#bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter bread and butter

[thain1982]

Not for nothing, but there was an important expansion to social security just passed with largely bipartisan support in the Senate that helps rectify some long standing unfairness in the program, and REPUBLICANS talked about the need to fix insolvency, since the increases subtracted about 6 months from solvency estimates.

I dunno, maybe a few of them are starting to realize that they can't butter their bread with the blood of the poor and expect people to just roll over.

[vunblr]

Crumbs of Connection

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff.

Summary: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

Word Count: About 11.8k.

Bucky dragged his feet along the cracked sidewalk with slumped shoulders, as the chill of the night seeped through his tattered jacket. He was almost at the building he’d moved into a few days ago, but each step felt heavier than the last. The mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had left him with a pounding headache, a sour mood, and a stomach that wouldn’t stop growling.

That’s when he noticed.

The little bakery on the corner was still open, its warm light spilling onto the dark street. He frowned. What kind of place stayed open this late? Before he could question it further, the smell of fresh bread, herbs and butter hit his senses. His feet carried him inside before his brain caught up.

The bell above the door chimed softly, and he stepped into the warmth. His eyes scanned the counter, landing on a tray of focaccia behind the glass display. Golden, perfectly crisped, dotted with rosemary and sea salt. His stomach twisted with hunger as he stared, almost entranced.

“Um,” a voice broke through his daze, soft but tinged with caution, “if you wait a little, I can fix something for you.”

Bucky blinked and turned toward the counter. The woman standing there wasn’t what he expected at this ungodly hour. She looked alert, not a trace of exhaustion in her bright eyes or the easy way she held herself. Before he could respond, she disappeared through a door behind the counter.

He frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the light above the counter made his headache throb harder. A few moments later, she returned, holding a small paper bag.

“Here,” she said, offering it with a small smile. “It must be hard in this cold.”

Bucky stared at her, the bag, then back at her.

“What?” he rasped, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Don’t be proud now,” she said, firm but not unkind. “Just take it.”

His mouth twitched, halfway to a sarcastic retort, but he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind a basket of bread. Mud-streaked face, greasy and plastered hair. His beard was a week past needing a trim, and his split lip and tattered clothes didn’t help either.

He swallowed hard, suddenly unsure whether to laugh or groan. She thought he was homeless. His mouth opened and closed, and then he muttered, “I’m not a beggar.”

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared at him for a beat, then muttered, “Okay?” like she wasn’t entirely convinced.

Bucky squinted at her, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had a bad night,” he said finally, the admission tasting bitter in his mouth.

She quirked a brow, with obvious skepticism.

“Can I just get a focaccia?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He kept his movements slow, hiding his bruised knuckles from her as much as possible. He grimaced as he came up with a crumpled bill and a few coins. He counted them twice, deepening his frown. He must have lost his wallet somewhere during the mission, or maybe it was back at the apartment. Either way, what he had wasn’t enough.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at her, unsure of how to explain, but she was already watching him.

Her expression didn’t falter. If anything, her gaze softened, though he noticed the faintest flicker of wariness still in her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said after a moment, with a gentle voice. “Just take it.”

Bucky stiffened. “No, I-”

“You’ll pay me back when you get some money,” she interrupted firmly, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “It’s late, cold, and you’re hungry. It’s not going to hurt me to let one focaccia go.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she gave him shut him up faster than he liked to admit. There was no pity there, just unwavering practicality like she’d already decided and wasn’t about to budge.

“I don’t need charity,” he muttered, the words falling flat even to his own ears.

“Good thing this isn’t charity then,” she shot back, arching a brow. “It’s credit. You can pay it back tomorrow, or the day after, whenever.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a tight line, his pride warring with the hunger clawing in his stomach. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and reached for the bag.

“Fine,” he said, with a clipped voice. “But I will pay you back.”

“Sure. Okay.” she replied, handing it over with an ease that only frustrated him more.

He didn’t thank her. Not out loud, at least. He just nodded stiffly and made his way to the door, the warm paper bag cradled in his hands like it was the first good thing to happen to him all day.

As the door closed behind him, she sighed softly, shaking her head. The man looked like life had chewed him up and spit him out. Maybe he’d just fallen through the cracks recently, it was always hardest in the beginning, learning to ask for help. She glanced at the counter, absently smoothing her hands over her apron.

If she saw him again, maybe she could mention her friend at the community center. They were always looking to help people find stable footing before things got worse. And for someone like him, someone who clearly still had some pride, maybe it wasn’t too late to get him back on his feet.

The sound of the bell snapped her out of her thoughts.

Two cops strolled in, familiar faces, and she greeted them with a small smile. “The usual?” she asked, already moving to grab a pair of pastries from the display.

As she handled their order with practiced ease, her thoughts kept drifting back to the handsome stranger with the haunted eyes.

------

Bucky shoved open the door to his apartment. The space was dark, empty, and cold, but he barely noticed. He kicked off his boots, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall somewhere on the floor. His pants followed, the trail of his discarded clothing leading to the kitchen sink.

