why he’s doing this.

This is why he agreed to testify. So what happened to him doesn’t have to happen to anyone else ever again.

Wash sighs and turns off the bathroom lights, heading for the door. He’s going to miss his train.

He doesn’t feel that drunk.

Still, Tucker gets the gist that he’s fucking wasted when he hits Church’s car in the parking lot.

A part of him thinks that maybe he should back up and try again. But his foot isn’t part of that part, and it presses down the gas and eases into the parking spot next to Church’s now-beat-up jeep like nothing happened.

He can’t really pin down his mood as he gets out of his equally beat-up sedan and slams the door shut. Drunk, sure, but that’s not a mood, that’s a lifestyle decision. He thinks the right word is annoyed. Annoyed at being assigned to the graveyard shift when his son is supposed to be starting kindergarten in the morning. Annoyed that, because of work and that stupid thing called rent, he’s not gonna get to see his kid off to his first day of school. He’d dropped Junior off at Kai’s place last night, just in case this happened, which of course it did. He’s entitled to a responsible adult night alone and a bottle of rage vodka every once in a while.

He’s also a little giddy, which he can easily attribute to being drunk off his ass at two in the morning.

Tucker fumbles for his keys and drops them twice before finally getting the front door open. The Pastry Train Donut and Bagel Emporium is dark in the dining area, which is bad, because it means that Church expects him to turn everything on.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Where are the lights again? He hasn’t had the opening shift in months.

Once he remembers, he slowly maneuvers towards the power and flips all the switches, letting out a groan as everything turns on, all the lights, all the fridges in the front, all the really fucking bright things. Ow.

“It’s about time you got here,” Church says, emerging like the social gremlin he is from the bakery in the back. He’s got dough and flour all over his apron—at least he already got the first batch of bagels in. Church raises an eyebrow. “I, uh, heard some noise in the parking lot.”

Tucker rubs at his eyes. “Oh. I, uh, I hit…a…tree.”

“…Big tree. Loud tree.”

He just looks at Church confusedly for a second before, like a switch being flipped, he can suddenly hear the screaming wail of a car alarm outside. He can’t be that drunk, how did he not fucking notice that?

Church pulls his keys out of his pocket and presses the lock button, and the car outside makes the little chirp chirp and goes silent. “Apparently I drive a ‘98 Redwood.”

“…No, yeah, my car’s fine, don’t worry,” Tucker says. He thinks he says it coolly but in reality he just slurs it together like it’s all one word.

Church just stares.

And stares.

And stares—

“You’re wasted, aren’t you.”

Tucker takes a step back and puts a hand on his heart, feigning offense. “Me? No, no, you…nah, I’m sober.”

“Right, of course.” The sarcasm in his voice is burning. “That’s the smell coming off of you, it’s definitely sobriety.”

“Fuck you—”

“We open up for commuters in ten. You good to handle a register?”

They’re kind of just staring at each other for a few seconds.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, totally. I’m totally cool. Exact change? No problem. Each plain bagel’s a dollar.”

“Ninety-five cents.”

“Right, that’s, like, the poor man’s dollar. No prob.”

Church rolls his eyes and retreats to the bakery again. If Tucker squints hard enough, he can see Tex and Caboose handling the crates of groceries in the back like the fucking lifting machines they are. This is it? Usually he works later in the morning, when there’s a herd of hungry commuters and soccer moms buying breakfast for their kids and stuff. Then the whole team is in here, and it’s alive, and it’s honestly not that miserable. But this? This is kinda sad. Just an empty bagel shop by the train station at two in the morning. Sad.

Tucker sighs and throws his bag and coat in the storage closet, then somehow hops the counter without tripping, ignoring Church’s shout of hey maybe don’t fucking do that, dipshit, and after a couple tries manages to tie his apron on.

He glances up at the clock. 2:02.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

He got weird looks from the cab driver. Of course he did. He’s wearing a full military uniform, cap and all, and he’s taking a yellow cab to the train station. What was he expecting?

