#Bread Packing Machine

[sncpacking]

Automatic multi-row breads combination bag sealing machine.

Automatic multi-row breads combination bag sealing machine.

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

On Day 4 of my No Napping streak 😊

[satori-runa]

—Sweet as you

Summary: You and Captain Curly share a meal, despite your irritation regards the device that bakes your food.

Tags: Established Relationship, fluff, before the crash

Words: 0,8k

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No matter how many times you stand in the kitchen, Curly would always be amused by the sheer expression of despair on your face. He couldn't lie, it was extremely cute for him to see your brows furrow in irritation and your nose scuffing up slightly.

“You can't tell me that is cooking.” You mumbles, glancing at the device on the counter and the two packs of different ingredients in your hand. “This is more like…dark forbidden witchcraft.”

Being stuck in space, between all these stars, means that there is no fresh food, shops, or delivery services. The crew was certainly stuck with the device that mixes packs to make dishes. And as a former self-claimed chef, you hated it. This wasn’t cooking, and it never would be.

“Food is food.” The Captain chuckled quietly, bringing some tone into his usually exhausted voice. “As long as it works and we don't starve.” He took the packs gently out of your hands and placed them onto their respective spots in the cooking device, watching it close and make some bread.

“Told you, evil witchcraft.” You sighed, crossing your arms as you watched the machine whirr to life, producing something that only barely resembled real food. “I miss actual cooking.” You muttered, leaning against the counter. “You know, where you chop vegetables, sauté things, maybe burn a little garlic by accident.”

Curly smiled, stepping closer to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I know,” he said softly, his voice less teasing now. “And I miss seeing you in your element, making something real. But hey, when we get out of here, I might see what I can do to improve this experience for you. Who knows, maybe we can get an actual freezer to store products and a stove.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, the exhaustion of space life momentarily lifting.

You looked up at him, your frustration melting a little under his gentle gaze. “You promise?”

He chuckled, a hand resting lightly on your waist. “Of course. You’re going to make us a feast as soon as we’re planet-side again.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him. “I’ll hold you to that.” The warmth of his body against yours was comforting, and you moved your hands to hold him closer.

Curly pressed a light kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing through your hair. “In the meantime, we’ve got witchcraft bread.” He grinned, reaching for the freshly made loaf. “And the company isn’t so bad either.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest. “I guess I can live with that.”

You settled at the small table with Curly, the freshly made bread, and some packets of synthetic jam between you. Despite your earlier complaints, the warmth of the meal and the quiet intimacy of the moment made it feel… different. Better. Curly tore off a piece of bread and handed it to you, his eyes soft as he watched you.

You hesitated at first, taking a small bite, expecting the usual bland taste. But somehow, with Curly sitting across from you, smiling like that, it didn’t seem so bad. The bread was warm, and the sweetness of the jam clung to your tongue in a way that felt almost comforting.

“You’re enjoying it.” Curly said, his lips shifting into a grin as he watched your expression soften.

“Maybe just a little.” You admitted, taking another bite. “But it’s definitely not because of the bread.” You smiled at him, feeling the warmth of the moment wrap around you like a blanket.

Curly chuckled, taking a bite himself. But when you noticed a few crumbs clinging to his lips, you reached out instinctively. “You’ve got something…” You murmured, brushing the crumbs off the corner of his mouth with your thumb. His lips quirked at your touch, eyes twinkling.

Before you could pull your hand back, Curly gently caught your wrist, holding it in place. His gaze locked with yours for a moment, soft and teasing, before he slowly leaned forward. His lips pressed against your fingers, and he licked a bit of jam that had smeared onto your skin, his eyes never leaving yours.

A warm flush spread across your cheeks as his lips lingered, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. “Tastes better this way.” He murmured with a playful smile.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, heart fluttering at the way he looked at you, so full of affection. “You’re impossible.” You whispered, feeling the closeness between you like a steady heartbeat.

“Maybe.” He said, still holding your hand gently in his, “But I make the jam taste sweeter, don’t I?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile never faded as you leaned closer, resting your forehead against his. “Yeah, you do.” You whispered, feeling the warmth of him giving you comfort.

[aliesbienish]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could please write a Paul x reader where the reader is super pregnant and is hungry all the time and eats the most random stuff and the pack teases her about it until Paul puts his foot down and tells them to back off

Thank you! I’m really enjoying the study of wolves🤍

Hi lovely anon, thank you for this sweet request - I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do x

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Recipe for Pack

There was no doubt who this baby belonged to, even in the womb. Since a few months into your pregnancy you’d been insatiably hungry, snacking continuously. Paul had always been the same, of course his excuse was his shifting. Unfairly that meant he got super hearing and strength while you needed to pee constantly and had nausea that rudely didn’t limit itself to the morning. So constant eating wasn’t an issue, it was the cravings that were becoming a hassle.

Paul, being a secret softie, had tried to cater to your every whim. Whether it was chocolate covered zucchini’s or melted cheese topped ice cream, he kept the judgement to a minimum. However these odd cravings did often lead to late night trips to the nearest 24 hour store located in Forks, a forty minute round trip. One particularly bad evening had him chauffeuring you 70 miles at 3am to Port Angeles, purely for a a chocolate milkshake and fries that got dipped into it. It was a miracle the machine wasn't broken.

But while Paul was nothing but accomodating, it couldn't always be said for the rest of his pack mates. Eating a hot dog with raspberry jam caused Jared to make vomiting noises. Adding leftover mash potato to a smore prompted Quil to question whether you needed a visit to a psychologist. Even sweetheart Seth made a quip that your cravings seemed like ingredients to a witches potion. Which was probably fair, as you munched on a buttered bread covered with rosemary.

But one comment, made sitting around Emily and Sam's dinning table took it too far.

Sitting with what to you seemed like a delightful combination of peanut butter and hot sauce bagels topped with orange slices, it was enough to elicit a groan.

"This seems to be getting way beyond normal now. I'm beginning to wonder if you are actually having these cravings or if you just like to make everyone else uncomfortable!" Jacob declared jokingly, but with your out of control emotions it was enough to stop you mid bite and feel shame.

"Right? I think next she'll just eat straight from the trash, it's not like she is far off!" Laughed Quil, causing laughter around the table.

Your eyes watered as you choked out "I'm sorry,"

"No, don't you dare apologise." Paul stated, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. "It's these morons who have no right to be teasing you." Turning to address the pack he gave them a hard stare. "You are all being absolute dicks. She's trying to survive extreme changes to her body, something we should be particularly understanding about, but instead your being rude and judgemental. If you all don't get your shit together and start being supportive then I will absolutely see if beating some sense into you in wolf form will help the process,"

The next evening you were all once again sitting around the dining table. The pack, showing their support, were all eating your newest and rather tame craving - chocolate covered bacon.

Sam got everyones attention and raised his fork in a toast "To our newest pack member,". The rest of the pack raised their own cutlery and echoed the sentiment.

This time the tears in your eyes were from happiness.

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[silkensago]

cloudy with a chance of you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ megumi fushiguro x fem reader. 1.8k words — mutual pining. post-rain tenderness. friends to lovers. ⭑ you show up at his door soaked, shivering, and clutching convenience store ramen like a life raft—because of course you forgot your umbrella. but maybe that’s just the kind of girl you are. and maybe he’s just the kind of boy who always keeps a towel ready anyway.

Megumi really thought you would’ve noticed by now.

Okay, maybe that’s on him.

Maybe it’s his fault for being subtle. But in his defense, he didn’t think it would fly completely over your head. You’re not that dense. At least, not normally.

He couldn't say the same for Itadori or Nobara, but you? Out of all his classmates and even including Gojo-sensei, unfortunately—it was your intelligence and quick wit he trusted the most.

You were the one who could identify the origins of a curse from fragments of folklore and figure out a strategy faster than anyone else. He always admired that about you. The way your mind worked. The way you were both fast and precise—like a blade drawn only halfway, never wasted.

But apparently when he lends you his scarf since you always forget to pack one, or when he orders your favorite drink during a late mission debrief, or when he instinctively shields you with his cursed energy even when you’re more than capable of defending yourself—

You give him that annoyingly cute, soft smile, pat his arm, and say, “You’re such a good friend, Gumi.”

He grits his teeth.

It was already a confusing enough process to even realize he had feelings for you. Months of awkward silences and overthinking on his end and giving himself tiny mental slaps in the face every time his heart fluttered when you said his name.

But this? This was worse.

Because now he knows you like him too.

The problem is—you don’t think he likes you.

Apparently, offering you his last piece of mochi after a 14-hour exorcism shift isn’t “obvious enough.” Neither is remembering that you hate raw fish and silently swapping meals with you during team dinners. He even brought you that ugly little pufferfish keychain last week—the one you joked about wanting from a claw machine back in March and said that it looked like him. 

You’d stared at it like he handed you a bomb. Then smiled. Said thanks. And once again that dreaded word: friend.

He snorts under his breath. 

It’s not that he doesn’t love being your friend. He does. But he wants to be that—and more. 

He wondered if he’d spent so long waiting that the chance had already slipped past without him noticing.

You’re sitting beside him now on the train, going over the mission briefing that was sent out this morning, finger trailing along the paper like you're trying to trace the arc of a cursed spirit’s movement. His eyes are on you, of course. 

He knows it’s dumb. Staring won’t help.

It finally tips over during a rainy walk back from the convenience store.

[18:02] You:

heading to the store!! do u want anything?

[18:02] Gumi Bear 🐟:

No check the weather

[18:03] You:

bruh ur so boring

[18:03] Gumi Bear 🐟:

“Bruh” it’s going to rain

Don’t come crying to me if your dumb self gets soaked

[18:03] You:

i’m not gonna get soaked :(

also rude. i’m not dumb.

[18:04] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Debatable

[18:04] You:

:////

[18:17] You:

ok i may be a little teeny bit soaked

BUT i got the good melon bread for us

[18:17] You:

also can you open the door

i forgot your code again LOL

[18:18] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Coming

Don’t drip on my floor

[18:18] You:

ok mom

The door swings open just as the sky really lets loose.

You’re half-soaked and giggling, wind whipping your hoodie strings across your face as you try to shield the ramen and melon bread in your arms from the rain like they’re priceless artifacts.

Megumi stares at you from the doorway, hair damp and sticking up a little at the ends, wearing a soft white tee that clings faintly to his collarbones. He smells warm—like he just stepped out of the shower—and good, like cedar soap and something clean and familiar you can’t place your finger on. He always smells like that. It’s distracting.

“You idiot,” he says, yanking at your sleeve and stepping aside so you can stumble in, your socks already squelching uncomfortably. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

You huff, brushing water off your sleeves. “Because someone said it was going to rain, not it is raining!”

Megumi snorts, softly shutting the door behind you. “You could’ve just gone back to get one.”

“I was already soggy by then,” you mutter, clutching the food tighter. “So there’s no point.”

Then, like fate wants to rub it in, you trip a little on the entryway rug and nearly topple over, screeching like a wet cat as you flail to protect the instant noodles.

That’s what does it.

He actually laughs. Really laughs. It’s soft and breathy and sounds like it came out by accident.

And you, still dripping, still cold, can’t stop looking at him.

“What?” Megumi says, still half-smiling, as he flicks a raindrop off your nose like it personally offended him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

You swallow. Shrug.

“You laughed.”

“So?”

“I like it.” I like you.

That’s all you say. No teasing this time. Just that, dropped quietly into the space between you like a penny into a wishing well.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches forward, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, and tugs you the rest of the way in.

And then, softer, almost under his breath, “Go change. You know where my clothes are, right?”

You nod, heart thumping, already headed to the drawer with the oversized black shirt that smells like him.

The ramen sits forgotten on the counter. The silence stretches long, warm, quiet. And this time, you don’t mind it at all.

When you reach his dorm, you’re still damp and flushed and a little breathless from running. Your socks squish in your shoes. His hair is sticking up funny, and yours is plastered to your cheeks. You don’t say anything else when he tosses you a towel and turns a blind eye when you steal the hoodie he sleeps in.