He turned on the tap, scrubbing his hands under the warm water and letting out a tired sigh as the grime and blood washed away.

Finally, he opened the bag and pulled out the focaccia, its edges still faintly warm. He bit into it without ceremony, his teeth tearing through the crisp crust and sinking into the soft, herby center.

The groan that escaped him was involuntary.

“Jesus,” he muttered, leaning against the counter. He wasn’t sure if the bread was actually this good or if it was just because he was starving, but it didn’t matter. He tore off another bite, then another, letting the flavors fill the hollow ache in his stomach.

His mind drifted back to the clerk. She had been… unexpected, in a way. Not just because she was there at that hour, but how she’d looked at him, unafraid, and then her gesture, offering him the bread without hesitation, it threw him off. He wasn’t used to kindness without strings attached.

Bucky frowned at the thought, swallowing another bite. He knew he’d acted like an ass, stiff and gruff, but he hadn’t known what else to do. His gaze drifted to the paper bag on the counter, now empty except for a few crumbs. Tomorrow, he’d pay her back. He’d make sure of it.

And maybe while he was there, he could look around properly. He’d been too tired to take it all in, but in the brief glance he’d caught, he’d seen shelves lined with pastries, bread, and other things that looked more tempting than they had any right to be.

It wasn’t just about the food, though. It would be a way to repay her. To even the scales.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Bucky sighed and pushed away from the counter. As he collapsed onto the messy nest of sheets in his living room, his last thought was of the clerk: her calm voice and the smile she’d given him as she handed over the bag.

---

The next morning, Bucky stood under the hot shower spray, letting the water beat against his sore muscles. He scrubbed the grime of the previous day away, trying to clear his head. Afterward, he brewed a cup of coffee, jolting his brain into something resembling alertness.

Setting the empty mug in the sink, he began hunting for his wallet. He turned over the few possessions he had in his apartment, muttering curses under his breath, but it was nowhere to be found.

“Great,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

Reluctantly, he went to the stash of cash he kept hidden under a loose floorboard. Pulling out a few bills, he tucked them into his pocket and took a quick look in the mirror. His split lip was still healing, but his beard was trimmed now, and the dark circles under his eyes were a little less pronounced. Also, his clothes didn’t look like they were dragged against a concrete road. Good enough.

The walk to the bakery was brisk, the chill of the morning sharp but not unpleasant. He felt more like himself than he had the night before, ready to repay the debt and maybe even buy something else.

But as he approached the corner, his steps faltered.

The bakery was closed.

He frowned, sweeping his gaze  over the dark windows and drawn curtains. The sign on the door mocked him with its clear Closed lettering.

What kind of bakery was closed at 10 a.m.?

His mind immediately jumped to worst-case scenarios. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the clerk stayed too late and ran into trouble on her way home. His jaw tightened as he peeked through the curtains, searching for any sign of movement inside.

But then his eyes landed on the sign taped to the door:

Open: 4 p.m. - 12 a.m.

Bucky blinked.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, straightening.

What kind of bakery worked on a schedule like that? Who baked bread for the night shift? He rubbed his jaw, baffled, and glanced at the darkened windows again.

With a shake of his head, he turned back the way he came, the mystery of the night-shift bakery simmering in his thoughts.

---

The day passed in the kind of monotony Bucky had learned to tolerate. Cleaning his gear, half-watching a soccer game, biting back the urge to snap at Dr. Raynor during their session, and ignoring Sam’s persistent calls. By the time evening rolled around, he was restless enough to head out again.

Around 9 p.m., he set off to the bakery, the mystery of its late hours still nagging at him. Who needed baked goods at this time of night? Well, besides himself. Sleep was always a gamble, if he was lucky, he’d be out by 2 a.m., though that was probably wishful thinking.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted movement by the shop. Three bikers, with leather jackets patched with gang insignias, stepped out of the door, each carrying large paper bags stuffed with… something. Bucky couldn’t make out what was inside, but they seemed satisfied, securing the bags to their saddlebags before waving toward the bakery window. His brow furrowed as he slowed his pace. The clerk waved back before she turned and disappeared behind the counter.

The bikers mounted their bikes and roared off into the night, leaving Bucky to stare after them for a moment. He quirked a brow. Well, it seemed the place had its regulars.

Pushing open the door, the soft chime of the bell announced his arrival. The warmth hit him immediately, carrying with it the now-familiar scent of herbs and fresh bread.

She was at the counter again, arranging some pastries on a tray. The sound of the bell made her look up, and her movements stilled when she saw him. It wasn’t much, just a flicker of hesitation, but he caught it. Then, like flipping a switch, she composed herself, her face smoothing into a polite smile.

“Hi,” she greeted him, he thought he caught a hint of surprise beneath it.

“Hey,” Bucky replied, almost gruffly. He stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them as their eyes met. Neither spoke, just staring at each other, the air charged with an odd sense of recognition. Then she blinked, snapping herself out of the trance, mentally slapping herself.

“Hi,” she said again, her voice a little higher this time, followed by a flustered, “What can I do for you?”