Wash tips the guy extra and gets out of that cab as fast as his legs can take him. Probably feeling just as anxious, the cab driver speeds away down a side street, and just like that Wash is at the train station.

…What now?

His heart sinks as he checks his watch. 2:05. He’s early. Way too early, it’s a ghost town.

Wash sighs to himself and puts his cap into his side bag a little more forcefully than necessary. He’s taken the train exactly twice before—once for the preliminary hearing last week, and once to get back. He hated it both ways, the noise, the tight spaces. And even those didn’t leave at 3:03 in the morning on a Tuesday. 

Now he’s stranded here, waiting for that misery, for an hour.

There’s a bench not far away, and he’s still half asleep, so he walks towards it and takes a tired seat. God, he’s so tired. Hopefully he doesn’t fall asleep while being grilled alive during the hearing. That wouldn’t be good. Coffee, now that would be a lifesaver. Coffee with a couple pounds of sugar.

He looks around the station. It’s a fairly big town, and the station reflects that. Rows and rows of parking spots behind him, dozens of tracks in front of him, too many staircases and a bunch of closed stores and one really brightly lit place, gosh, and—

Wash does a double-take and looks back at the store that had caught his attention. That’s a bagel shop. An open bagel shop. Do those usually open this early?

His stomach grumbles, but he ignores it, purely because he’s riveted by the possibility of anything being open this fucking early in the morning. It’s literally the only source of light in the entire station right now. Even the moon pales in comparison.

He stares a little longer at the sign above the store. Pastry Train. The Pastry Train Donut and Bagel Emporium. The words are written in bright swirling blue on a white banner, which has been draped over the store’s awning, and on top of the shop is a statue of a big strawberry-frosted donut with an absurd amount of sprinkles that almost makes him smile.

The second time his stomach grumbles, he listens to it. He’s hungry. There’s a store right there. Food. Something to give him energy for as long as it takes for this thing to be over since it’s pretty obvious that he’s not gonna get another chance to eat until after the hearing.

He’s about to stand and go in there when he hears a loud crash from inside the building—and in the window he can see two people yelling over something, he can’t tell what, and just the idea of having to talk to people once inside suddenly keeps him firmly glued to the seat. He’s not very good at talking to people anymore. Before the project, maybe, but now

Nope. The thought of social interaction flashes red in his mind like a giant stop sign. Nope. No. No bagel is worth it.

…Except he’s really hungry. Almost nauseously so. And the more he stares at that ridiculously elaborate sign, the more he reads the words Pastry Train, the more he wants that bagel.

Nope. Nuh-uh.


No way.


Maybe they have coffee?

…Well, that kind of makes his decision for him. Coffee and a bagel. Perfect. It’s a combination just asking to be made.

Shouldn’t be hard, right? He survived Freelancer. He can survive getting a bagel.

Tucker doesn’t know how much longer he can survive and he’s been here eight minutes. Of course, he’s not quite lucid enough to keep track of that on his own. He only knows it’s been eight minutes because of the fact that, once every minute, Tex pokes her stupid blonde head out of the bakery to remind Tucker of how useless he is. She also reminds him of how long he’s been standing there, staring at the stove for no reason other than it looks shiny. Eight minutes.

But you know what? Tucker’s got who-knows-how-much vodka swimming around in his system right now, so he figures it’s better to be useless and staring off into space than handling money or making food that actual humans consume.

Tex pokes her head out and this time Tucker beats her to the punch. “Nine, I’m worthless, a bad father, drinking before the job is the same thing as drinking on it. Got it.”

“No—well, yeah, but…no. There’s a customer coming in.”

Tucker had been idly rolling a stack of pennies across the counter this entire time, but at the sound of a door opening he gets distracted and accidentally rolls it a little too hard and the stack flies off the counter towards the front of the store.