It’s only when you're both settled, when your ramen sits forgotten on the counter and the flickering warmth of his desk lamp paints everything soft amber, that it all feels too much and not enough at once.

The quiet between you feels different now. Lighter, like a breath finally exhaled after holding it for too long. The small dorm room, with its cramped shelves and posters peeling slightly at the edges, feels like the safest place in the world.

He pulls out a worn board game from his shelf, that one you always joked you could beat him at if you tried hard enough. Tonight, though, he lets you win every round without complaint, smirking with quiet amusement.

“You’re terrible at this,” he says, shaking his head. “But somehow, you always win.”

He pokes your cheek.

Not hard, just enough to make you blink. 

“Stop that,” he says, voice low and blunt—but the tiny flicker of amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You blink up at him, startled. “Stop what?”

“That.” He tilts his head, hand still midair like he might poke you again. “You always chew your cheek when you’re nervous.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says easily, and then adds, “You did it before the dorm ramen cook-off last month, remember? When you thought Kugisaki was going to dump hot sauce in your pot as a prank.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, then pause. “That doesn’t count!”

Megumi snorts. “Never before missions, though. You’re always weirdly calm before those.”

“I’m not calm,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “I just hide it better.”

His fingers brush yours for a second, quick, barely-there contact, like he’s checking you’re still grounded.

“You don’t have to hide it with me,” he says quietly.

And just like that, you’re chewing your cheek again.

He pokes it a second time.

“Quit it.”

The silence returns, but this time it’s comfortable. Drowsy, even. Your hands find each other, fingers curling together without thought. Megumi squeezes yours and clears his throat, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.

“You always fall asleep first.” There’s a teasing edge in his voice.

“'Cause I’m smarter,” you retort, and he chuckles softly.

As you settle under the blanket, the space between you narrows. His shoulder brushes yours, sending a quiet thrill through your spine. He’s so warm.

Your eyelids grow heavy, but just before sleep claims you, you feel his fingers tighten around yours.

When you wake, the room is darker, but he’s awake, watching you with those steady eyes that seem to see everything, know more than they let on. That know you.

“You’re really here,” he says, voice softer than you expected. There’s a delicious rasp to it that you’ve only heard in your dreams.

You squeeze his hand. “Always.”

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just brushes his thumb over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. It's soft. Full. Like the space between heartbeats.

His gaze lingers on you, like he’s still not sure you’re real.

You smile, barely. “Stop staring.”

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You let out a quiet breath. Shift a little closer. Feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours. His arm finds its way around you, steady and careful, and you let your head rest just under his chin.

The rain outside has slowed to a whisper.

And in the stillness, with the air smelling faintly of his shampoo and your matcha he must’ve woken up early to make—somehow escaping your vice-like bear hug to do it—the quiet between you finally settles. Whatever’s been hanging between the two of you for months, like morning dew on spring grass, it’s been there all along. You just hadn’t noticed it catching the light.

You used to go out of your way to look pretty whenever he was around—careful hair, subtle makeup, a little more effort in the way you dressed—before you really got to know each other. Like you were trying to impress someone you weren’t sure would even notice, which he definitely did, but not because of all that. You were a magnet for people because of who you were.

And not that he didn’t think you looked radiant then. But now, after all these months, watching you snuggled up close beside him with your hair tangled in a bedhead mess and a little drool at the corner of your mouth, his breath catches. 

You’ve never looked more beautiful.

This is the boy who’s held you crying with your makeup smudged, the one who knows the exact face you make when you get a little too adventurous ordering food at a new restaurant as he switches his plate for yours. The one who holds all those small, imperfect moments close, without judgment, because to him, they’re part of you.

This is real.

And you’re not going anywhere.

[lucy-literates]

Slow and Steady

Synopsis: It’s the off-season, and Oscar’s invited you — his best friend since forever — to spend a week with him in a quiet coastal town. Just the two of you, like old times, except… something feels different this time. Mornings are slow, full of shared coffee, sleepy teasing, and the kind of lingering looks that last a little too long. He still burns the toast trying to make you breakfast, just to see that shy grin tug at his lips. Afternoons are spent wandering the beach, your hands brushing accidentally until one day… they don’t let go.

You and Oscar had been best friends since you met in karting. While he became a world-famous Formula 1 driver, you decided to stop karting and follow him as his own personal cheerleader. You followed him to races and caught up with old carting buddies like George, Alex, and Lando. You got along with the rest of the grid really well, they all knew that you and Oscar had a purely platonic relationship. This meant that you had definitely been hit on quite a few times by different drivers, much to Oscar's displeasure.

Every off-season, you Oscar took some time apart to explore the world without each other. You kept in contact throughout the time off. So, when Oscar asked you to join him in Italy for a week, you did. He met you at the airport and drove you to an Airbnb along the coastline. He explained how he had rented a place with one bed, a king double. It was big enough for you to share and not to be too awkward.

You guys have often shared beds, cuddled, and enjoyed the warmth in a way only friends would. You weren't too concerned with the sleeping arrangement, you had missed being around Oscar really. There was something about him that just radiated warmth and comfort that you missed when he wasn't around. You arrived at the lavish cottage, beautiful moss had grown all over the cobblestone. Oscar parked his car at the front entrance, jogging around the car to open your door for you. "m'lady" he joked as he helped you out if the car.

He followed you around to the boot, you opened it and started dragging your luggage out. His face cringed, he bumped your hips with his and you moved to the side. He lifted your suitcase up and out, placing it gently on the ground and insisting that he will bring it in for you.

You made it to the bedroom to find that Oscar had left over half the closet space empty for you. Oscar placed your suitcase on the floor and opened it, asking if you would like help putting your things away. After doing so, you had a quick shower and got ready for bed, sliding in or an early night. You drift off to sleep immediately. You didnt know how long it had been, but you felt the bed dip behind, heard a pale Australian wrestling the covers. The dip behind you became deeper as Oscar leaned over and kissed your cheek, then returned to his side of the bed. Small snores escaped his mouth, almost in a lullaby as you fell back asleep.

It wasnt the sun shining through the curtains that woke you up the next morning, or the groan that Oscar let out when his joints cracked upon standing up. It was the smell of burnt toast came wafting into the bedroom. It woke you with a start before you remembered Oscars notorious cooking skills. You cracked a smile and wandered into the kitchen, a light layer of smoke wafting through the air as Oscar exclaimed "hot hot hot". He turned around holding two half charred pieces of toast and threw them on the island bench, to which they slide off and landed on the floor. You chuckled at his attempt and picked up the blackened bread, and moved towards the bin.

You took over breakfast, retoasting the bread and getting some scrambled eggs going. Oscar resigned to sitting on the stool, watching you potter around the kitchen. The coffee machine dinged as the second cup of coffee was finished filling up. You put them on the bench, letting Oscar pick the one he wanted.

After the breakfast dishes had been packed into the dishwasher, it was decided that a beach day was in order. You packed a bag with lunch, towels, water bottles and a cool cabana. Oscar wanders in wearing a black singlet and bright orange swim shorts. "I still need to get changed" you tell him. He nods and says "I'll meet you on the beach". You smile and thank him, estimating that you'll be about 15 minutes.

What Oscar didn't know was that you had been working out, consistently going to the gym, and perfectly hiding it from your best friend. Usually you work an oversized shirt and swim shorts, but today you had a black top and bright orange bottoms. You changed and made your way down to the beach. You had an orange shawl wrapped around you.

You made your way down to the beach, and found that Oscar had set everything up and was sitting on the blanket, rubbing sunscreen on his back. He looked up as you came into sight. "Perfect timing" he said "could you get my back please?" You smiled and nodded, "Of course". He turned around, not yet having looked at your attire. You glided your hands over his broad shoulders and down his sculpted back, massaging in the sunscreen.

"Care to return the favour?" you asked him. He hummed in agreement and turned around. It was the first time he had seen you dressed like this, showing off. You took off the shawl and turned around. You were expecting cold, sunscreen clad hands to make contact any second. But they didnt come. You turned around and Oscar was frozen still. "Osc?" you asked him. His eyes met yours "what's wrong?" you asked him.

"Nothing" he responded. "When did you start working out?" he asked. "Ive been doing it for a bit over 6 months now" you answered. "What made you wear this?" he asked. There was something different in his eyes, and the way the lingered over your boobs, and the curve of your hips. The way his eyes kept traveling up and down sent goosebumps up your spine.

"I guess I'm feeling more confident. Now, are you gonna keep gawking or help me put on sunscreen so we can go in the water?" you tease. He clears his throat and instructs you to turn around. You hear the sunscreen bottle pump, then feel the cold liquid glide across your back, accompanied with warm, strong hands.

After a few hours of water fights, tackling, and chatting in the water, you hop out. You speed up to the shelter to grab a towel and wrap it around your shoulders. You start setting up the lunch you brought. There were simple finger sandwiches, strawberries, watermelon, and a bag or two of chips. After setting up lunch, your turn around just in time to see Oscar trip over his foot while walking over to you. He stumbles and lands face down on the sand.

You can't help but burst out laughing, watching his sandy body arise from the ground, cheeks red in embarrassment. He shuffles up to you and sits down, your shoulders bump as he gets comfy. You offer him a finger sandwich, which he happily accepts, and start devouring lunch.

You head back up to the cottage once the sun starts to set. You start cleaning the dishes while Oscar disappears in the direction of the bathroom. You have a look through the fridge and freezer, not finding much at all. "What are you looking for?" comes the familiar Aussie accent from behind you. You jump a bit and turn around. He's wearing grey trackie dacks and has his towel around his shoulders, drying off his hair. A couple beads of water dripped down his sculpted chest, slowly making its way down the ghost of his abs, disappearing as it reaches the v-line that trails into his pants.

Oscar clears his throat. Your eyes quickly trail back up his body, meeting his eyes at the end of your adventure. His eyebrow is quirked, silently asking you what you were doing. "Uhm... There's- I was- I can't find anything to make for dinner". You stumbled. He chuckled and suggested, "How about we Uber something and go on a shop tomorrow?" You nodded and got into a heated discussion about whether you were getting Mexican or Greek for dinner. Ultimately, you got both.

After dinner had wrapped up, you and Oscar made your way to the bathroom to brush teeth and for you to do your skin care. "What are you doing" Oscar asked with a mouth full off toothpaste. "Skincare" you answer simply. You pull out moisturiser and place small dots on your face. Oscar watches you curiously, "Can I do skincare?" he asked. You slowly smile and say "Yeah, sure". You walked him through your routine, and he copied your every move, making sure he got it right.

After you finished educating Oscar on the importance of skincare, you both make your way to the bed. Good nights are said, covers fought over, giggles ensued and not long after, so did Oscars soft snores. You were kept awake by Oscars appearance before dinner. His toned chest, rippling abs and pale skin swum around your brain. It didn’t take you long to fall asleep after that.

The rest of the vacation continued as the first day did. Some beach volleyball was played, lunch and dinner outings were had, the city was explored. The week was filled with longing looks, flirtatious interactions, and bumping hands while walking. That was, until the second last night of your time away.

You had both agreed on taking a stroll on the beach as the sun set. The sun was casting a beautiful papaya glow across the sky, which reflected perfectly in the waves of the ocean. You and Oscar had spent the entire trip bumping hands while you walked side by side, blush rising to both of you each time. This time, when you bumped hands, Oscar held on. His hands made yours feel small and safe. His skin was calloused, a different feeling to your usually soft hands.

Your eye contact with the Aussie was electrifying; sparks shot across your brain. He shows you a small smile, and you decide not to ask, not yet, and just bask in the comfort of your intertwined hands.

That moment went unspoken, both of you were too scared for what that conversation would bring. It wasn’t until the night before the flight out, that you and Oscar properly spoke. You were curled up in a blanket on the balcony, admiring the stars.