Bucky shifted slightly, pulling one hand from his pocket and holding out a few bills. “I came to pay you for the focaccia,” he said simply. “And… I wanted to buy some other things too.”

Her brows lifted, and she laughed softly, taking the money from him. “That was fast. I wasn’t going to charge you interest, you know,” she chuckled.

“Appreciate it,” he muttered, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“So,” she said, her professional demeanor slipping back into place, “what can I get you?”

As he scanned the shelves and pointed to a few items, she efficiently began sorting them into paper bags. But he noticed her hands slowing now and then, her lips pressed together like she was working through something. Finally, she turned toward him, bag in hand, and blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky frowned, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“For assuming…” She gestured vaguely toward him, her expression tinged with embarrassment.

He blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “Well, I looked like shit,” he said bluntly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Can’t blame you.”

Her shoulders eased at his reaction, and she gave him a small, relieved smile. “Thank you for… you know,” he added, signaling vaguely toward the counter where the focaccias where exhibited.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied and then extended a hand, “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

“Bucky,” he said, his vibranium hand staying tucked in his pocket as he shook her hand briefly with the other one.

As she returned to filling the bags, he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned slightly against the counter, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, “what’s up with the hours here? Four to twelve?”

Her head popped up, a faint look of surprise crossing her face before she laughed softly. “Oh, that.” She handed him the filled bags, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” he replied in a casual tone, though his gaze made clear that he actually wanted to know.

“This bakery… my grandparents opened it in the ’60s,” she began. “When my gramps passed in the early 2000s, my granny made some changes. One of them was the schedule.”

Bucky tilted his head, his curiosity sharpening. “The late hours?”

She nodded, leaning lightly against the counter. “Yeah. There’s a lot of nightlife in this neighborhood and a surprising number of residents work night or late shifts. She figured people needed somewhere to grab a decent meal at odd hours. It was risky, but eventually, it worked out.”

He let the idea sink in, flicking , his gaze briefly to the trays of baked goods. It made sense, in a way.

“When she passed the shop to me,” she continued, with a voice tinged with fondness, “I decided to keep things just the way they were. It feels right, you know? Like I’m keeping her legacy alive.”

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Besides, I don’t get sleepy at night, anyway. I’ve always been more of a night owl. I end up sleeping all morning, so the schedule works for me.”

Bucky studied her for a moment, taking in the mix of pride and nostalgia in her expression. She seemed connected to the place in a way that made the odd schedule seem less strange and more… fitting.

“That’s… different,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual.

“Different good or different bad?” she asked, quirking a brow as she crossed her arms.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Just different.”

But he couldn’t leave it there. The question burned in his mind, and he found himself asking, “Don’t you think it’s dangerous being open this late? Alone?”

She tilted her head, not missing a beat. “I’m not alone. Liam, the main baker, is in the kitchen.”

Bucky gave her a pointed look, one brow lifting in a way that clearly said, Seriously?

“And if someone armed gets in here, he’d chase them off with a spatula?”

She laughed softly, but there was a flicker of something thoughtful in her eyes. “We’ve had our share of… episodes,” she admitted, “but it’s been a long time since the last one.” She gestured toward a small table near the counter with a nod of her head. “The cops come by all the time to grab something or even sit and eat.”

“That’s not exactly foolproof,” Bucky muttered, unconvinced.

Her lips curved into a wry smile, and she leaned in a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Let’s just say having the local bikers as regulars doesn’t hurt either.”

He blinked, frowning. “The guys I saw earlier? So they… behave?”

“They’re good guys,” she retorted, then paused and corrected herself with a grin. “They’re nice guys. Most of the time.”

Bucky raised a skeptical brow, and she continued, “Sometimes they even help out. Like last week, when the mixer broke. They swung by after their ride and got it working again. One of them’s pretty handy with tools.”

Bucky’s frown deepened, though this time it wasn’t out of suspicion. He wasn’t sure whether to find the whole setup amusing or… concerning.

“Guess that’s one way to stay safe,” he muttered, glancing around the shop like it might reveal more secrets.

“It works,” she said shrugging. “Besides, most people aren’t looking for trouble when they’re hungry.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. Then he picked up the bags and nodded at her, and she offered him a small smile, “Come again.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at her. “I will.”

With that, he was gone, the door chime softly announcing his exit. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, leaning against the counter for a moment. Her gaze lingered on the door, her mind replaying the way his broad frame looked in those casual clothes. Effortless, like he didn’t have to try at all to look that good.

The thought was interrupted by the sound of the door chime again. She straightened quickly, spotting two guys in uniforms marked with the local electricity company’s logo.

“Hey,” one of them called, grinning. “Got any donuts left?”

---

Time passed, and Bucky started showing up regularly, his visits becoming a constant in her evenings. Three days a week, like clockwork, the bell would chime, and there he’d be, gloved hands tucked into his jacket pockets and that quiet, brooding air about him.