He lunges for the pennies a split second too late, and right as he does, the customer comes walking through the door and as if every existing god has decided to fuck with Tucker at the exact same time the stack rolls perfectly under the guy’s boot and there’s a sort of mild confusion in his eyes for an instant before he slips and falls backwards and bangs his head against one of the fridges. 

A sharp “Fuckslips from Tucker’s lips before he can catch it.

Tex pokes her head out of the kitchen one more time, looks at the customer, looks at Tucker, and goes back in. “Your mess.“

Shit. Shit shit. This is exactly why he shouldn’t be working at 2:09 in the morning. 

“Oh, man…” The customer moans and puts a hand to the back of his head, and some paternal-instinct-filled part of Tucker realizes that he should probably go check on him and make sure he didn’t actually get, y'know, hurt in any suable way or anything.

This time he ducks under the counter and approaches the customer, who’s looking less dazed now and way more embarrassed. His face, which Tucker thinks had been fairly pale for the split second in which the customer had been standing, is now a very vibrant shade of red, and it’s only making the splash of dark freckles over his nose more prominent, and his bright eyes even brighter and oh wow he’s actually pretty cute the longer Tucker looks at him—

The second that thought is even so much as a suggestion in his mind, Tucker is fucked. Irrevocably and utterly fucked. Once he sees it, he can’t avoid it, can’t look at the guy without acknowledging the fact that he is absolutely fucking adorable.

Having suddenly realized this, and being far too drunk to squash the sentiment down under some guise of professionalism, Tucker is instantly hyper-aware of how unable he is to form a complex sentence. “H-hey, uhhhhh…you, you okay?”

If possible, the customer looks more embarrassed, and he looks up at Tucker with what can only be described as pure shame in his eyes. That look lasts a few seconds before the guy starts to sit up, rubbing the back of his head again with a hiss of pain. “I…what just happened?”

I fucked up. “You, uh, you tripped. Totally. All you.”

That gets him a mild glare from the customer. “Did I?” the customer says in a voice that somehow manages to passively just bleed sarcasm while also sounding fucking dead inside.

I FUCKED UP. “Yep. It was pretty, uh, pretty weak.”


“Uhhhhhh, totally, yeah. Tripping in a bagel store? Yeah, we—“ 

Tucker hears the pun as it forms in his mind, knows that it’s happening, but for the life of him he doesn’t know how to stop it and all he can think about is bagels and it just slips out.

“—ll, I guess you just weren’t bready for it.”

Tucker can instantly feel his face going hot, and the silence that follows might as well just be filled with Tucker’s internal screaming. What are these words coming out of his stupid fucking mouth? This is not how helping goes. This is not how flirting goes—is he trying to flirt? Is that what this ridiculous drunken pun bullshit is? Because right now, this is how you get a trainwreck, and so far, Tucker would really appreciate a train wrecking him.

The customer looks up at him with an expression that can’t really be described as just dismay. Dismay isn’t strong enough to describe the utter agony in his eyes. His mouth opens and closes a couple times, like every time he’s thought of something to say back, he instantly decides against it.

This is a fucking nightmare.

The customer is silent for a few more seconds, then looks in anguish towards the door like it’s screaming his name. “I-I should go. This was a mistake, I should’ve just waited outsi—“

No!” Tucker blurts out, and the guy looks back at him, perplexed, and gosh, that’s cute. Fuck. Tucker tries again. “No, I-I mean, you came in for a bagel, right?”

It’s almost painful to watch the struggle going on in the customer’s mind as he decides if it’s worth it to reply.

“…And coffee,” he finally mutters.

“Right. Well, we…” Do they have coffee? Tucker thinks they’ve got coffee. Gahh, too much thinking for the morning. Fuck it. “Totally, dude. We totally have coffee.”

The customer’s expression loosens up noticeably, which Tucker takes as a sign. Of what, he’s not sure—he just knows that the guy is apparently more relaxed and that that’s better than if he’s not.