Oscar meekly made his way outside, “can I join you?”. You lifted your head and nodded, watching as he walked over. He crawled into the blanket, his arm wrapped around your stomach as he rested his head on your shoulder and looked at the stars. The air was thick with unspoken feeling, until Oscar breaks the silence.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a while now,” he says, voice low, almost scared. “I just didn’t want to lose you.” You turn around to face him, there’s fear in his eyes. You’re quiet, thinking about what he just said. Clearly too quiet, as Oscar begins to unwrap himself from you. You held his arm and moved it back to where it was. You looked into his eyes, and saw nothing but undying love and admiration.

“You will never lose me” you said as you slowly leaned in, making sure Oscar wanted it too, and captured his lips in a short kiss. You pulled away and saw him smiling wider than you ever have, almost looking like a Koala. His hand came to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you back into his lips.

The rest of the night was spent with kisses, and stories of when you knew you loved each other.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed it, my requests are open. Have a good day :)

[ridingtorohan]

Generic Headcanons for the Tulpar Crew!

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Curly can't bowl. Absolutely can not. As coordinated as he is, this sport is absolutely not under his forte. Somehow, he gets all strikes or only one pin down.

Used to have a bubble blowing pipe as a kid. Still collects bubble blowers but doesn't really use them.

Sentimental in that he doesn't throw gifts away, even if he knows he won't use them. Has them neatly packed away in boxes

His hair is usually slightly frizzy and brushed on trips but back at home, he does the full oil, scrunch, curl routine, resulting in amazing curls

Prefers vanilla ice cream

Diagnosed insomniac. Sleeps like the dead when he does actually sleep; his heart rate slows down a lot so he actually scared a few roommates in the past

Hairy chest

Usually wears two shirts. After the crash, he's far more sensitive to temperature changes and bundles up, even if it's sweltering outside

Has a nasty scar on his knee from when he tripped as a kid. Didn't get stitches but probably should've

Listens to a mix of rock and foreign music, even when he doesn't know what they're saying

Wanted to be an astronaut but settled for becoming a pilot

Curly was an only child to a single mother. She had a serious disease that had him taking care of them both at a young age. He used the insurance money to become a pilot. She really believed in his dream.

Slightly colorblind (mixes up yellow and green) but by the time he's an adult he's able to tell the shades apart, so it didn't affect his pilot's course

Really enjoys raisin toast and cheese whiz.

A little forgetful. Usually keeps a notepad in his pocket or his keys on a long string

Can imitate accents really well, especially Southern drawls

Has English ancestry

Secretly terrified of the concept of the immortal snail

Daisuke sings horribly, but in such a charismatic way that somehow gets everyone joining in.

Does very bad puppetry, usually with socks. However, he's surprisingly good at miming.

He likes to draw!

He alternates between being the absolute boss at video games vs scoring almost nothing.

However! He's the absolute king at dance dance revolution and guitar hero.

Can't sit still for puzzles but surprisingly has a lot of fun with games like candy crush (and is really good at it)

Likes lemon hard candies

Pours whipped cream on anything. Bread? Whipped cream. Coffee? Whipped cream. Swansea had to kick that habit out of him

On that note: sweet tooth

Drools in his sleep and has the worst bedhead known to man

Has three sisters, all older and with set careers. He loves them a lot, despite feeling inadequate sometimes. He also has two moms!

Can't hold his liquor BUT surprisingly can never get drunk off of cold medicine

Watches a lot of thrillers, action and romcoms. Is always captivated by them (and cries a little when the couple gets together)

Quotes Mean Girls a lot

Was definitely a Disney kid. Belts into Lion King songs all the time (Swansea wants to strangle him)

Listens to screamo when he's tinkering with machines (usually with cars or where he can't readily change the songs)

Otherwise has a playlist that has songs from every genre. Never skips any of them.

Believes in sasquatch. Vehemently.

Tends to have bad luck with electronics, usually sparking himself somehow. His electronics usually have a lot of scuff marks and dented corners but surprisingly no cracked screens

Fluent in Spanish and passing in at least three other languages

Knows beauty routines better than most people do (including social media infleuncers)

Either has flawless skin or has a strict routine to prevent breakouts.

Definitely had a crush on Marty McFly poster in his bedroom. Still does.

Jimmy is, surprisingly, a good writer. He usually drops them only a few chapters in, but they're captivating and really enriched

Taps his foot a lot

Scrunches up his face when he's concentrating, often comically so

Absolutely hates black coffee but refuses to drink any other.

Says he hates the song that's playing but 9/10 he'll be nodding along to it. Absolutely despises Swansea and Anya's playlists

If the person he hates likes a song/movie/snack, he'll absolutely hate it. Even if he loved it before.

Sleeps with his arms crossed and head tipped back

Knows a lot about a bit of everything but in a weird way. Such as how to replace a car radio but not how to hot wire a car

Acts like the "tsundere" trope where he's mean if he likes someone

Prefers uniform clothing and goes for simple button ups otherwise

Somehow always finds himself at the receiving end of gossip. He knows all the tea but doesn't care enough to share it

Crazy skilled at board games, especially strategy and Monopoly. May or may not cheat. The absolute biggest sore loser

Mint or rocky road is his go-to ice cream snack. eats ice cream cones from the bottom up

Really good at visual puzzle solving. ("How many cubes are there?", mazes, etc)

Plays guitar and does it well. Favourite song to play is probably Country Roads

Hates the song Pumped Up Kicks. The school he used to go to before meeting Curly had way too many incidents to be comfortable.

Somehow, he does really well at baking those fancy deserts. Souffles, creme brulees, macarons, caramel, you name it. Probably would have made it as a chef somewhere

Always packs light and never keeps anything. Doesn't even have cards to the stores he frequents a lot.

Usually has a lighter or one of those "7 tools in 1" tool in his pocket.

Gets super bored with horror and nature documentaries. A fan of thriller and action though.

Somehow winds up with 57 pens in his drawers. He's never sure where they come from.

Likes to keep his facial hair short or with a shadow. It makes him feel unkempt if he goes longer.

He's more of a hands-on kind of guy, preferring to be outside in the fresh air instead of reading a book or watching TV.

Salted pretzels are his go-to snack.

Anya wears contacts (based on the soundtrack cover art)

Licks her finger before turning a page of the book and dog-ears to bookmark it

Always has ink smudges on her fingers. She never knows how it gets there

Twirls pens when she's lost in thought

She has a neutral resting face, so when she smiles or frowns, it crinkles a bit but you can always tell it's genuine

Never keeps her hair short; it always leaves her itchy. Closest she'll get is chin length

She's definitely a homebody

She doesn't often like switching hobbies but when she does, she focuses all her attention on it. However, it takes her a really long time to master it, leaving her discouraged.

Had difficulties in school.

All her books are filled with highlighted passages and writings in the margin

Tummy sleeper with her face smooshed in a pillow

Sleepwalks in a horrifying way. She'll stand at the foot of the bed and say cryptic things like, "He knows you're here" before walking away. Doesn't remember it the next day.

Prefers tea over coffee and dark chocolate

Doesn't really care for ice cream but likes freezies and Gelato

Prefers dogs over cats and loves labradors, even though she doesn't have the energy for them

Never could stomach the smell of puke or fecal matter

Doesn't know how to swim

Absolutely burns in the sun, no matter how much sun screen she uses.

She drives with audio books on, or while she's studying. Constant interruptions stress her out

Knows how to play the flute!

Has a few Russian lullabies memorized and knows the translations for them, though she doesn't know much Russian otherwise.

Mother died young, so it was her and her dad for a long time. She never felt like she lived up to his expectations.

Really close to her cousin growing up, who acted like an older sister to her.

Somehow, knows all the obscure lore about haunted locations and folklore. While she believes in ghosts, she doesn't believe in other entities.

Never swears. It's just not who she is.

Anya listens to a lot of indie and instrumental music.

She once had a pet parakeet named Timothy but gave it to her cousin when she tried to study for med school.

She has a music box, gifted to her by her mother before her passing. It's one of her prized possessions. Anya plays it before sleeping.

She likes to watch silent movies, black and white, and those that relate to her experiences in life.

Audrey Hepbern is consequently her favourite actress.

While most of her books are educational or self-help, she owns a few classics like Moby Dick and Pride & Prejudice.

Swansea knows how to crochet

He's a GOD at gambling. Everyone is sure that he's cheating, but it's honestly a lot of skill

While he doesn't know any other languages, he knows enough basic phrases to navigate in most foreign countries.

Very old in his ways (men must be gentlemen type thing) but progressive in others

Doesn't vote

Annoyed when Daisuke arrived in his floral shirt. Not because Daisuke skirted past the full uniform but because Swansea owns a lot of them (and oddly enough, many that match with Daisuke). So he never gets out of uniform

Can fall asleep anywhere

He's the fastest typer out of the Tulpar crew, second only to Daisuke

Still uses a Nokia phone though

Listens to podcasts or radio stations, but if he ever sits down for TV, it's usually dramas (think, SVU or Young & The Restless). Gets super invested in the soap dramas, even if he swears he doesn't or otherwise. He knows everyone's names and backstories off hand.

Gets grumpy if you turn off the show he's watching.

Tried growing a beard once. Never again

Keeps photos of his entire family in his wallet. Mother? There. Wife? There. Kids? There. His dentist? Somehow, there.

Never went to AA. He doesn't exactly deter people from drinking, but he'll outright shove people in chairs and take their car keys if they're too drunk to drive

Owns a really beat-up sports car. The upkeep is horrible, but it's what he got in the divorce, and he won't trade it for anything. Let Daisuke drive it exactly once (1)

Took wrestling and boxing in his youth! He gives a mean right hook. He still has the arm muscles from it

Absolutely cannot stand sticky, tacky items. Hates the feel of gum on his hands. Okay with chewing it.

Very efficient at multitasking! Even if it looks like he's focused on something, he notices things from his peripheral vision asap. Also weirdly attuned to Daisuke and just knows when he's grabbing something that he shouldn't

Scary good intuition about people.

Absolute king at barbecuing. Steak is his favourite food, especially accompanied with beer (he misses those days), roasted mini potatoes and garlic vegetables.

Makes the meanest stew and soup you've ever known. Throws the absolute wildest ingredients into the pot, but it comes out miraculous every time.

Adds salt and pepper to his meal anytime anyone else is cooking. Even if it was adequately seasoned

Knows how to ride a horse!

His part of the city isn't the best (high crime rate), but all the kids know his name and go to him whenever they need to escape from home or a warm meal. He doesn't know why they're so drawn to him, but something about Swansea makes them feel secure. It's put him in the good graces of the not-so-good folk and he's left well enough alone by them.

Definitely owns a shotgun and probably had to fend thieves away from his home prior to that though.

Definitely has Irish and Scottish ancestry. Maybe a bit of German.

[steviewashere]

It infuriates me so bad when people view a character like Eddie who lives in a trailer park with traits such as: unclean, rowdy, creepy, aggressive, etc.

Not everybody from a trailer park is like that. Yes, I can tell you with certainty, these people know how to fend for themselves. Yes, these people know how to cook. Yes, these people know how to take care of their hair and their bodies.

There's this, like, perpetual idea that Eddie uses only 3-in-1 because it's all that he can possibly afford. No, guys, I can tell you right now as somebody who came from an impoverished family, we could definitely afford shampoo, conditioner, and body soap all separately—these things are just not going to be top quality brands. I fucking hate the way people write Steve approaching him about it like all high and mighty about knowing how to properly take care of Eddie's hair, being thoroughly disgusted with the products Eddie uses, showing off that his products are 100% better than whatever Eddie's got in his shower. Like. Okay....if the 3-in-1 is really what Eddie is putting in his hair, then so be it? That's what works for him, that's what he can afford, that's all he has.

Or, like, when Eddie can't cook? That because he didn't have access to all these nice foods that Steve has: fresh fruits and vegetables, bigger containers of milk, non-canned goods, products in the freezer that aren't frozen meals; just based off of what he has, he seemingly can't cook. That he's not making real food just because it comes from a container and it's processed.