What surprised her most wasn’t the frequency of his visits but how much he bought each time. He’d point out loaves, pastries, and cookies, practically cleaning out half the display case on some nights. At first, she thought it was just politeness, a way to make up for that first night. But as the weeks went on, it became clear that this was just his thing.

One evening, as she packed his usual haul into bags, curiosity finally got the better of her and she glanced up at him with a smile. “Wow, your family must really enjoy our goods,” she said playfully.

The comment made him pause. His smile faltered, just for a second, and his eyes flicked away like he was retreating inward.

She noticed the shift immediately and quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand, “great appetite then. I won’t complain about that.”

His gaze returned to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Something like that,” he murmured.

She handed him the bags, softening her smile. Whatever that moment had been, she wasn’t going to push. “Well, you’re keeping me in business, so thank you.”

He nodded, a quiet “thanks” leaving his lips before he turned to leave.

---

As Bucky walked the short distance back to his apartment, the bags swinging lightly in his grip, his mind churned with thoughts he couldn’t quite shake. Her comment replayed in his head: Your family must really enjoy our goods.

Family.

His jaw clenched slightly. He didn’t have one, not anymore. The people he cared about… well, they were scattered or gone, and the thought of sitting at a table surrounded by warmth and laughter felt more like a faded memory than a reality.

He adjusted his grip on the bags, slowing his steps as he reached his building. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She hadn’t meant anything by it, just an innocent assumption. And she’d recovered quickly, giving him an out he appreciated more than he could express.

Still, the weight of the moment stuck with him. The way her words had scratched at something raw and unhealed, something he thought he’d buried deep enough that it couldn’t sting anymore.

In the quiet of his apartment, he set the bags on the counter and shrugged off his jacket. He pulled out one of the pastries she’d packed for him, a warm smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting up as he took a bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, giving him a fleeting comfort.

She was kind. That much was clear. Her warmth wasn’t forced or rehearsed; it was just… there. Bucky leaned against the counter, staring at the pastry in his hand like it might hold some answers. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable, but his reaction had been automatic, a wall thrown up before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t deny that he liked going to the bakery, liked seeing her. He finished the pastry and sighed, glancing at the bags of baked goods. He’d go back, of course. It was becoming part of his routine, and he found himself looking forward to the short conversations, the moments of normalcy she unknowingly offered him.

He just needed to keep things simple. Keep the walls up.

----

Keep things simple, Bucky had told himself more times than he could count, the mantra almost automatic by now. But as he stood at the counter that Wednesday night, watching her nervously wring her hands, he felt a crack in his resolve.

“Can I ask you a question?” she began, a little hesitant. “It’s alright if you don’t want to answer, but…”

He tensed. His gloved hand rested on the counter, fingers curling slightly. “Go ahead.”

“This weekend, I went to the Smithsonian with a friend…”

And there it was. This is it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he interrupted, with a sharper tone than he intended. He wanted to rip the band-aid off, and get it over with. He braced himself for the shift, the awkward laugh, the strained smile, the clipped words. The gradual squirming in his presence like he carried a weight they couldn’t bear to be near.

But instead, she grinned.

“Well, that explains your appearance the day I met you,” she said lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And your appetite.” She winked.

Bucky blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he’d prepared for.

Before he could respond, she continued. “It’s not my place to say, but… you’ve had it hard, Bucky. I saw the look on your face when I brought this up, so let me be clear: this changes nothing.” She leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “I know it could be hard sometimes, with the people… but not in here.”

Bucky stared at her, the usual quick retorts or excuses dying on his tongue. He didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in her voice and the calmness in the way she addressed the subject without making him feel exposed, caught him off guard.

“Thanks,” he finally said, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

She nodded, curving her lips into a small smile, but instead of leaving it at that, she hesitated. “That being said…” Her voice softened. “According to the commemorative plate, your birthday was last week.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t even remembered.

“So,” she said, bending down behind the counter, “here.” When she straightened up, she held a small plum tart, dusted with powdered sugar. “I couldn’t put all the candles on it for obvious reasons.” She chuckled softly as she gave him the little tray.

Bucky froze. The gesture hit him square in the chest, a pang so sharp and unexpected it made his breath hitch. He stared at the tart, feeling an ache rise in his throat. His lips trembled traitorously as he fought back the overwhelming surge of emotion.

She noticed his hesitation and tilted her head slightly. “It’s just a tart,” she said gently as if trying to assure him it was no big deal.

But to him, it was.

He reached out, taking the tart from her as if it were made of glass. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of the plate and he swallowed hard. His voice, barely above a whisper, cracked as he said, “Thank you.”

Bucky didn’t trust himself to look at her. He stared down at the pastry, his grip tightening around the edges of the plate as he worked to steady his breathing. It had been so long since anyone had done something this thoughtful for him, that he didn’t know how to react.

Watching his reaction, she faltered. Her earlier confidence dimmed as doubt crept into her expression. She fidgeted with her apron, glancing away briefly before blurting out, “I, um… sorry for bothering you. If I overstepped-”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he meant, and she froze. He took a breath, forcing his voice to steady. “You didn’t,” he said again, gentler this time. “You just surprised me here, doll, that’s all.”