“I…” The customer sighs. “Sure. Why not.”

There’s silence for a moment, and on some weird instinct Tucker reaches out for the customer’s hand and the customer takes his and Tucker somehow manages to pull the guy to his feet without both of them falling over each other.

The customer smooths down his uniform, which somehow, Tucker hadn’t noticed before. That’s UNSC. That’s military. He just embarrassed himself in front of someone who can probably shoot him if he felt like it. What’s a military guy doing here this early—what’s a military guy even doing in this town? This sleepy little hell seems like the wrong place to find a guy like him.

“Um.” The customer coughs into a fist uncomfortably, managing to bring Tucker back to the present. “You also said something about a bagel?”

Oh, right. That.

This is going well.

So this is going badly.

Wash’s head swims, but he’s not sure if it’s the headache or the embarrassment tearing through his insides. The exit door is a black hole, and every few seconds, Wash has to check it to make sure it’s still there, ready to suck him in the abyss in case he decides to end his misery once and for all.

At least Wash is off his ass and on his feet. Better than nothing. Easier to run that way.

The clerk, the guy with the awful, awful pun, turns around and—for some reason Wash can’t even begin to understand—attempts to jump the counter into the back of the kitchen, but he doesn’t quite make it and he ends up half-stumbling his way over the counter and almost faceplanting on the floor before catching himself.

Almost immediately, there’s a shout from the back of the kitchen. “Tucker, I fucking told you that was going to happe—”

“Eat a dick,” the clerk spits back. 

As if suddenly aware of Wash’s eyes on him, the clerk—Tucker—makes a show of straightening up and leaning forward over the counter. “What?” he says, and the way he says it, it almost sounds like it’s meant to be sharp, but it comes out tired and slurred and like he’s not really all there.

“You, uh…” Let it go, Wash, let it go. “Nothing.”

Tucker gives him a very suspicious look. “Okay,” he says, not at all sounding okay.



There’s a really awkward silence again. Wash looks back at the door and waits patiently for a black hole to swallow him like he’d planned.

“Right,” Tucker says suddenly, whirling around back towards the kitchen. "Bagel. Hey, Church, uh, what’s the status on bagels?“

The same voice from before yells back, “Ten minutes.”

Oh, god. Ten minutes? Waiting here?

Tucker rolls his eyes, but at the same time his mouth pulls into a tight line and Wash immediately knows that it’s as awkward for Tucker as it is for him. At least that’s one thing they have in common.

Wash clears his throat awkwardly and shifts his bag on his shoulder, checking his watch. 2:11. Why can’t time just move faster?

He looks up and Tucker is staring at him, eyes narrow and confused. 

“So,” Tucker says, painfully awkward, drumming his fingers on the counter in an arrhythmic beat. “What’s with the suit?”

Alarms immediately go off in Wash’s head. Fuck. The whole Project Freelancer hearing is meant to be classified, but he hadn’t thought of a cover story before leaving the house in case people asked him about the uniform. And Wash is a very, very bad liar.

“I, uhhh—” Wash immediately blurts out the first army-esque thing he can think of. “Court martial.”

If possible, Tucker’s eyes get even narrower. “But isn’t that, like, criminal, or…or something?”

Yikes. This is uncomfortable. “W-well, yeah, but—”

“You a criminal? A bad dude?”

“No, I—”

Tucker scoffs. “Dude, I’m totally messing with ya. You, the guy who fell flat on his ass through no fault of my own, a bad guy? Doesn’t seed like it.”

Wash sighs tightly, thinking about the irony of what this guy’s just said to him— when his mind replays the sentence a second time and Wash hears it.

Wash looks sharply at Tucker, who’s just standing there, eyes wide open, mouth slightly agape, staring back. His face is turning red, bright and embarrassed like before—he knows.

“You did it again.”

Tucker looks broken. He knows.