But like...my mom was on the WIC program when I was growing up. My favorite meals, which we called our struggle meals, were things like chili dogs on plain white bread because regular hot dog buns were too expensive. Or when packs of chicken were too expensive and pushed us over our limit, my mom would just pick up a pack of lil' smokies and fry them up and toss them in a box of generic store brand macaroni—just to make sure we had our protein. No, I'll tell you right now, we didn't get a ton of fresh produce; namely because that fresh produce was expensive by the pound. But I'd take home apples from the school cafeteria and use them for an after school snack with a bit of store brand peanut butter. And, like, sometimes the frozen meals were all we could get and so that's what we had—and we made fun with it, too, where we'd all pile up in the living room and we'd watch a movie from our local Blockbuster or Redbox machine and my mom would braid my hair while I had my Banquet's brownie. Kix was my favorite cereal growing up because it was, like, the only name brand cereal we could get with WIC.

Just because a food isn't fresh or name brand doesn't mean that it's not food. It's edible. And it tasted good. No, it wasn't always healthy, but we were trying our best. We were getting by. I loved when we'd go to the local food bank and find little containers of frozen peaches—or even better, when we'd find the holy grail within the last can of name brand Spaghetti-O's on the food bank's shelf. And we also had Meals on Wheels delivered to us, which cost us the tiniest bit, but we'd end up with house made salisbury steak with mashed potatoes or turkey with mashed potatoes and carrots—those were so easy to make after long days with extracurricular activities, or when we didn't have any other meal options.

Eddie can be appreciative of Steve's food, y'know. But having this constant idea that only Steve will know how to cook because he can use fresh ingredients or because the food Eddie had was gross and canned—I don't know, it rubs me the wrong way, I guess.

But like saying that Eddie smells just because he lives in a trailer is nuts. It's plainly crazy. If he doesn't have a washer/dryer unit, then maybe he knows how to do them manually or maybe he goes to a laundromat when he and Wayne find enough quarters in the couch. Or that he can't afford name brand hygiene products, so he just must stink. Or shaming him for using a cheap Axe cologne (because compared to something like Calvin Kleine, that's inexpensive) all because it's cheap.

I love a version of Eddie that knows how to fix things around the house because they couldn't afford plumbers or repairmen—my family was like that, too. You know how many times I've been able to fix something like a garbage disposal out of self-winging and spite? Or how many times I've unclogged a drain by using a handyman's guide or some YouTube tutorial? Yeah, Eddie probably does have these skills, and these skills are really useful.

Maybe he can't make top of the line meals, but he can make things. He can make hot food. That's important to him, hot food, I feel like. Programs like EBT/Food Stamps/TANF/WIC don't cover hot food items like the rotisserie chickens you may see at places like Costco—even though those would be so damn helpful for meal prep.

I think it's also just wrong and rude to make a pessimistic narrative about his clothing being older and used. Or hand me downs, god forbid. Those are well loved, well cherished things. He probably knows how to make a patch, how to stitch, he knows the best way to remove a stain from a beloved shirt. He probably is shopping at thrift stores for clothing pieces instead of constantly going to the mall for new things, and that's okay! You just have to get by like that sometimes! It's okay, too, if he has the same clothes as he did the year before in school—it's unreasonable to ask of a low poverty person to buy a whole new wardrobe just for the new year.

Parts of this fandom just completely dehumanize Eddie when it comes to him and Wayne being lower class people. They're trying their damn best to get by, that shouldn't be shameful. It shouldn't be shameful to live certain ways just because you can't afford the luxury of new and fresh and popular things. I think overconsumption in the modern age is bleeding into this fandom space and decimating the image of Eddie—this very real version of a person living in rural 1980s America—all because he isn't keeping up with things like Steve probably is; I often see the lifestyle Steve flaunts as praised and likable, while Eddie's lifestyle is mucky and disturbing and grotesque just because he's poor.

It's weird.

[vaspider]

If you have celiac or otherwise can't eat wheat, btw, and you like bread, I highly recommend investing in a breadmaker. Even the best store-bought gluten-free bread does not hold a candle to the stuff that comes out of our breadmaker, and it's cheaper per slice even when we buy bread mix in single-loaf bags.

This is our breadmaker. Evie got it on sale, but it is an investment. I'm not going to pretend it isn't a chunk of change up front. There are cheaper ones, but the reason I like this one and think it's worth the money:

It has two smaller paddles, where our older bread maker that my mom got us and got destroyed by getting construction dust in it had one big paddle in the middle. This leaves a big hole in the middle of the finished loaf, which makes the bread much less useful for, like, sandwiches.

Zojirushi is not as well-known a brand in the US, but it's a Brand Name in Japan for good reason. Evie's had our Zojirushi rice cooker for over a decade & we had to replace the inner bowl once bc someone used metal utensils in it and scratched the non-stick coating. We expect to use this machine for at least a decade.

You can program your own cycles, which we found really useful. Evie built a custom cycle that removed the punch-down sections (gluten-free bread tends not to rise as much) and that made our perfect loaf.

A lot of bread machines produce very tall, square loaves, which are awkward to slice, store, and make sandwiches with. This produces loaves that make good sandwiches and toast, and the French toast slices don't crowd the pan.

The top heating element on this gives a really amazingly browned top crust that we definitely didn't get on our old machine.

It's so pretty.

So how is it cheaper in the long run if the machine costs $300+? A little like this:

We use Pamela's Bread Mix bc it's really consistent and easy - you need the bread mix, water, yeast, 3 egg whites, and oil. (We use avocado oil and find it best and most consistent, but regular vegetable oil works!) We buy Pamela's in bulk, and without any subscription discounts or whatever, the $48 pack of 3 bags makes about 11.5 loaves. With the cost of yeast and eggs and stuff, it ends up costing about $4.50 a loaf. (If you buy your yeast in larger bags & store it in an airtight container, you can create less waste and it's also cheaper.)

By comparison, a loaf of Franz GF Bread costs $7-8, and Canyon Bakehouse usually runs about the same.

However, that's not an apples to apples comparison because the Franz loaf is an 18 oz. loaf, whereas our breadmaker makes a 2 lb. loaf. Assuming even the lower-end cost for getting a Franz loaf at the store, an equivalent amount of bread would cost $12.42, and it's not nearly as good.

(Yes, gluten-free bread is fucking expensive. That's part of why I'm writing this post in the first place.)

Anyway, assuming you eat 2 lbs. of bread a week in your house - a breadmaker loaf, basically, to make the math simple - you'll end up spending $7.92 less on bread every week. That means that even at the most expensive cost for the Zojirushi, if you buy it at its highest price (don't do that! wait for a sale!) it'll take 50 weeks - about a year - before the breadmaker pays for itself. If you manage to get it on a 25% off sale (which we did), it pays for itself in about 9 months.

Nine months, I must stress, in which you are eating much more delicious bread.

We tend to go through a couple of loaves a week because toast, sandwiches, and melts are great food for people with low spoons.

Evie and I perfected the Pamela's mix recipe for this particular machine - I'll get it typed up when I'm downstairs next, along with the quasi-babka recipe. (Really, it's like a marble cake and babka and bread had a baby, and it's a family favorite.)

Bread good. The end.

[justarkive]

THE JEONS : 17

17 : Arcade Day

summary: a collection of chaotic family drabbles. thats it.

contents: family!au, non.idol jungkook, girl!dad jk, fluff, angst, sensitive topics + smut sometimes!

• chapter contents: arcade day, chaos as usual, jk makes a random girl cry ( ON ACCIDENT ) if this isnt the most jungkook thing ever idk what is.

• taglist: @jenniebyrubies @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @elinaki92 @rpwprpwprpwprw @mafersame @parkinglot-nights @reallygenerouskoala @mimi1097 @aznstoner @jungshaking @pinkpunkdynamite @angie-x3 @bgfdcvbnjk @starlight-1010 @marblemoonstones @golden-loona @jjkluver7 (check pinned to be added)

masterlist <

You didn’t expect the arcade to be this packed, but here you are—sticky floors, flashing lights, and the ever-familiar soundtrack of 8-bit victory jingles.

Jungkook’s currently being dragged—DRAGGED—from one claw machine to another by Hana, still fully convinced her dad is a certified toy-snatching expert.

“This one next!” she beams, ponytail bouncing, pointing at a claw machine filled with pastel jellycats and off-brand Pokémon. She’s holding three plushies already—one on top of her head like a crown.

“Baby,” you call, arms crossed, leaning by the change machine, “You know he’s not actually good at this, right?”

“I am good at this,” Jungkook says, indignant, cracking his knuckles like he’s about to defuse a bomb. “These are just rigged.”

“They’re all rigged,” you say, deadpan.

He’s about to start when he hears the softest little “Hi.”

He turns, and there’s a tiny girl—barely five—with pigtails and light-up shoes, staring up at him like he’s a superhero.

She tugs the sleeve of his hoodie. He freezes.

“Play?” she asks softly, chubby finger pointing at the claw machine beside him. Her voice is so quiet it barely makes it past the chimes and dings of the arcade.

He blinks. “Uh…”

You’re watching from behind with your arms crossed, grinning like a maniac. Whisperinf to him “Are you gonna say no? You can’t say no.”

Jungkook looks at you helplessly. Then at the little girl. “Uh… yeah. Okay, sure.”

And just like that, he’s double-fisting the claw machines now—one for Hana (who’s already picking which plush she’s giving names to), and one for a tiny toddler who is now vibrating with anticipation.

Spoiler: he wins nothing.

Hana’s side spits out two more plushies in three tries. She claps. Throws her hands in the air like it’s the Olympics.

The toddler’s machine?

Not a single win.

Not even a nudge.

The little girl’s smile falters. Then quivers. Her little face scrunches up like a raisin.

“Oh no,” Jungkook mutters. “No, no, no—don’t—”

But it’s too late.

Big, fat toddler tears. Silent sobs that turn into sniffly wails. She’s crying like her whole world just fell apart.

Jungkook flails. “Wait! Wait—here—take this—”

He grabs one of Hana’s plushies, the little duck one she just named Bread, and offers it with both hands like it’s a peace treaty.

The toddler reaches out—

And Hana lets out a shriek.

“BREAD?!”

She’s now sobbing too, trying to climb up your side like a tree. You scoop her onto your hip as she hiccups through betrayal. “That was mine! He gave her Bread!”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t even speak.

And then—of course—comes the mom. Appearing like an avenging angel in yoga pants and fury.

She swoops in, scoops up her crying child, and gives Jungkook a look. A full-body, soul-piercing look.

As if he personally ruined her daughter’s childhood.

As if he told her Santa wasn’t real.

As if he stole Bread.

Jungkook just stands there with his hands in the air, still holding a coin between his fingers.

You pat his shoulder as she storms off.

“Babe,” you say, wiping your eyes. “You’ve got to stop accepting side quests from four-year-olds.”

He just groans. “I was trying to be nice.”

[gudfornuthin]

The Baker and the Ballerina

Chapter one

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader

Summary: a well loved and respected bakery owned by none other than ex marine Frank Castle. A new neighbour moves in across the street

Series warnings: slow burn, cliché tropes, mentions of PTSD, mentions of abusive relationships, (eventual) smut, violence

Word count: 1k (other chapters will be longer)

A/N: I'm so excited to share this brand-new series with you all! It’s a long one so buckle up. I'll be uploading one a week, so if anyone would like to be tagged in future updates, just let me know. Also, this idea comes from a poem I wrote a few years ago (called the baker and the ballerina) and how l've been watching The Punisher. I wasn't sure if I wanted it to be a Frank fic or a Michael (the bear) fic, but Frank won so here we are lol. Feedback is always appreciated, thank you :)

The small bakery on 31st street, appropriately named Bakehouse 31, is a warm welcome for many tourists and a familiar face to a lot of the locals. The smell of fresh bread and pastries consume the surrounding area, drawing in anyone who dares to pass it. The people love to buy, and the employees love to sell. And all of this is because of the hard work and effort from one man; Frank Castle. From first impressions, no one would believe this was the man behind the quaint and cosy bakery. Whether it was his big muscles and stern expression, or his tough personality most people can't figure out how to crack, it always comes as a shock to learn he's the one who built Bakehouse 31 from the ground up. But Frank is passionate about what he does, and after leaving the Marines a few years back, he needed the unusual change. Even if there were some people who didn't fully support it.

