Warnings: this fic could include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Character: mob!baker!Steve Rogers, reader with arthritis
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
It’s rare that you see a rush in the small town. The lazy rhythm of the remote community is just your speed, not that you can go very fast. It’s not about when, just that you get there.
Ivy greets you as you pass by her pulling weeds from her garden. You wave, one hand still on your walker, and say good morning. You continue on, leaning into the metal frame as you roll the wheels over the cracks.
You turn onto the main street and focus on the wooden sign jutting out from the center. You noticed a few weeks ago when it went up. The banner announcing the grand opening has since been disposed of. You avoided the furour of the exciting premier, knowing you would only get jostled, even lost, in the chaos.
Now you feel good enough to make it down. Not without real purpose. You desperately need to do a shop after procrastinating for far too long.
You pause and wait for Len to pass in his dusty white truck. He gives a beep and a wave. Sometimes, he’ll drive you back home if he catches you on the way. He’s one of the nice ones; one of those who see you. Then there are those who pretend they don’t.
You cross and push your wheels over the curb. You can feel the inflammation in your hips already. You make slow progress along the crooked sidewalk. It dips at points and in places the grass along the edge is higher than the pavement.
You slow as you get close to the bakery and admire the handpainted calligraphy on the sign; Brooklyn’s Best Bakery. You stop in front of the windows and look at the baskets of buns and rolls on display. You can smell it all as the door opens after a customer.
You press on as a couple approaches. The man holds the door for the woman and follows her through. You try to catch the door after them and it hits your walker and knocks you back. The bell jangles above.
You wrench your walker away and let the door close. It’s not the first time it’s happened. You thought they would’ve seen you hurrying to get in after them. Of course, you can’t expect everyone to hold the door but you weren’t that far behind.
You angle and open the door, using your back to keep it open. You push on it and pull your walker close, turning it through the door. You grunt as you lift the wheels over the high step that leads inside.
As you roll through, the door swings shut and spurs you forward. You hit a shelf with the wheel and steady yourself. You check to make sure you didn’t knock anything over.
To your surprise and disappointment, there’s a line. Oh well, you have to wait. Other people exist too.
You join the line and turn your walker to sit on the seat, your bag dangling from the handle. You rub your hips and lean to the side. The last x-ray showed degeneration at the base of your spine and in your tailbone, a little in your hips.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice comes through.
You sit up but can’t see past the couple in front of you. The woman points to the croissants in the display as the man’s hand rests on her lower back. He doesn’t seem to be listening as he reads the chalkboard sign above the counter.
“‘Scuse me,” the same voice grits and several bodies shuffle apart in the queue. “Hey, you.”
You blink and look over, startled. You peek back, thinking maybe you didn’t see the mess you made after all.
You twist back as a man approaches in an apron. The red fabric is dusted with flour and other ingredients. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and a dark beard trims his jaw. He wears a short sleeve shirt over a tank top, exposing tattoos on his chest and arms.
“You,” he points at the man ahead of you. “That wasn’t very polite.”
“Huh?” The man ahead of you snorts. You think his name is Donny or… Dustin?
“You dropped the door on another customer.” The man crosses his arms.
“Who?” Wait, his name is Devin, replies hotly.
“This lady right here,” the man in the apron points at you. “I’m sure you saw her.”
“Dude, I didn’t see her–.”
“How do you know you didn’t drop it on her if you didn’t see her?” The man’s forearms bulge.
“It was an accident.”
“So now you did see her?”
“No. I… look, uh,” Devin turns. “I’m sorry, really.” As he looks down at you, you stand, feeling smaller than ever. “I didn’t see you and if the door hit you–”
“It did.” The aproned man insists.
“I didn’t see you and I’m sorry I hit you with the door.” Devin scoffs and looks at the man. “Happy?”
“Not really,” the man retorts. “Get your food and get out.”
Devin huffs again and shakes his head. He mumbles as the woman beside him shifts away.
“Excuse me?” The man in the apron drops his arms. “You wanna say something, make sure I can hear you.”
“I said you’re a fucking tight ass.” Devin retorts.
“Common decency is being a tight ass? Well then, you can just go.” The man grabs Devin by his hoodie and drags him between a set of shelves.
There isn’t much of a struggle as the cafe employee is much stronger, even if he’s not as heavy as Devin’s rounder build. He shoves the door open and hurls Devin through. He claps his hands then turns back.
“You’re more than welcome to stay and order,” he says to the woman as he approaches. “And whatever you’re getting,” the man stops by you. “It’s on the house.”
“What? No. It’s… okay.” You babble dumbly, surprised at being addressed.
“Not okay. Not in my joint.” He sneers.
“Um, okay, uh, thank you, sir. You really didn’t have to–”
“I did,” he says and offers his hand. “Steve Rogers. It’s my place, my rules.”