There’s a raw agony in Wash voice when he repeats, “Doesn’t seed like it. You said seed—”

“I-I—fuck, it’s not like I meant to say it!” Tucker stammers back.

“Then why did you?!”

“I don’t know, okay?! It’s two in the fucking morning, sue me!”

Puns. Christ, Wash can’t fucking stand puns. They’re not even jokes, you’re just putting another stupid fucking word in the wrong fucking place and it’s not funny. He’d rather step in front of a moving train than hear another.

…Though. To be honest, Tucker looks like he feels the same way.

There’s complete and utter silence between the two of them as Tucker reaches for a coffee cup and forcefully holds it out for Wash. He motions over Wash’s shoulder at another counter, and Wash follows the gesture to see a couple containers of what he can only assume are coffee.

Oh, thank god.

Wash takes it without a word and moves over to the counter, avoiding the decaf one like the plague. He doesn’t look at Tucker, doesn’t even look up, just fills the cup with black coffee and then empties six sugar packs in, one by one.

Tucker makes a strange noise as Wash opens packet number seven. “Wow. That’s, uh, a lot of sugar. That for the court martial?”

Wash nods silently.

“Ah. Sweet.”

Wash’s hand slips and half the packet of sugar upends on the counter.

Again. Fucking again. First bread, then seeds, now sugar. Tucker has already ruined all three.

He checks his watch again. 2:15.

Let it go, Wash. Let. It. Go.

He swallows the shriek that’s currently developing in his throat and jams the lid of the coffee cup into place, sighing heavily, and goes back to his spot across from Tucker. Tucker, yet again, looks like he also would like to be anywhere that isn’t here. Good to know they’re in the same mental place.

“How much do I owe you?” Wash says, more of a groan than actual English. 

Tucker sighs and runs a hand over his face, glancing at the register. “I…fuck, man, nothing, just take the food. I’m sorry, I’m a piece of shit. Fuck.”

Oh. Well, that does make this marginally less horrible. Free breakfast. Well, not really free. Wash pays with his dignity.


Tucker sighs and leans back against the stove behind him, and Wash pulls out his phone, pressing the power button over and over, just to have something to do.

The minutes pass. One after another, after another. He doesn’t touch the coffee yet—too hot.

“What do you want?”

“Huh?” Wash says.

“Bagel. What bagel.”

“Oh. Oh, just plain.”

“…What, nothing on it?”

Nope. That means spending more time here. “Just plain.”

“That’s, uh, kinda—”

“Yeah, it’s plain, I got it,” Wash snaps. “It is a PLAIN bagel, and I am a PLAIN guy, and that’s the pun.”

There’s quiet for half a second before Tucker lets out a weird snort-laugh thing and suddenly he’s cackling, and Wash is just staring at him and the other people in the kitchen are staring at him and Tucker is just laughing ridiculously and for the life of him Wash doesn’t know why.

“…What. What?!” Wash half-stammers, half-snaps.

Tucker somehow manages to choke out words between gasps of laughter. “You—I just keep, I keep—making shitty puns and I-I can’t stop, but it’s bothering you so much, you look so good w-when you’re annoyed—”

Wash feels the blood rush to his head for a million different reasons. “I-I do not.”

He immediately knows that’s a mistake when a mischievous glint flashes in Tucker’s eyes. “Oh, really? You sure I-I’m not annoying you?”

“…I’m fine.”

“You sure I’m not getting on your nerves?”


“I-I donut think you’re being honest with me, buddy.”

Oh my god.

“Please,” Wash starts, “don't—”

“What? Are my puns too plain for you?”


Tucker must find this hysterical, because he’s still laughing, as Wash’s face continuously gets redder and redder. “You’d butter hope I donut keep going, because so far I haven’t even been using the pickup lines.”


Wash attempts to feign ignorance and takes a hearty swig of the coffee. Still too hot. Better than this, though, better than all of this.