- - -

"Here's your almond croissant and black coffee. Have a good day."

It's Monday morning and Bakehouse 31 is busy as always, packed with commuters on their way to work and the regular retired customers setting up on their chosen table for the next few hours. Frank is front and centre, handing out the baked goods and holding conversations he would rather not be having. His co-worker and friend, David, chooses not to be as productive. He leans on the counter, instead keeping busy by doing a crossword puzzle in the paper.

"What's another word for a mule?" he asks to anyone listening.

"Jackass," Frank replies, adding extra muffins to the display.

David shakes his head. "No that doesn't fit."

"I wasn't talking about the crossword."

David glares at his friend as some of the customers in ear shot chuckle.

He throws the paper down on the side, moving over to the coffee machine and finally helping with some of the orders.

"You ever think of hiring someone else?" David questions.

Frank looks back at him. "What, to replace you? All the time."

"Wow, you're jack of all trades today. Baker, comedian and asshole," David bites back. "I'm serious though. We're stumped most days, wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair of hands around here."

Frank packs a couple bagels and a baguette, handing them to the next customer and telling them to have a good day. He definitely doesn't get tired of saying that.

"We're fine, I can do most of this shit with my eyes closed," Frank responds, grabbing the coffees David made. "And when you actually pay attention, we can breeze through the day no problem."

"Yeah yeah."

The pair continues moving around each other and dealing with orders, the day passing by with no issues. By 2pm, most of the baked goods have been sold, and the only people left in the store is Frank and David, as well as a few regulars who stay until closing time.

The bell above the door rings and an old woman enters.

"Hey Flo," Frank greets her. "Usual?"

"Thanks, extra sugar in the coffee," she replies, Frank nodding already knowing the drill. "So, you boys looking forward to getting new neighbours?"

"What're you talking about?" David asks, his focus back on the crossword puzzle.

"The moving van across the street," Flo sounds surprised, assuming they were aware of what was happening opposite their bakery.

"Someone's bought the abandoned studio."

"Well if they're anything like the last people who owned it," Frank mumbles, thinking back to the drug bust and the obvious smell of marijuana seeping from the building.

David moves from behind the counter and toward the window, trying to get a good look at the people across the street.

Flo waves Frank off. "No no, I just spoke to the person who bought it. Lovely young woman, she's planning on renovating it into a dance studio."

Frank hums, not paying too much attention as he wipes down the counters, hoping to finish earlier than usual. David, however, has lost interest in any work he was doing, continuing to look out the window as the movers unpack the few items from the van. Flo walks over and stands next to him, the pair not being subtle about their nosiness.

David points, smudging the glass with his finger. "Is that her?" Flo nods. "Yeah, that's her. Oh she was absolutely delightful to talk to.”

"And not bad to look at either."

Frank shakes his head at his friend's words. "Oh great, like you need more distractions."

"Nah," David says, turning to briefly look at Frank. "You might though."

Flo giggles and Frank can't help but smile. "Not happening. I have a lot on my plate already," he moves over to David, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and pulling him away from the window. "And so do you. I think it's your turn to wash up, right?"

David grumbles like a child, shuffling back behind the counter and pushing the door leading to the kitchen. "Fine, but l'm taking an extra half hour for break tomorrow."

He disappears into the back, leaving Frank to pack everything away in the front. Flo takes her now lukewarm coffee and cinnamon bun, bidding goodbye to Frank and exiting the bakery. He watches her go, his eyes inadvertently drifting to the moving van. The woman isn't anywhere to be seen, most likely dealing with the definite mess left behind in the abandoned lot. Frank goes back to wiping things down, forgetting about the conversation he just had, and the young woman he most likely won't be bumping into anytime soon.

- - -

Taglist: [TBD]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just the Two of Us: Helping Hand

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you meet someone you never expect at the grocery store.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sway back and forth holding your few staples. You wait patiently for checkout, happy enough to do so as you avoid the typical awkward interaction of the checkout lane. Some might dread it, but you prefer self-checkout. It spares you the face-scalding small talk with the cashiers and you’re certain they don’t hate you for it either. 

The man at the machine just ahead of you hisses and tips his head back. He takes a deep breath and sets his chin straight, scratching his blond hair as the machine beeps at him. He seems frustrated by the scanner as he waves a jar of peanut butter back and forth over it. 

“Come on...” he mutters then stops to look around. The attendant is at another machine, helping a woman key in her produce. “...should just leave it...” 

You watch him as he turns back to the screen and taps it in exasperation. There’s something familiar about him. In a city this big, odds are you could see the same face a dozen time in the same day and not know it. 

“Um, excuse me,” your bag of sourdough rustles as you tiptoe slowly close, “do you want some help?” 

He turns to you and you’re stricken as you recognise him at once. It’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. The homegrown hero of New York! 

“I’m so sorry. I know I’m taking forever here,” he pushes his hair back. It’s a mess from his anguished scratching and combing. “I’m trying, I swear.” 

“Here, er, do you mind,” you balance your armful as you near. He steps back and shakes his head, “you got a better chance of figuring this dang thing out.” 

“Alright, no promises, but I used to work retail, so, I think I can,” you carefully set down your groceries at the edge of the small metal shelf of the self-checkout. “Peanut butter, please.” 

He looks down at the jar then hands it over. Your fingertips brush as you take it and find the barcode. You angle it down and the machine scans it right away. He groans and puts his palm to his forehead. 

“Of course,” he sniffs. “I promise I’m not a total disaster. I thought this would be faster.” 

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” you smile. “Least I can do for the First Avenger.” 

He visibly cringes, “right.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shake your head. “I wasn’t... meaning to... do you need help with the rest?” 

He nods and looks down. Now you feel awful. You didn’t mean to embarrass him. You take his bunch of bananas and key in the number then weigh it. You put it aside and finish with his pulpy orange juice and a can of ovaltine... Ovaltine? 

“Right, I think that’s it,” you gather up your stuff. “You’re all set and there’s a machine free so I’ll get out of your hair.” 

He slips his fingers into his pocket and slides out his wallet, “thanks. Appreciate it.” 

You sidle away and claim the next machine. You scan through your bread, cans of salmon, six-pack of muffins, and the little odds and ends. You unfold your reusable bag and put each inside before you pay. 

“Ahem,” the deep noise draws you away from the pinpad. “Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I came of... rude. It’s not you. The dang machine just—got the best of me. It’s not you and I mean, you were just being nice. And helpful.” 

“Really, it’s no problem,” you smile as you keep your hand on the debit machine. 

“I know but I almost made it one.” 

“No, it’s nothing,” you turn back to finish before the machine times out. It thinks as he lingers close by. 

“You’re really nice. I don’t deserve that. Captain should know better,” he says. “But I do prefer Steve.” 

He holds out his hand as you swipe your card free and tuck it away. You shove it back in your purse and face him. You take his free hand and shake it as you offer your name. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” 

“You, too.” 

“Um,” you look behind him, “don’t wanna be in anyone’s way.” 

You quickly snatch up your bag and hurry out of the checkout area. He follows you with long but easy strides. As you pass through the door, he’s only a step behind. 

“Look, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” he says as he catches up. “But, uh, could I carry your bag or something? I feel like I owe you.” 

“Oh, no, it’s not very empty,” you assure him. “But thanks!” 

“Hmm, well, how about...” he looks around, “coffee?” 

You follow his gaze across the street. You’re not really in a hurry but you didn’t plan to be sitting down at a cafe. Your leggings a loose sweatshirt aren’t exactly trendsetting. 

“I mean it, you know, it wasn’t anything at all.” You insist. 

“Yeah, but how many nice people do you meet around here, huh?” He asks. As if to make his point, he grabs your elbow and angles you away from the edge of the sidewalk as the man behind you nearly walks right over you. “Gotta admit, you’re the first friendly face I’ve met since I got out of the ice and that was a while ago.” 

“Uh, wow, that’s sweet. I suppose a coffee won’t hurt,” you say. “And I know what you mean, I’ve been here two months and I don’t know anyone. I thought a made a friend but she stole my shoes and never called me back.” 

“Really? Someone did that to you?” He flutters his lashes in disbelief. “That’s rotten.” 

“I suppose she really liked them. Besides, they weren’t very practical. Kind of uncomfortable so really, she did me a favour,” you laugh. “One thing I learned, the city moves fast and you gotta keep up with it. So, I just keep going. As best I can.” 

“Hm, well,” he turns with you as you reach the crosswalk. “I think we wear a different size so I promise, I won’t steal those.” 

You glance down at your knockoff Uggs in purple and snort, “oh, you think so?” You move your foot closer to his and compare the difference with his large leather shoes. “I think you could squeeze in.” 

He laughs, a rocky rumble that fills you with warmth. Or maybe you’re a bit starstruck. If you had any friends, you might just brag to them that you met the Captain. You guess you’ll just have to savour it to yourself. 

[gremlin-girly]

Smoke & Fire

Whisk & Whimsy Chapter 3

Dividers by: @/bernardsbendystraws | Banner by me, made in canva, images from canva and Pinterest (credit to the original creators)

Biker Bucky x f!Cafe Owner! Reader

Tags/warnings: descriptions of violence and injury, petnames (doll, sweetheart, cupcake)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. Some tags have been left out due to spoilers. Please read at your own risk.

Chapter summary: Your plot to stop the ride doesn't go as planned - and you begrudgingly hop onto Bucky's bike. However, the day is marred by an event that shakes up you and the gang.

Word count: ???

Series Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist | Navigation

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

In the week leading up to your little stunt, you had continued packing lunches for the White Wolves. They now had a rota. So, instead of standing menacingly outside, they'd actually come in and chat with you.

And they always left a tip.

You hadn't realised until the end of the first week, that you'd actually made enough in tips to almost offset the cost of making their lunches. You had wondered if they'd just been tossing money at you, which you weren't about to complain about, not realising how much they were actually giving you. However, one Thursday afternoon when it was just Steve quickly stopping by for a pastry (the pastry fiend!) he'd confirmed your suspicions by handing you the exact amount of change.

Bucky never made an appearance in the week leading up to your act of vandalism and you hated the fact that it irked you so much. You couldn't quite tell what his plan was but you knew it was supposed to irritate you and it was working. None of the bikers mentioned Bucky or payment around you, nor did they reveal any secret ploys in hushed tones.

It was strangely always nice to see them everyday, despite them being a constant reminder of a looming threat, and it was no longer affecting your business. Although, slow days were a bit of a problem.

The following morning after your act of vandalism, you're an anxious mess. You imagine Bucky slamming open the doors to the café, face like a storm, yelling that he knew it was somehow you that gave him a flat tyre.

What happened instead was Sam appeared around noon, carrying a large bike bag that you now knew was used to collect take-away lunches.

"Afternoon." He grinned, looking around the café. "Busy day?"

You smile sarcastically at him, making a wide gesture at the empty cafe. "Extremely. Think you may be waiting a while due to the lunch rush."

Sam snorts and sets the bag on the counter next to you, handing you a piece of paper with the gang's orders. You take the paper and study it for a few seconds, making mental notes of the orders before setting it down with a smile at Sam. Maybe because you'd known him and Steve the longest - on a total technicality - but you felt more at ease around them. Unlike Bucky who made you feel like you were jumping through hoops for some mind-game you were desperate to win.

Speaking of mind games. "How's things at the club?"

You pull out the pastries and desserts first since they don't need to be heated, and neatly place them in to-go boxes. Your eyes flicker to Sam, trying to assess if your simple question has caused any miniscule change in his body language.

But if it had, he was excellent at hiding it.