Her gaze softened, searching his face, and he didn’t look away this time. His walls weren’t fully down -when were they ever?- but the rawness in his eyes couldn’t be hidden, the unshed tears glimmering with the lights.

Her lips parted, then closed again, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it was her place. She shifted her weight, her fingers lightly tapping the counter. “It’s not much,” she said after a beat, her tone quiet but sincere. “Just a little thing I thought might make you smile.”

“It’s more than you know,” Bucky murmured then he cleared his throat and adjusted the bags in his hand, needing something to focus on besides the growing ache in his chest. “I, uh… I appreciate it,” he said, a little awkwardly.

Her smile grew, and she reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Good,” she said simply. “You deserve something nice.”

That threw him off even more. He stared at her, stunned by the ease with which she said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His throat tightened, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he turned toward the door.

“Bucky?”

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I just remembered that I didn’t tell you, Happy birthday,”

He nodded once, gripping the bags a little tighter as he pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air, which did little to clear the fog in his head.

You deserve something nice. He almost scoffed aloud. Nice? Someone like him? Someone who couldn’t go a single day without being haunted by the weight of his past?

The world had a funny way of reminding him where he stood. Steve was gone. The man who believed in him more than anyone else had handed over the shield, and with it, Bucky felt like the last tether to the person he used to be had been severed. Now, it was just him. And no matter how hard he tried to fix things, make amends, or find a shred of normalcy, the past always had its claws in him.

But tonight, she had looked at him and seen something other than the broken pieces. She hadn’t flinched when she figured out who he was. She hadn’t spat accusations or looked at him with the fear or pity he was used to. Instead, she smiled and handed him a damn tart for his birthday, a day he hadn’t even remembered until she brought it up.

Maybe… He shook his head as he walked, his boots crunching hard against the pavement. Don’t get attached.

Still, he glanced down at the tart again, its delicate powdered sugar glinting under the streetlights and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost involuntarily.

----

One rainy night, Bucky was already imagining the taste of a prune cupcake when he reached the bakery and found the door closed.

His brows furrowed as he noted the light spilling from the kitchen and the neatly arranged merchandise still on display. That was odd. He stepped closer, intending to knock on the glass, but hesitated. If she had closed up, there must’ve been a reason. Why would she open just for him?

He turned to leave, but the sound of a long, creative string of curses froze him mid-step. His frown deepened. Maybe she was arguing with Liam or a boyfriend, or... why was he still standing there?

Then came a sharp scream of pain.

Before his mind could process, his body moved on its own. He pushed the wooden door open with a single fluid motion of his vibranium hand and rushed toward the kitchen, ready to confront whoever was causing her harm.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.

She was alone. Entirely alone.

Barefoot, her jeans rolled at the cuffs, and wearing nothing but a lacy black bra on top. She was gripping one foot and hopping in place, her other hand clutching the edge of the counter for balance. Her face was scrunched in pain, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple.

She froze as he appeared in the doorway, locking her wide eyes onto his.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Bucky?!” she finally exclaimed, her voice was a mix of mortification and disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I heard you scream,” he said, still on high alert. “I thought- I mean, I thought someone was-”

Well, someone isn’t!” she snapped, waving her arms for emphasis before wincing and clutching her foot again. “What are you… how did you even…”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he said simply, lifting his vibranium hand as if that explained everything.

She stared at him. “You broke my door, didn’t you?”

“Technically, I opened it.”

Her shoulders slumped as she let out a groan.

“What happened?” he asked, softening his tone as he noted the red welt forming on her foot.

She gestured toward a hulking machine in the corner, a sour expression on her face. “The kneading machine broke,” she grumbled. “It’s Liam’s day off, so I have to knead all the dough by hand. I got frustrated and kicked the stupid thing.” She pointed to the offending piece of equipment as though it were an enemy in battle.

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression. “And it fought back?”

Her glare could’ve melted steel, but then her expression shifted, and she seemed to remember her current state of undress. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest, though the movement only served to push her curves together.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his gaze locked firmly on her face. He swallowed hard, feeling the distinct burn of self-restraint in every muscle.

“Can you throw me that shirt?” she asked, jerking her chin toward a crumpled white button-up draped over a stool.

“Sure,” he muttered, grabbing it and tossing it her way.

“Turn around?” she added pointedly, feeling her cheeks going warm.

He obeyed instantly, facing the wall and rubbing the back of his neck. “Why, uh… why were you like that anyway?” he asked, his voice low and awkward.

“It’s hot,” she replied, a little grumpy. “The kitchen’s like an oven with all the equipment running, and kneading all that dough by hand isn’t exactly cooling me off. Plus, I was alone. Or so I thought.”

“Right,” Bucky murmured, feeling a little ridiculous for barging in like that. He’d been ready to throw down with some imaginary attacker, and instead, he’d walked in on… well, on a very memorable scene.

The mental image of her, half naked and glistening, burned behind his eyelids, and he clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t need his mind going there, not now, not ever.