“I could use some coffee jokes too, maybe embarrass you a little, but I wanna try and keep it to a light roast. Listen, baby, you may be plain, but I’ll be your everything. You make my heart whole. You fill the hole inside my bagel, bow chicka wow wow. You’re adorable, can’t you seed? You’re my jam, though I guess, not everyone puts jam on bagels so that might not be your cup of tea. Ooh, ooh and this one! When I look at you, you make me wanna cinnamon—”

Wash snorts—he can’t fucking help it at that last one—but he does it so hard that he ends up accidentally choking on the coffee in his mouth and he breaks into a coughing fit. Tucker’s still laughing, but after Wash finally stops coughing, he settles to a giddy smile, like he’s trying to hold in all the laughter.

“So you do laugh,” Tucker says, in an awfully teasing way, leaning forward on the counter. “Of all the puns, I can’t believe the cinnamon one was what got you.”

One of the people from the kitchen comes out and places a small brown bag on the counter, and Wash lunges for it immediately and starts for the door. Oh, god. Oh, god, what the fuck just happened. What the fuck just happened. He can feel himself sweating, and not just because of the uniform, but from the crippling embarrassment flooding his veins. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You make me wanna cinnamon. Cinnamon. Sin. Oh my god, what the fuck is going on. Was that an actual pickup line?? Was that just a joke?? Why why why why oh my god oh my god he needs to get out of here oh my god oh my god oh my god—

Wash pushes the door open, but he’s barely looked outside when he hears Tucker behind him.

“Hey, uh, so if you end up, y'know, wanting another bagel or something when you get back from whatever the fuck you’re doing, I’ll be a round. A round. Like a bagel. Get it?”

Wash slams the door.

girlmeetshit  asked:

A funny prompt for you, Sunshine, hope you enjoy!!! Jack asks "where the babies come from" on a dinner and gets different versions (and reactions) of embarrassing answers from Veronica, Archie, Cheryl and Kevin and his parents.

Where Do Babies Come From?

“Jack, baby, brush your teeth like a good boy, okay?”

“But I  want to say hi to Aunt Vewonica!” Jack protested.

“If you go brush your teeth, I’ll let you stay up and say hi to everyone, okay?”

Jack nodded and toddled off down the hall to brush his teeth.

The Jones’ were having a house-warming party. They had bought their first house in Riverdale, not worrying too much about their small, cozy apartment when it was just two newlyweds and a baby.

But now that Jack was three-and-a-half and Betty was a few months pregnant, they figured it was time for an upgrade.

Betty looked behind her at the clock. They would be here any minute.

“How’s it going in there, babe?” She called into the kitchen as she placed the last fork on the table.

“Almost done, Bets.” Jughead answered. He peered out of the kitchen, a flour dusted apron around his shirt.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Betty walked over and opened it, ready to welcome her friends.

Archie held a very pregnant Veronica’s hand, and behind them stood Reggie, Josie and Kevin.

They made their way inside as Betty took coats and Jughead poured glasses of wine.

“Mommy!” Jack yelled from the other room. “Aunt Vewonica’s here?” He called again, racing into the room. “Aunt Vewonica!” He smiled as he caught sight of the gang in the doorway.

“Hey my love!” Veronica called, carefully stepping out of her heels.

“What’s that?” Jack asked as he pointed at Veronica’s 8-month belly.

“There’s a baby in there, sweetheart. Veronica is going to be a Mommy.” Betty explained.

“Oh.” Jack nodded, grabbing Veronica’s hand and pulling her down the hall, towards the stairs.

Jughead started to place appetizers onto plates, setting them on the dining room table as the doorbell rang again.

Betty opened it, greeting Cheryl and ushering her inside.

“Sorry I’m late.” She apologized as she slid off her boots.  "I had the worst day,“ She murmured, sliding up to Josie and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Betty heard laughter from upstairs, footsteps, then Veronica and Jack rounding the corner.