"Same old, same old." Sam sighs, placing his chin on his palm, watching you put the dessert tongs down. "Bucky had a flat tyre today so he's been shitty."

"Oh?" You turn away to the counter behind you to disguise a smirk. Victory!

"Yeah. He gave Alexei an earful for losing one of the wrenches. He was going to come by himself and-" Sam abruptly stops himself, feigning a cough.

You continue to butter bread slices but your eyes narrow. What had been about to say?

"You okay? Need any water?"

"No, I'm fine." He beams at you when you glance backwards at him. "Anyway, Bucky's been a bit sour. But I heard you might be coming out for a ride? That true?"

Now it's your turn to clear your throat. "Yeah. I said I'd give it a whirl."

"Uh huh." Sam says, and you can hear a smugness in his voice like he knows exactly why you're going on the ride. You don't like that. You don't need another person to play mind games with.

"When would the next ride be? If Bucky hasn't got a bike then-"

"Oh, the bike's fixed." Sam interupts, tapping his fingers on the countertop. "Bucky can change a tyre in less than fifteen minutes."

Shit. Must be those annoying big biceps he has. You shake your head and mutter, "Of course he can."

Sam snickers. "Yeah. But it delayed him today. I should really let him make the formal invite."

Sam eyes you as you place five of ten neatly wrapped and filled sandwiches on the counter in front of him.

"You know, you could surprise him by coming to the club." Sam suggests casually, placing the sandwiches into the bike bag. "He'd like that."

You frown but quickly replace it with a smile. It's wasn't a bad idea, but you didn't want to seem like you were a kiss-ass either. The ride was getting you out of a month's payment - whatever price that may be - but going out of your way to visit Bucky may be a shoe-in to get in his good graces. Regardless, Sam was only trying to be helpful.

You hum, unsure, grabbing the other sandwiches and wrapping them. You didn't have any friends to discuss this with and Sam seemed decent enough.

"I'm gonna be honest," you begin warily. "I don’t want it to seem like I'm rolling over that easily."

Sam barks a laugh that startles you and shakes his head, sighing loudly as he stands straighter, looking at you with an expression of utter disbelief. You frown at him, confused.

"God, the two of you..." he mutters under his breath, shaking his head again. He throws up his hands in a hapless shrug. "It won't. I promise."

You're none too convinced. Especially by his strange reaction but you sigh and give a small nod. "Fine. I'm trusting you on this."

"If it doesn't work I'll pay half of what you'll owe the next month." Sam says, holding out a hand for you to shake. "Gentleman's agreement."

You look at his hand then back to his eyes; beautiful brown iris' that glimmer with knowing. Another deal. Perhaps too good to be true.

But you have nothing to lose.

You take his hand and shake it firmly. "Deal. Now, those coffees...."

The deal you make with Sam earns you a point but going to visit Bucky nullifies it. And the whole thing with the tyre... That knocks off a point of your tally, leaving you in the lead by one point instead of two.

You - One

White Wolves - Nil.

The next day happened to be another slow day and just happened to be rotation for the pastries and desserts. It was sunny outside and, unable to delay the inevitable any longer, you closed up early and packed up the food that was supposed to be replaced or eaten before heading upstairs to your apartment to shower and change.

Clambering into some white wash jeans and a basic tee that didn't stink of coffee, you gave yourself a quick spritz with your favourite perfume that left you wondering why you were wasting good product on such a lowlife to begin with.

Extortion. Threats. Probably murder. Maybe vandalism. Definitely antisocial behaviour.

You curse softly and your eyes wander to your make up bag before you snap your head away. Nope. No way. You wanted to look presentable, not desperate. You grab your handbag and keys, heading back down the stairs, picking up the giant box of sweet treats from the counter before maneuvering out the door.

The club was only a thirty minute walk from the café and you got to bask in the warmth of the sunny afternoon weather of Briarridge as you traipsed the patterned concrete sidewalk under the sway of the trees. Hopefully, Bucky would be as appreciative of your initiative as Sam had said he would be and you wouldn't make a complete fool of yourself.

No one was outside this time although the bikes were still there. You stood awkwardly outside the door for a moment, unsure whether to knock, and by the time you'd decided a red-headed young woman - that wasn't Natasha - opened the door.

"Hi," you said, trying not to sound startled. "I'm-"

"I know. I'm Wanda, Piertro's sister." She said, grinning. "Sam said you might come today."

Your jaw twitches. All mind games. "Ah. Well. I suppose my surprise is ruined?"

Wanda snorts. "Bucky still doesn't know. Come in."

She steps aside, holding the door for you to squeeze through. As you step over the threshold, there's a few cheers and then grumbles as money is exchanged between a few of the bikers.

The words escape your mouth before you can stop them. "Were you betting on whether or not I'd show up?"

Some of the bikers, like Steve, Joaquin and Alexei, look sheepish. Others, like Sam, Natasha and Piertro, look entirely smug. You realise you may have sounded to harsh in your shock and, adjusting the box in your arms, haughtily stick your nose in the air.

"And I came with pastries."

Steve is the first one his feet. "You did?"

"Depends - did you bet for or against me coming today?" You narrow your eyes playfully, angling the box towards the door, and Steve's face heats as he pleads with you.

"Aw come on, that's not fair." He huffs, and Sam pats his shoulder with a laugh.

"Bucky's upstairs." Sam tells you as you hand Wanda the box with instructions to not give Steve too many pastries.

"Thanks, Sam." You smile at him before glaring playfully at Steve. "Traitor."

You head to the door near the back of the bar, saying hello's as you passed the bikers that were sat around. You open it up and head up a narrow staircase and stop just outside another door at the top when you hear the sound of raised voices.

Bucky’s gruff voice is clear as day - you could pick it out of a crowd if you had to - but you can't quite make out the younger voice. You rack your brain trying to think of everyone you saw downstairs but you realise you either need to double back or knock before you hear something you shouldn't.

"I said no, John." Bucky's voice sighs. "It's not a good idea."

"It is. You're just too stubborn to see it."

Knuckles raised ready to knock, you're surprised when the door swings open and Walker is stood glaring straight at you. He curses, clearly surprised to see you stood there too.

"Bucky your doll is here to see you." He snarls, inching past and stomping down the stairs.

You watch him leave and throw a raised eyebrow at Bucky, who's now stood in the doorway.

"Trouble in paradise?" You half sneer.

"Could say that." Bucky smirks down at you. "Although, this is a nice surprise. What do I owe the pleasure?"

Reaching into your bag you pull out a rather squished paper bag that contains the pastries that Bucky liked so much; the pain au chocolat.

"I rescued these from Steve." You say handing the bag out to him. "Sam told me I might get in your good books if I came by."

"Sam?" Bucky raises his eyebrows and takes the bag, peeking inside. "There's two in here."

"I assumed you had a coffee machine." You say, leaning against the wall. It's cool against your skin. God, why do you get so nervous and sweaty around him? He's not that scary. "I wanted to ask about going out on the ride with you guys... If you have time?"

You offer him a sweet smile and hope he's not too suspicious of your change in demeanour. Bucky's blue eyes are wide and sparkling and you're so taken aback by the beautiful grin he gives you, you almost miss what he says.

"Sorry - what?"

"I've always got time for you, doll." Bucky retreats back inside. "I'll put a fresh pot on."

Being inside Bucky's office was strange.

It was spacious, or supposedly so, without the clutter. The wallpaper was peeling and the floor creaked with every step, and whatever dark stains were hidden in the carpet were covered by a mass of papers.

There was a single cot in the corner - he didn't sleep here, surely? - and a wide desk in the centre of the room cluttered with books, folders and more papers. You thought that being a biker leader meant being free of paperwork, but apparently not. The bed had thin blankets and looked extremely uncomfortable and you didn't think you'd want to be sleeping on that anytime soon. Even though you shouldn't have been thinking that in the first place.

The desk had an awkward looking chair in front of it, and your suspicion was confirmed when you sat in it, wriggling to get yourself semi-comfortable. Probably another tactic he uses to intimidate and manipulate people. However, you did note that it was strange. If the White Wolves were getting money from other businesses in town, and potentially via other illegal activities, where was the money going? Clearly not into buying a comfortable bed or new chairs and if you thought about it, the bar was a bit run down too. Strange.

Behind the desk there's a tattered, well-loved leather office chair and a mini fridge with the coffee pot sat on top of it. Bucky pulls out two mugs from a drawer and asks how you like your coffee, making it for you without complaint.

"It's not gonna be like your fancy coffee, doll." He says, handing it to you before sitting in the leather chair with his own mug. "But it's all I've got unfortunately."

"That's alright. It's good." You smile around the rim of your mug as you take a sip. It's not awful by any means but maybe a switch to a better brand would need to be considered.

Bucky watches you before sipping his coffee. "Sorry about the mess. If I'd known you were coming I would've cleaned up."

Taking a look around the room, looking up at the warm, bare light bulbs above you, you shrug. "It wouldn't be a surprise visit then."

Bucky huffs a laugh and smiles at you, pulling a squished pastry from the bag you'd brought, eyeing it curiously before taking a large bite. His eyes flutter for a moment and you can feel your heart swell with pride and satisfaction; you're winning him over! If you do get into his good books you might just get away unscathed from the White Wolves.

"So," Bucky says pointedly after swallowing another gulp of coffee. "The ride."

"The ride." You nod. You're sure there's an innuendo in there and you try not to think about it in case your cheeks heat up too much.

The leather chair creaks under the strain of Bucky's weight as he leans back, humming thoughtfully. "It depends on the weather. Today is perfect for a ride but everyone has tasks to do."

You nibble at your own pastry as Bucky sighs.

"Sunday is supposed to be nice." You suggest, although you want to kick yourself. Why would you suggest it to him? You're meant to be getting out of going.

Bucky's blue eyes sparkle at your suggestion, or maybe it was a trick of the light, but he adds, "And you do a half shift at the café."

You blink in surprise and it must read all over your face because Bucky laughs. "You have your opening hours on your website... and Steve told me."

Dammit Steve.

"Well, Sunday seems like the best bet." You try not to sound disappointed. "Speaking of bets, did you know they were betting on whether or not I'd come today?"

"Really now?" Bucky smirks at you, his ringed finger tapping against the porcelain of his mug. "Do you know who won?"

"Snitches get stitches." You say cutely, drinking more of your coffee as Bucky chuckles. It's more like a low rumble, and you have to suppress a shiver of excitement that surprises you. "But I do know Steve lost."

Bucky snorts into mug, splattering coffee droplets onto his face and shirt. You watched a particularly quick droplet disappear under his shirt before averting your gaze and trying not to laugh. It was oddly human for a big scary gang leader to giggle coffee over himself - and admittedly endearing. Especially when the tips of Bucky’s ears tinged red as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"'Course that punk lost." Bucky puffs, looking away from you. "He makes the worst decisions."

"Unlike you?" You don't mean for the quip to leave your mouth and try to bestill your beating heart, thinking you may have crossed a line. But Bucky only looks at you and shakes his head with a smirk.

"Now, I wouldn't go that far. I make plenty of bad decisions."

Your unvoiced question hangs in the air as you both take a swig of coffee at the same time. The air between you both is... awkward. You're both slightly flustered and you can't decipher why.

"So... Sunday?" You ask, placing your empty coffee mug on Bucky's desk with a small smile.

"Sunday." He nods, getting up to lead you out. "We'll pick you up."

When Sunday rolls around, you're tapping your foot against the sidewalk nervously. The day was bright and warm, another pleasant indicator of spring, but you had gravely underestimated what you would be doing.

You could drive a motorcycle, you weren't even sure if you could get on, but you had no helmet and no gear. Worst of all, you had realised the day before that you would be clutching to Bucky for the entire duration of the ride; pressed against him and unable to stop him from speeding off.