The sound of her shifting behind him broke his thoughts. “Okay, decent,” she said.

He turned back around, carefully keeping his expression neutral. She was now buttoning up the shirt, but her hair was still mussed. He cleared his throat.

“Want me to help kneading?” he blurted out, the words escaping before he could think them through.

She froze mid-button, blinking at him. “You want to… knead dough?”

“Let’s just say I can put that piece of junk to shame,” he said, nodding toward the broken machine. “Only… you have to teach me how. Then I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal.”

Her lips parted as if to protest, but she hesitated, seemingly caught off guard. After a moment, she shook her head. “That’s sweet, but I can’t ask you to do that. It’ll take a lot of time.”

“I have time,” Bucky replied evenly. He didn’t add that the alternative was staring at the ceiling of his living room, trying to fend off the ghosts in his head and praying for a few nightmare-free hours.

She looked at him, clearly debating, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that momentarily distracted him.

“Plus,” he added with a faint shrug, “I won’t raise your electric bill, and I won’t get tired.”

A soft laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Finally, she exhaled and nodded. “Alright, if you’re sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, this is serious manual labor.”

“I’ve handled worse,” he said with a small smirk, rolling up his sleeves.

“Okay, tough guy,” she replied, her tone half-teasing as she gestured toward the counter. “Let’s see if you can handle my kitchen.”

He stepped up beside her, and as she began to explain the technique, Bucky couldn’t help but notice how the frustration in her features softened, replaced by something almost playful. It wasn’t often he felt useful outside of a mission or a fight, but in this warm, flour-dusted bakery, it felt like he could do something… normal.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her watching him. When he did, he realized she was waiting for a response.

“Uh…” he mumbled. It seemed she had been talking and he didn’t listen to a word.

“It’s okay if you don’t get it at first, here, give me your hand.” Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand, shoved a dough ball into his palm, and flipped it downward. Then her smaller hand slid over his, her heel pressing into the back of his hand to guide the motion.

“Like this,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer to ensure he could see. Her hand pressed forward in firm, rhythmic motions and the dough yielded under the combined force of their hands. Then she rotated the dough and repeated the motion, with deliberate pushes.

Bucky froze as the rhythmic pressure of her hand over his sent his mind somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t go. The heat in the kitchen suddenly felt suffocating, and he swallowed hard, trying to focus on the dough and not on the fact that her motions were… suggestive.

She was entirely unaware of his inner turmoil, focused on the task at hand. “See? You push like this and turn it. Then repeat.”

Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but Bucky’s traitorous mind kept replaying the way her body had looked earlier in that lacy bra, barefooted and glistening with sweat, and now her hand was on his, guiding movements that mirrored-

“Got it,” he blurted, pulling his hand away like the dough had burned him.

She blinked at him, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” he said quickly, flexing his fingers. “Why don’t you, uh… go open the store or something? You can sell the ready stuff, and I’ll finish here.”

Her brow furrowed, then she smirked. “Show me you can handle it first. Then I’ll go.”

Bucky nodded stiffly and got to work, kneading the dough with an intensity that had less to do with the task and more with willing his body and thoughts to calm down. He focused on each push, each turn, determined not to let his mind wander again.

After a moment, she hummed in approval. “Not bad. Alright, you’ve got this.” Tossing him an apron, she added with a grin, “Kitchen’s all yours.”

As she walked out, Bucky let out a long breath and grabbed a ridiculous amount of mid-mixed dough from the machine, barely registering its weight in his hands. He tied the apron around his waist, muttering something about how he’d never live this down if Sam found out, then plunged his hands into the dough with more force than necessary. The soft, yielding texture offered little resistance, and the repetitive motion gave him something to focus on, something to redirect the tension simmering under his skin.

Meanwhile, out front, she was practically buzzing. Well, besides the door incident -she’d have to figure out how to fix that later- and the fact he’d seen her in little more than her bra, the night hadn’t gone completely off the rails. She paused, glancing toward the kitchen and biting her lip.

The idea that Bucky Barnes was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he worked dough like it was his mortal enemy, was surreal. Even in her wildest fantasies -and she’d had plenty- she’d never imagined this scenario.

She distracted herself by greeting a couple of late-night customers, all while sneaking glances toward the kitchen door. But the thought of having him there with flour dusting his strong hands, focused and serious, made her heart flip every time she let her mind wander free.

Back in the kitchen, Bucky gritted his teeth, determined to keep his focus on the task. He flattened the dough with swift, decisive movements, his vibranium arm doing the flips as his flesh one did the work. But even as he forced himself to concentrate, he couldn’t shake the memory of her soft hand on his, guiding him with firm pressure.

Fuck.

---

When he finally finished kneading the massive ball of dough, he stood there, staring at the smooth mound, realizing he had no idea what to do next. With a resigned sigh, he called out for her. “It’s ready,” he said, motioning to the dough. “Now what?”

“That’s for common bread. We let it rise for about half an hour, then shape it, let it rise again, and bake it.”