“There’s my favorite Jones boy!” Cheryl called as she saw Jack.

“Thanks a lot, Cheryl.” Jughead called from the kitchen.

Veronica rubbed her large belly as she sauntered in after Jack.

“You’ll never guess what Crackerjack just asked me,” Veronica smirked, using Jughead’s nickname for the boy.

“Oh, God, what?” Betty moaned.

“Go ahead, buddy, ask Mommy what you asked me.”

Betty lifted him in her arms.

“Where do babies come from?” Jack asked innocently.

“Uh, um well, they come from-” Betty started.

“The toothfairy!” Kevin answered. Reggie glared at him and Cheryl gave him a ’what the hell are you talking about’ stare.

“Isn’t that what they call those things?”

“You mean the stork?” Veronica interjected.

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry.” Kevin laughed. “They come from the stork!”

“Well, buddy, when two people love each other, they -” Reggie got cut off.

“Reggie, he’s three.” Betty reminded him quickly.

“Jughead help me out, here?” Betty called.

“Did our son just ask where babies come from?” Jughead leaned in from the kitchen.

Betty nodded, tight lipped.

“I’m a little busy in here.” Jughead laughed.

Archie turned, heading towards the kitchen. “I’m with him!” Archie said, Reggie in tow.

“Well, sweetie, where do you think babies come from?”

“Dinosaurs!” Jack answered excitedly.

“Yeah! They come from dinosaurs!” Betty said quickly, kissing the top of his head and setting him down. “Okay, handsome, off to bed. I’ll be there in a minute to tuck you in.”

Jack peered up, blue eyes as big as saucers. “Aunt Vewonica and Aunt Cheryl and Aunt Josie too?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Jack raced off down the hall as Veronica started laughing.

“You realize you just told your son babies come from dinosaurs, right?”

“I-” Betty took a deep breath, smiling. “He’s three, okay? He’ll find out the truth eventually. Betty than telling him the toothfairy!” She defended herself.

“This is why we’re not having kids,” Josie laughed, pointing between Cheryl and herself.

“Before we tuck Jack in…” Betty started to smile. “Speaking of babies…”

“No!” Veronica exclaimed. “Our babies are going to be, like, five months apart?!”

The girls hugged each other before walking down the hall, ready to put Jack down for the night.

What if Bob tries his hand out at baking because of Bitty, and when he comes down to visit Bitty and Jack with Alicia at Bitty’s bakery, he’s just rolling up his sleeves and ignoring Bitty’s horrified protests of “No no you’re a guest what are you doing” and going behind the counter like “Shhh son-in-law I can do this I practiced at home a lot ask Alicia.” (Alicia is in the background shaking her head and laughing under her breath like Bob’s baking history didn’t only consist of three mutilated batches of cookies and one lumpy pie).

The regulars who nearly spit out their coffee when they see Bad Bob Zimmermann in an apron, flour in his hair and both his arms laden with trays of mini pies and bread. Jack comes in after practice and goes to the counter, expecting Bitty but not really looking ahead as he says, “Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?” Bob just sticks his head from behind the counter and says, “Pretty good, son. How was yours?” and Jack just chokes on his own tongue as Bitty and Alicia try not to combust with laughter in the back. 

Just a bit brighter

Hi dear! May I request a Drabble where Newt and Jacob cheer up a sad no maj? Thanks! (If you’ve already done one lime can, maybe post the link to it in the reply? I need a little cheering up)

I loved writing this, I really hope it helps make you feel a bit better.

Let’s just pretend for the purpose of this imagine, that Jacob wasn’t obliviated and everything is lovely, because that’s what they deserve.
Jacob’s sister has had a rotten week, so Jacob and Newt take it upon themselves to cheer her up.