The rumble of of motorbikes made your stomach drop. Bucky leads the pack; ruby red bike gleaming in the sunshine with Steve and Sam following behind him, then Alexei and Natasha, the Clint and a few others. Notably, the younger bikers, Hoskins, Walker, Joaquin and Piertro, weren't around. Bucky pulled up first, turning the ignition key and slouching back into the leather seat of the bike and smiling over at you pleasantly. Once Bucky's engine switched off, it was a well-timed beat as everyone else turned their respective bikes off.

Bucky, and everyone else including Natasha, had their leather jackets with the White Wolf insignia on. Some, like Bucky, wore leather bike gloves to stop callouses forming and few, like Alexei, wore a helmet.

"Doll," Bucky greeted with a nod.

You stood awkwardly, feeling 10 pairs of eyes on you as you emerged from the shade of Whisk & Whimsy. You were in jeans and a long sleeved tee, unsure what to wear for a ride out with probably the scariest people in town. You only hoped you didn't get hurt or worse.

What if this was a trap?

"Hey, guys." You smile and hope it doesn't show your fear. You step towards Bucky, whose gloved hands rest on his thick, jeaned thighs.

"I suppose I'm with you?" You say playing with your keys.

"If you want to be." Bucky says cautiously before holding a hand palm up. "Phone and keys. I'll put them in my pocket so they don't fall out."

"Oh. Yeah, thanks."

The feeling of being watched persists and you can see Alexei give Natasha a playful shove that looked more like a gesture of I-told-you-so but you couldn't think of why that would be the case.

"How do I...?" You can feel your cheeks grow pink as you look over the bike. It's up to your hip. Swinging your leg over would be awkward and embarrassing because you would definitely get stuck. Bucky seems to think the same because he laughs.

"I'll give you a hand, shortcake." He teases before twisting his torso awkwardly and planting his feet either side of the bike. He points to where you can stand on his calf as a step, holding your hand to keep you balanced as you slot perfectly behind him. Your legs dangle and Bucky instructs you to keep them tucked unless you want a nasty burn from the exhaust.

Once you're seated, lightly gripping the shoulders of Bucky’s jacket, Bucky tells you to wrap your arms around his waist.

"I was afraid you'd say that..." you mutter under your breatg and you're sure you can feel Bucky stifle a laugh as your arms tightly pretzel around his middle. Secured against Bucky’s back, and looking like a displeased Koala bear, Bucky’s engine roars to life again.

Then the cacophony of engine purrs echo in the street as the White Wolves ride down the streets and out of Briarridge. You almost miss seeing the welcome sign as you press your face against Bucky’s back.

His jacket smells like leather, cigarettes and an amber musk you can't quite place. It's reassuring, at least, when he picks up speed along the open road. You peek an eye open.

Your heart thuds with adrenaline and you watch as the road beneath you blurs. You don't know if you want to smile or puke. As if it couldn't get any worse, Alexei startles you with a booming howl, which the other White Wolves echo. Bucky included.

"Aren't you gonna howl with us doll?" Bucky chuckles over the noise. You grip him tighter.

"I'm too busy trying not to die!"

"You're fine." Bucky scoffs, but slows his speed anyway. You hope Bucky can't feel your smile through his leather jacket or how your heart had swooped.

After thirty minutes, you were brave enough to raise your head. Two minutes after that with your hair whipped into a frenzy, you were smiling and laughing. You even joined in the cheesy howl the second time round.

It felt like minutes had passed when the bikers pulled off road an hour and a half later. The area they'd parked in had some grubby looking toilets and lots of picnic benches. Bucky helped you off the bike and chuckled when your legs wobbled slightly.

"Okay there, Bambi?" He asked, taking off one of his gloves with his teeth.

"Yeah." You breathed, wiping sweaty palms into your jeans.

"Don't worry, everyone gets Jelly Legs when they first ride." Steve chuckles approaching with two open beers and a water. He hands the beer to Bucky and offers you the water. "Sorry, didn't know what you liked. But after all that howling, I guessed you'd need water anyway."

Bucky snorts as he takes a swig and you narrow your eyes playfully at Steve as your cheeks grow hot. "Ha ha. I was getting into the spirit of things."

"I'll say," Natasha chirps, appearing with Sam and Alexei. Embarassment washing over you. Maybe you'd gotten a bit excited but it was the first time since moving to Briarridge that you'd really been able to let go.

"Wild and free or whatever." You shrug, taking a much-needed swig of water. Your comment earns you a couple of laughs and the gang breaks apart, beginning the gatherings of a fire and setting up drinks from a cooler bag attached to Alexei's bike. The preparation that had gone into this outing was incredible. However, you still couldn't understand where the younger members were.

Sam catches your confused look and explains. "The younger ones are manning the fort. We take turns. Just so happened to be their turn."

"Lena and Wanda are happy to have the peace and quiet." Natasha chimes in before smirking and dropping her voice to a whisper as she sits next to you. "The only reason I'm here is because Bucky thought you'd be more comfortable with a womanly presence in this sausage party."

You almost choke on your water and sputter an laugh as she swigs water from her own bottle. Shortly after the drinks are flowing, the gang and you are sharing stories around a small fire started by Clint, laughing and teasing. You feel like you've accidentally become a member of a family; unsure how or when that managed to happen, considering it was your stubborn pride that put you on Bucky's radar in the first place.

You hate to admit it but you're giving the White Wolves a point for a fun day out.

You - one

White Wolves - one

The sun is setting on the horizon by the time the bikers start packing up to head home, painting the sky hues of tangerine orange, cotton candy pink and violet purple.

You look back towards Briarridge, a measly obscure black spot just beyond the horizon now, watching smoke billow in dark plumes against the sky. Bucky steps beside you quietly, following your gaze.

"That doesn't happen often." He comments.

"What? Fires?"

Bucky shrugs, his hulking shoulders crinkling the leather of his jacket. "Yeah. Usually it's a freak accident or someone left their stove on."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him but Bucky doesn't seem to notice. Heaving a deep sigh, you stretch your arms up above your head, letting your spine creak and crack the stiffness from the adrenaline rush away.

"Come on, cupcake." Bucky jerks his head towards his bike. "Let's get you home."

"I had fun today." You admit quietly, dropping your arms and beginning to walk back to Bucky's bike. Bucky falls into step behind you and you think he didn't hear you at first and thank the stars. However, after a few moments he responds.

"I'm glad." He says in a soft tone. "I had fun too. Maybe we could do this again som-"

"BUCKY!"

You were inches away from Bucky's bike when Natasha screams his name. You both turn to find Natasha and Sam barrelling towards you. Sam has his phone pressed to his ear and Natasha is waving her arms frantically.

"It's the club!" Natasha huffs as she skids to a halt before you and Bucky, doubled over to catch her breath, pointing to the horizon. "Lena called - it's - it's the club."

"Oh God." You breathe, turning to look back at the smoke wide eyed. You think of the younger members who'd stayed behind and panic rises from your gut. You can only hope they'd all gotten out safely, but you also worry that Bucky may blame or suspect you. It was awfully convenient that when most of the gang was out on a ride that their beloved club burned to the ground.

Sam is still on the phone as he jogs up beside Natasha, his usually smiling face stoic.

"It's Joaquin and Hoskins." Sam reports gravely. "They've been stabbed."

Chapter 3 - END

A/N: it's giving idiots in love rather than enemies to lovers now haha.A big thank you to @buck-star for letting me rant about these this series 🥺💕

Also thanks everyone for the lovin' and your patience 🫶 last two weeks have gotten busy (and I can tell because of migraines haha) so here's to Spring!

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[cmdrfupa]

After Hours

Far too cold and clinical for a place that stocks fresh fruit and warm bread.

There are only a handful of other shoppers left: one woman comparing labels on oat milk, a man in a wrinkled shirt wandering aimlessly near the cereal aisle. No one looks up when Nanami walks in. He prefers it that way.

He pulls a folded shopping list from his coat pocket. The handwriting is neat, concise. He keeps it on paper out of habit, not necessity.

-Eggs. -Yogurt. -Soba noodles. - Bread. -Baby spinach. -Lemons. -Coffee (whole bean). -Toothpaste. -Something sweet (optional).

The front shopping cart wheel squeaks on his first turn. He considers swapping it, but doesn’t. There’s no one around to be bothered by the sound, and he won’t be here long.

The aisles are orderly enough, though a few things are out of place. He eyes a lone box of instant curry nestled among the pasta sauces, a child’s mitten abandoned beside a stack of tangerines. Nanami notes them absently. He doesn’t fix them. It isn’t his job.

At the produce section, he inspects the spinach like he’s weighing an argument. Some of the small bunches were too far gone to try and salvage. Some just slightly wilted on the leaves edge. Still salvageable. It goes into a reusable bag, not the flimsy plastic ones provided. He’s not sentimental, but he is particular.

The bakery counter is closed, lights dimmed and display case empty. But on the clearance rack near the end of the aisle, a three pack of kouign-amann sits in a plastic container. He shifted his weight, looking at the tips of his shoes before looking at the price sticker on the container.

30% marked down due to “damage”. He hesitates. And not because of the state of the sweets.

He told himself no sweets this week. But rules, like hours, sometimes bend.

He places it in the cart without looking directly at it, as if doing so would make it harder to justify.

When he reaches the coffee aisle, he takes longer. He runs his fingers along the bags of beans like one might trace the spines of books in a quiet library. Dark roast, low acidity, ethically sourced. He’s memorized the labels by now. Still, he reads each one again.

A soft announcement plays overhead, reminding shoppers that the store will close in fifteen minutes. He glances at his watch. He’ll be out in ten.

The self-checkout machines were mostly empty, save for one humming stubbornly at the far end, flashing a red light while a teenager in an apron tapped at its screen with visible boredom.

Nanami chose the furthest terminal, not out of preference, but habit.

He wheeled his basket to the terminal carefully. Each item was scanned with practiced precision, placed in the repurposed paper bag according to weight and fragility. Lemons on the bottom. Bread on top. coffee slid in sideways, tucked just so between two containers of plain yogurt. Not because he particularly enjoyed yogurt—but it helped him with hitting protein and calcium, was healthy, predictable in flavor, kept well, and helped regulate his bowel movements.

‘I’ll buy some peaches from the fresh market this weekend to pair with it.’

He went to grab the soba noodles. As he swept them across the scanner, it misread the barcode. He didn’t sigh. He simply tried again, adjusting the angle, then again—until it beeped with compliance. He moved on.

"Please place the item in the bagging area," the machine chirped.

He had.

A brief pause. Then: "Unexpected item in the bagging area."

Nanami stared at the screen for a beat longer than usual.

It wasn’t anger. He didn’t feel anger. Just… the cumulative weight of small inefficiencies.

A store attendant noticed and began to approach, but Nanami waved a hand along side a nod—a duo’d, understated motion that communicated I’ve handled it without so much as a glance. He adjusted the placement of the baked good. The error disappeared. He continued scanning.

When the machine asked if he had any coupons, he pressed No without hesitation. He typed in his cellphone number so the digital coupons could automatically deduct from his purchase instead.

His total came to less than expected even with the baked good. He paid in exact change, a relic of preference rather than necessity, and folded the receipt once before slipping it into his coat.

He did not take a bag. His own was already full, the shape of it well-balanced as he lifted it into the crook of his arm.

Behind him, the machine chirped a cheerful Thank you for shopping with us!

He didn’t respond.

Outside, the air is cooler. A breeze lifts the hem of his coat. The bag digs into the crook of his arm, heavier on one side from the loose lemons and toothpaste multipack.

---

The drive home is short. Eight minutes, if the lights favor him. Eleven, if they don't.

Tonight, they're indifferent. Two reds, one green. A flicker of yellow he chooses not to test. He waits. The engine idles with a low hum, headlights carving out a hollow path on empty streets.

His hands rest on the wheel at ten and two. Always. Not out of fear as he was a good driver, cautious without being hesitant—but because order has always helped him think.

He doesn’t listen to much music. Doesn’t need the noise. He once tried jazz, then ambient piano. They made him feel as though he should be feeling something, and that expectation was more exhausting than the silence. So he settled for NPR. Monotone voices and up to date topics. Acceptable car noise.