“Oh,” he said flatly. “So... you just wait?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“Great,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ll hang around. Liam’s not here, so you’d be stuck doing all this yourself. That can’t be easy, it’s a lot of dough.”

She tilted her head, clearly debating. “I’m used to it when it’s necessary.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you kicking me out?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “N-no!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Want a coffee while we wait?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

They moved to the front of the shop, mugs in hand, settling into a more relaxed atmosphere. The conversation was light, drifting from coffee preferences to the quirks of late-night customers. The rain drummed against the windows, adding a cozy backdrop to the talk.

Then the bell above the door chimed, and two bikers strolled in.

Bucky’s eyes immediately snapped to them, stiffening his posture as he took them in. They were soaked, leather jackets gleaming under the fluorescent light. What caught him off guard wasn’t their appearance, it was their manners. The pair paused at the entrance, brushing their wet boots on the doormat before entering the shop.

“Evening, Y/n,” one of them said casually, nodding in her direction as they made their way to the counter.

Bucky stared, measuring them with a sharp gaze, his body language was calm but alert. He didn’t miss how their eyes briefly flicked to him, assessing, before focusing on her.

“Hey, Daniel, Jack,” she greeted them with an easy familiarity. “Usual?”

“Yeah, and maybe throw in one of those custard tarts,” one of them added, grinning.

As she moved behind the counter to prepare their order, Bucky leaned back slightly, still watching them. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the so-called “local bikers,” but brushing their boots off before entering wasn’t on the list.

One of them glanced his way again, tipping his chin in acknowledgment. “Friend of yours?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Helper for the night.”

Bucky just gave a faint nod. He wasn’t entirely sure why their casual familiarity rubbed him the wrong way, but something about how they interacted with her -relaxed, like they belonged- made him tense.

“So, Cookie,” the taller of the two bikers said, his deep voice carrying an easy familiarity. He had a Viking-style haircut, the sides of his head shaved while the top was long and braided, matching the beard he wore. “We swung by earlier, but you were closed. Anything amiss?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly at the nickname. Cookie?

“Oh, just old Edna broke, again,” she replied with a sigh, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I was trying to figure out what to do.”

The biker’s face broke into a knowing grin. “Y’should’ve called me. You know I’d have ‘er running again in a snap.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “It’s awful outside Jack, and Bucky here helped me out a lot. I was going to call you tomorrow, maybe take the day off.”

The biker’s gaze shifted to Bucky with a curious expression, if not slightly probing. “Did he, now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just stared back at him.

She stepped in quickly, a cheerful note in her voice. “Well, here you go, guys,” she said, setting their bags of pastries and the requested custard tart on the counter.

But before she could finish ringing them up, Daniel added something to the order, sending her back to grab another treat.

With her out of earshot, the viking-wannabe fixed his gaze on Bucky again. “There somethin’ on ma face?” he asked, casual but a little edgy.

Bucky shrugged, relaxed, but his steel-blue eyes locked onto the man without wavering. “Nope.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, “You know, Cookie, I was thinking of stopping by tomorrow to fix the kneader myself.” His gaze never left the biker’s. “Don’t think your customers must stray from their duties.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, the biker let out a low chuckle, his smile more challenging than amused.

“Well, it won’t be a bother,” he drawled, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Since I always take care of Edna.”

Bucky’s lips quirked up in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you do.”

Somehow, she felt left out of the conversation. The way they stared each other down, the sharpness in their tones, it didn’t seem like they were talking about Edna anymore. It was like…

“C’mon, Jack,” the second biker interjected, breaking the thick silence, though his tone carried a subtle edge of warning. “The guys are waitin’. Cookie here will tell ya if she needs anythin’, won’t ya?”

She nodded quickly, eager to shift the mood, and handed over their order. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for always helping out.” Her smile was warm but a little strained as she accepted their payment.

Jack lingered for a bit, gaze still locked on Bucky’s. The other biker sighed and patted him on the arm. “At least help with somethin’, huh?” he added, shoving a large paper bag into his chest.

The man finally broke eye contact, muttering something under his breath as he grabbed the bag and turned toward the door. But before he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Don’t forget, Cookie, you know who to call if you need real help.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, the faintest sign of irritation flashing in his eyes. He leaned back against the counter, one hand casually resting on the edge, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Sure thing,” he drawled, “If it comes to that, I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to wait.”

The implication in his words wasn’t lost on Jack, whose smirk faltered for just a second before he turned and strode out, the other biker following with an exasperated shake of his head.

As the door swung shut, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well,” she said, attempting to sound lighthearted, “that was… something.”

Bucky’s gaze softened as he turned back to her, though the tension in his posture remained. “They always this ‘friendly’?”

She laughed awkwardly, brushing her hands on her apron. “Oh, they are, actually. They just get a little protective sometimes, you know? Like I’m their sister or something. Maybe they were just surprised to see you back here.”

He tilted his head, twitching his lips in what might’ve been a smile, but his eyes didn’t match the expression. “A sister, huh?”

She nodded, oblivious to the undercurrent in his tone, and started busying herself by tidying up the counter. To her, it was just Jack and his usual overbearing charm. But to Bucky, it was something else entirely.