Originally posted by mybeautylittlethings

You trudged up the street, the once beautiful white snow now sat as dirty grey slush, clinging to the lower steps of the buildings towering above you. It seeped through your shoes and into your socks, the icy wind nipping at your ears and cheeks. Your face set into a frown, you pulled your coat tighter around your shivering from. All you could think of was one of your brothers warm bear hugs, they never failed to comfort you, no matter how horrid you were feeling, he always managed to make you feel a bit brighter.

You made your way to his bakery, a riot of colour in an otherwise dreary grey street. The sign on the door was flipped to read ‘sorry, we’re closed for now’ along with a list of opening times in handwriting that you recognised as Queenie’s. You wrapped your knuckles on the door, you waited for a few moments, hopping from foot to foot trying to keep warm, before a mop of curly auburn hair popped around the door frame that lead to the bake house. The tall gentleman smiled to you as he hurried to the door to let you in from the cold.

You had met newt a handful of times before, you had given him quite the talking to, when the bite marks on your brothers neck was explained to you. He was perfectly nice, but as childish as it sounded, all you wanted in that moment was your brother and his familiar cuddle.

Once inside the warm bakery, Jacob wandered through to the front of the shop, still wearing his flour covered apron. His brows furrowed with concern at your dejected expression, ‘oh sweets, what’s up?’ he asked as he opened his arms wide for you to fall into. He smelt like pastries and cakes, he radiated warmth and he held on to you so tight that you felt like nothing bad could ever penetrate his arms.

You buried your face into Jacob’s shoulder, so you didn’t see when he gestured to newt to go make a pot of tea.

You jumped slightly surprised when the kettle began squealing on the stove, ‘come on, I’ll get you a donut’ Jacob encouraged you to a seat at one of the little round tables. Newt placed a tray with the full tea pot, milk, sugar and three tea cups and spoons on the table and joined you, while Jacob grabbed a selection of your favourite treats.

“now, what’s up?’ Jacob asked as newt busied himself pouring the tea, looking concerned. You were sick of thinking about it, you just wanted a distraction, you wanted you brother and his friends stories and silly antics.

Sensing your reluctance, Jacob began chattering, sitting himself by your side. He told you about a few odd customers, a new idea that he wanted to try out, that sounded unbelievably delicious and a funny story that Queenie had told him the day before. You had begun to relax, to the familiar sound of his voice, the clouds in your mind beginning to lift.

“could you tell me about you two charging about new York looking for Newt’s creatures? I still haven’t heard the full story’ you asked curiosity clear in your voice. They began the anecdote gladly, explaining animatedly, using the tea and sugar pot along with the milk jug as markers and props, even the tea spoons were brought into tale. Newt would occasionally have to describe or explain a particular creature to you. Your mind clearer than it had been in days, along with a smile that you had missed being on your lips.

Jacob was trying, to no avail, to describe the mating dance that Newt had to do to encourage the erumpent back into the case, ‘you should just show her, it’ll definitely help cheer her up’ he suggested to his friend, a wide smile on his cheeks, as he chuckled at the memory. with a reluctant sigh Newt stood, but rather than beginning the dance he went into the back. “where are you going? I need to see this dance’ you called through to him, ‘I’m just getting my coat, it acts as a sort of tail, it’s very important, they like the swish.’ You were giggling before he had even started, his coat did indeed make it more of a spectacle, it rippled as he moved, finally ending the dance by rolling onto the floor, with both you and Jacob in peals of laughter.

The two men seemed pleased with their accomplishment, both taking a celebratory sweet treat. You chatted happily for at least another hour, about a great many things, but it was getting late and you yawned involuntarily. “do you want to spend the night here sweets?’ Jacob asked as he placed his hand over yours on the table, you smiled sleepily and gave him a small nod.

He began guiding you upstairs, not before you thanked Newt for showing you the dance and helping to cheer you up. You got a slightly embarrassed smile along with a “sleep well’ in return.

Jacob put you into his bed, before placing a kiss on your forehead,  with his soothing scent all around you and his warm blankets embracing you, you drifted off to sleep in no time.


Have a great day and be safe