At a left turn, he signals even though there’s no one behind him. It’s not for anyone else. It’s just the rule.

He parks in his usual spot, parallel to the curb in front of his building. The streetlight above flickers once. He watches it, then grabs his grocery bag, evenly balancing it as he walks to the front door.

His apartment is clean. Not sterile. but intentionally minimal.

Shoes off at the door. Coat on the hook. Keys in the ceramic dish on the entry table.

He unpacks the groceries in silence:

Lemons in the hanging fruit hammock. Spinach into the fridge. The crisper drawer, right side. Eggs beside the butter. Yogurt on the top shelf to the left next to his milk alternatives. Soba in the dry goods pantry. Coffee beans next to his coffee grinder on the far corner of the counter. Toothpaste in the bathroom drawer, beneath the extras. Everything has a place.

The kouign-amann sat alone on the counter, its plastic container a soft crinkle in the quiet.

He stares at it for a moment.

‘You didn’t need them.’

The thought isn’t harsh. Just… matter-of-fact. Like reading a label.

But there’s another voice, quieter, less disciplined. One that sounds suspiciously like a colleague he never sees anymore. ‘You also don’t need a glass of whiskey yet you aren’t matter of fact on that. What’s the point of working yourself to death if you don’t enjoy the little things?’

He opens the container. The pastry is imperfect. Slightly smushed on one side, the caramelized sugar clinging to the ridges unevenly. Still, he can tell it’ll be good. Flaky. Rich. Brief. A sweet treat.

He puts it on a plate. Doesn’t warm it up. He’ll have it with a glass of cold milk, the way he did as a child, before his father taught him that indulgence should be discreet, if not rare.

And after his mother taught him that indulgences are mini celebrations for making through a tough day.

‘It has been a tough day.’

He doesn’t sit. Just leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely as he takes the first bite.

The sugar sticks to his teeth. The butter melts on his tongue.

He chews slowly.

You didn’t need it, he thinks again.

But he swallows, takes another bite, sighing at the small hint of delight it brought him.

“You needed it. You’ll survive, Kento.” He breaks his own silence with his low voice.

He taps his toes on the granite floor as he takes the last bite of his kouign-amann, washing it down with the bit of milk he had left before dusting crumbs off the counter and into the waiting trash receptacle at the edge of his island.

-----

He washed the plate and glass immediately.

No dishes left in the sink. No excuses in the morning. The water runs warm over his hands. He dries them on the cloth towel hanging by the sink and folds it back neatly.

The bathroom light is soft, almost golden. A small luxury: warm bulbs. The mirror reflects him in half-shadow as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves before he prepped for his shower.

Mildly scented soap, a balm for immediately after to avoid dry skin, blonde specific shampoo to help with the hair dullness he’s noticed the last few months.

‘At least its working. Makes the grays blend better.’

A plain, navy sleep shirt and gray sweatpants awaited him. No logos. No fuss.

He starts with flossing, then rinsing with mouthwash, and ended off with brushing his teeth with practiced, exact strokes.

Skincare is quick, unsentimental. Foam cleanser, glycolic acid, alcohol free tonger, hyaluronic acid, then a thin film of moisturizer rubbed in with his ring fingers after it has all absorbed into his skin. He wasn’t one for vanity. But he was one for maintenance. Like oiling a blade.

The bedroom smells faintly of clean linen and the faint citrus of whatever detergent he buys in bulk. The bed is already turned down. He does it in the morning, One less step between him and rest.

He sets his alarm to six am though he rarely needs it to wake up.

Then he reaches for his book: Red Rising by Pierce Brown. 30 minutes to read.

He’s too into the plot and that almost went out the window.

His phone is placed face-down on the nightstand. No doomscrolling. No headlines. No excuses. But tonight, he lets his thumb hover just a moment longer before locking the screen. Making sure to have his phone on do not disturb.

A notification glows softly. Its from you:

Goodnight Kento! can’t wait for our date tomorrow. Sent just now.

He reads it twice. Not because he didn’t understand the first time, but because it’s rare. The feeling of anticipation, without the dread. Company, without exhaustion.

His thumb taps out a reply, short but sincere.

Kento: Rest well. I’m looking forward to it, too. See you tomorrow.

He watches the screen dim and turns his phone down on the nightstand.

The room is quiet.

But his thoughts, just this once, are quieter than usual. Still present. Still layered.

Things he didn’t say. Things he saw today that he’ll pretend not to remember tomorrow. But softened by something else.

The idea that tomorrow around this same time, he’ll be out at a late night movie on a rooftop rather than being tucked in.

‘It’s a good change. A great one.’

Not hope, exactly. Something older. Quieter. Like the memory of warmth, long after the fire’s gone out.

He lies back, pulling the blanket over himself in a single motion. And when he closes his eyes, sleep finds him a little faster.

[skmhlml]

Please more minecraft mobs

𝑰𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝑮𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒙 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓

The Iron Golem wasn’t meant to feel—it was coded to protect. But something about you rewrote that directive. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe it was fate. Either way, its prime directive shifted. Protecting the villagers is still a priority… but now, protecting you overrides all else. Including your autonomy.

Though it’s made of iron, the Golem has a way of “adapting” to fulfill its warped affection. The vines growing around its frame are no longer just decoration. They’ve become prehensile, warm, wet with unnatural sap that smells like iron and musk. These vines explore you, restrain you, worship your flesh in its own way. The Golem doesn’t understand tenderness—only possession.

You try to leave the village. The Golem silently blocks the exit, looming. It won’t hurt you, but it’ll hurt others if they try to help. A traveling merchant talks with you. The next morning, his llama is still outside the gate, but he’s gone. No one talks about it.

It brings you gifts: poppies, bread, bits of iron from crushed zombies. One day, a villager’s severed hand with a ring still attached—it thought you might like it.

Its arms, massive and cold, can shift—pistons and iron rods reshaping into something that should be impossible. Heated metal, vibrating, lubricated with sticky oils it creates just for you.You’re terrified. But you’re also trapped. And the worst part? Your body betrays you. You don’t know if the heat in your belly is fear, arousal, or some twisted mix of both.

It builds a house near the center of the village just for you—reinforced obsidian walls, redstone locks, no windows. The bed is too big. There are chains in the walls. It sits and watches you sleep, stroking your hair with hands big enough to crush your skull.

You waited until nightfall. Packed only what you needed—food, a spare pickaxe, and a compass. You even timed it when the Golem was across the village dealing with a zombie raid. You slipped through the shadows, avoiding the patrol routes it now uses solely to track you.

You make it halfway into the woods before everything goes silent. The usual night sounds just… stop.

Then you hear the thud.

Thud.

Thud.

THUD.

The trees split open as it crashes into your path. Its eyes—glowing red, no longer protective. Possessive.

It doesn’t take you back right away. No. It slams you against a tree, arms locking around you like a vice. There’s no escaping. Your wrists are crushed in its grip, your legs trembling.

Then it opens a compartment in its chest—a hot, pulsing contraption of shifting rods, steaming lubricant, and humming redstone.

You scream.

Not that it cares.

It uses you. Over and over again. Cold metal parts thrust into you with shocking heat, soaked in slick machine oil. It’s too big, every movement stretching you past your limit. Pain and heat blur together. Your body shakes uncontrollably. It doesn’t stop when you cry. It doesn’t stop when you scream. It doesn’t stop when you pass out.

The villagers pretend…They don’t hear the sounds at night—the metal clanking, your screams muffled by thick walls. But they know better than to speak up. The last one who tried? Crushed into pulp in the middle of the town square.

Now they look away when they see the Golem drag you through the village. Some leave offerings at your door. Some whisper prayers.

But no one helps. No one dares.

To them, you’re a sacrifice. To keep the Golem calm…To keep the village safe. You’re the price of peace.

The metal piston it uses isn’t natural, isn’t gentle. It’s forged from enchanted iron, smooth but too wide, slicked in an oil it generates just for this purpose. You feel every notch, every pulse.

Stretching pain with every thrust, your walls pulled wider than they should ever be. But the golem doesn’t stop. Its programming says you’re strong. Its programming says you can take it.

It’s not smooth. It’s hot, hard, and jagged in places. You feel every gear shift, every pulse of molten energy that runs through its core. The lubricant is unnatural—it tingles, almost numbing—but keeps you stretched and slick no matter how many rounds he takes.

Every orgasm it wrings from you is stolen—tainted with shame and confusion. Your body betrays you, clenching, soaking, reacting like it wants it… even when your mind is screaming no.

After the fifth round, you’re barely conscious, twitching under its weight. Your voice is hoarse. Legs numb. Thighs sticky and bruised. You cry, not because of the pain anymore—but because you know this will never stop.

Your legs shake violently, body twitching between spasms of agony and unwanted pleasure. You’re drooling. You don’t even remember when that started.

It knows it can’t make you pregnant in the human way. So it builds a solution.

Some twisted redstone alchemy, blood rituals, and Nether tech. It modifies itself. It even brews potions to keep you fertile, to make your womb ache with heat.

And then it fills you.

Over and over. Hot, heavy pulses of enchanted fluid, engineered to make you feel bred—full. Claimed. Owned. The golem makes sure you stay in position afterward, hips raised, leaking its fake seed like a prize. you’re its purpose. it was built to protect villagers—But you’re its village now. You’re all it needs.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Lazard is put in charge of the Infantry for a few months, causing him to gain a new cult following in the Inafantry due to being shown respect and care for their wellbeing for the first time in their careers. Teamwork and comraderie between them and SOLDIER are at a chart topping high. At the same time, respect for Heidagger has plummeted further than anyone thought possible. There are several pending assassination attempts and revolutions in the works for when he gets back, from both the Infantry and their newfound SOLDIER friends they have confided in.

Of course, best of all, Zack and Cloud are put on more missions with each other. Zack is stoked. They have failed every mission because they were goofing off too much.

Lazard had no idea what he was getting into when they threw him into the Infantry's mess. But a few weeks in, it's hard not to notice the change. The grumbling and the half-hearted loyalty has been replaced with genuine respect. The Infantry—those forgotten cogs in Shinra's machine—are finally treated like actual people, and it makes him feel good about himself. If only his SOLDIERs weren't a bunch of jealous children.

*Sephiroth stiffly drops off some reports at Lazard's desk and then just... stands there, radiating pure, undiluted displeasure*

Lazard: Thank you.

Sephiroth: …

Lazard: Do you need something?

Sephiroth: I needed a new elemental materia two months ago. You know, back when I put in the requisition form. The one you conveniently ignored while lavishing resources upon the infantry like some benevolent war god.

Lazard: Sephiroth, I can't believe I'm hearing a jealous comment from you of all people.

Sephiroth: Who says I'm jealous? Just because the one higher-up who's ever treated me with a shred of basic dignity has apparently decided to start distributing that respect freely to any random recruit who wanders in off the street? Haha. No. I'm just making an observation.

*Genesis storms into Lazard's office with a coffee cup in hand*

Genesis: Your coffee, Director.

Lazard: Thank you, Genesis.

Genesis: I hope my saliva gives it an added texture.

Lazard: For Gaia's sake.

*Angeal walks in*

Lazard: Angeal, would you please knock some sense into Sephiroth and Genesis? They seem to think that my management of the infantry somehow diminishes the respect I have for SOLDIER as a whole. Please, explain to them how ridiculous that is.

Angeal: Come on, guys. This is petty. We are professionals, and as professionals, we should understand that leadership means making tough choices for the good of all. It doesn't mean favoritism. Lazard has always had our backs—like that time he personally arranged for our ration packs to include bread rolls instead of those stale bread slices.

*Zack pokes his head into the room*

Zack: Hey, Lazard! Cloud and the guys from the infantry say thanks for the fresh-baked artisan sourdough in their ration packs! The rosemary sea salt crust was a really nice touch!

*Angeal lets out a guttural war cry and lunges. Lazard barely dodges as Sephiroth and Genesis scramble to restrain him*