You lean back on your walker, keeping your hand on one side and shake his hand. He squeezes and you nearly dissemble in his grip. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, and utter your name out of courtesy.
His cheek dimples as he nods. “Pretty. I’m almost finished a batch of strawberry turnovers. That’s my recommendation.” He lets go.
Warnings: this fic could include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Character: mob!baker!Steve Rogers, reader with arthritis
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
You’re distracted as you get to the front of the line. You feel bad to have caused all that drama. You can sense the woman who came in with Devin glancing at you as you roll up to the counter, turning the wheels to get close. You didn’t even think of what you wanted.
“Um. May I get… a strawberry turnover, please?” You ask, too edgy to read the menu.
“Of course. Anything else?” The cashier asks. You know her. She works at the grocery too. Or did.
“No thanks. I appreciate it.” You take out your change purse.
“Don’t charge her,” the owner calls through as he brings out a tray of pastries and slides it into the display. “Comped.”
“Thank you,” you eke out. You put a tip in the jar instead.
“If you want to find a table, we can bring it to you.” He offers.
“Oh, it’s…” you swallow. “Okay.”
You don’t want to draw any more attention. You look around and find a table by the window. You stare at the chair. The wooden seat won’t be good for your tailbone.
You let go of your walker and grab the chair. It’s heavier than you expect. You drag it and it scrapes on the floor loudly. You keep your head down, straining to lift the feet off the wood.
“I got you,” a voice grits and someone approaches. It’s him. Steve. The owner.
“Sorry I… don’t want my walker to be in the way.” You let go as he takes the chair and moves it to another table.
“All good,” he assures you.
You roll your walker around and grip the handles as you sit, locking the brakes. You nod and thank him under your breath. You can’t look at him. You’re too embarrassed. You should’ve got the pastry to go.
“If you need anything else, let them know at the counter.” He says.
“You’re too nice,” you stare at the table.
He leaves and you fidget restlessly. You’re used to the sideways glances and kids pointing, asking loudly what’s wrong with you. You’re too young to be like this. You know that, they really don’t need to remind you.
You move your purse onto the table and take out your little notebook. You go over the grocery list you made before you left your place. Shoot, you didn’t write down oats. You used the last ones this morning.
Steps approach and the scent of freshly warmed pastry kisses your nose. You look up as Steve sets down a scalloped saucer with a gooey turnover drizzled in lacy icing. You smile and close your notebook.
“Oh, thanks. That’s sweet.” You murmur. “It smells… looks delicious.”
“Not a problem. You’ll let me know if it’s too sweet.” He says.
“Um, I’m sure it’s good.” You frame the dish with your fingers. “Thank you.”
“Enjoy.” He claps his hands together and backs up.
You shrink down and examine the dessert. You peel apart the warm pastry and nibble on it. You get some of the filling on the next bite and your cheeks pinch. It’s better than the danishes you get on clearance at the shop.
You eat slowly as you dare to look around. You always liked baking but it was hard for you to stand too long in the kitchen. You always kept to quick and easy meals. Anything you could leave in the rice cooker or just boil water to add. Sandwiches and soup were the best.
You hold up your sticky finger and lick your lips. You sit up as you sense someone coming close. It’s Steve. Again. He puts down some napkins.
“Thank you,” you say.
"How did you like it?" He asks.
"It was good."
He sets down something else. The paper bag crinkles as a peak of crust shows through the little plastic window in the bag.
“Saw it on your list,” he says. “Sourdough. But if you prefer rye…”
“That’s… too much. I couldn’t.” You wipe your fingers, your hand shaking a moment. “Really, I’m on my way to the grocery shop.”
“One less thing on your list.” He insists. “Really, I don’t mind.”
You crumple up the napkin and sit back on the walker. You zip up your purse and hang it on the handle. You push yourself to your feet and release the brakes.
“I do. I appreciate the turnover but that’s already too much. I’m okay.” You assure him. “It was nice of you to step in earlier but… thank you. Just thank you.”
You slide your walker out from behind the table and reach for the plate and napkin. He swipes it up first. “I’ll take care of it.” He says.
You thank him one last time. You angle around and make your way across the bakery. As you near the door, he brushes by you and gets there first. He holds the door open.
You brace yourself as you let the wheels off the ledge. As you pass, he reaches to put the loaf on the seat of your walker. You gasp as you step down and pause. You look at him.
“I said no.” You insist.
“Take it.” He insists. “My treat.”
You stare at him. Even if he wasn’t standing on the ledge, he’d be huge. You wilt and purse your lips.
“Thank you.” Once again.
You continue outside and don’t look back. You’re embarrassed. It might be all in your head. Maybe no one really noticed the whole episode but it won’t be easy to forget. This is why you hate going out. Even in a small town like this, or maybe because it’s a small town, people judge.
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