Even as he tried to relax, his mind kept replaying the interaction. The way that guy had stood too close, his words heavy with meaning, the subtle posturing was anything but brotherly. Bucky had seen it all before, in darker and rougher places than this warm, flour-dusted bakery.

Except this time, it wasn’t just about dominance or some unspoken challenge. It was about her. And for reasons he wasn’t ready to name, that thought didn’t sit well with him at all.

“So," she started, cutting through the silence and his spiraling thoughts, "you were serious when you said you could fix the machine?"

"Yeah," he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral. "It’ll be a piece of cake."

Piece of cake, he repeated in his mind, trying to suppress the small pang of regret creeping up his spine. Sure, he had a working knowledge of mechanics, he’d helped Sam fix his boat, after all. But that had been different. Boats were his element, like motorcycles or cars. A fifty-year-old kneading machine? Well, he’ll find out tomorrow.

His impulsive desire to impress her -and maybe stake some kind of invisible claim- had won out. Now, all he could do was hope the thing wasn’t an unreadable mess.

She glanced at the clock and brushed her hands together. “Alright, time to give shape to the bread. It’s risen enough.”

Without missing a beat, she led the way back into the kitchen. The warm, yeasty air mingled with her faint perfume, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

She grabbed a portion of the dough and began to demonstrate. “Okay, so these are the basics,” she said, her fingers moving deftly. “For buns, you just roll the dough into smooth balls. Like this.” She cupped her hands around the dough, rolling it against the counter in a quick, practiced motion until it was perfectly round. “Braids and baguettes are a little trickier. The braids are just three strands, like hair. And baguettes, well, you stretch and roll them into shape. But you can stick with the buns for now, they’re easier.”

Bucky nodded, reaching for a piece of dough. He hesitated for a moment, as the memory of her hand guiding his earlier flashed in his mind. His throat tightened, and he focused on the dough, rolling it between his hands.

“Like this?” he asked, holding up a slightly lopsided bun.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Almost. Use the heel of your hand a little more to smooth it out. Here.” She stepped closer, brushing her fingers lightly over his. This time, she didn’t guide him directly, but the proximity was enough to make his heart thud against his ribs.

He adjusted his grip and tried again, and she gave an approving nod. “There you go. See? You’re a natural.”

As they worked side by side, she kept talking. “Most of this will have to go on sale tomorrow, probably at half price. But having you here is a real help. If I’d had to do all this alone, I might’ve had to throw some of the dough out.”

Her words struck a chord, and a pang of happiness settled in his chest. It wasn’t much, just a small acknowledgment of his effort, but it filled a hollow part of him he didn’t even realize was there.

He stole a glance at her as she focused on a braid, her hands working the dough with practiced ease. A strand of hair had fallen loose, brushing against her cheek. She pushed it back with her wrist, leaving a faint streak of flour across her temple. It made her look effortlessly endearing, and he quickly averted his eyes, focusing back on the dough in his hands.

Unbeknownst to him, she was doing the same. She caught glimpses of him as he worked, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his calloused flesh hand and the vibranium one surprisingly gentle as he shaped the dough. Something was captivating about how he moved, so deliberate yet careful, like he was afraid of breaking something.

“Looks like you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, glancing over at his growing pile of buns.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, rolling another piece of dough under his palms. “Not exactly rocket science.”

She chuckled, “I don’t know. You’ve got a good touch. It took me a week to get my buns to look that smooth while doing it swiftly.”

Every time their gazes met -accidentally, fleetingly- it was like a spark flared in the air between them. Then, one of them would quickly look away, snapping their attention back to the dough. It was a quiet rhythm of stolen glances and fleeting touches, building a connection that felt as tangible as the dough in their hands.

-----

The bread was neatly shaped and lined up on trays, ready to rise once more before its final trip to the oven. She covered the trays with damp cloths, brushing her hands on her apron as she glanced at the clock. “Alright, now we wait again. Should be ready for the oven in about half an hour.”

Bucky nodded, stepping back to let her take the lead. “You need me to do anything else?”

“Not right now,” she replied with a small smile. “I’ll take care of the customers while we wait. You can… I don’t know, hang out if you want?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Sure.”

She disappeared into the front of the shop, the bell over the door jingling faintly as a pair of officers entered. Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching her from the kitchen as she greeted them warmly.

“Evening, boys. The usual?”

“Yup. Two coffees and a box of donuts,” one of the cops said, glancing over at Bucky briefly. His partner followed the look, squinting slightly before his eyes widened.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the officer said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity.

Bucky stiffened slightly at being at being recognized, but he nodded. “Good evening.”

The officer hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Uh, sorry if this is out of line, but… would it be okay if I got a picture with you?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her for a brief second. She offered him an encouraging smile, and he finally nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

The officer grinned and handed his phone to his partner. They stood together for the picture, Bucky keeping his usual neutral expression, though the officer looked thrilled.

As the partner handed the phone back, he chuckled, glancing between Bucky and her. “Didn’t know you were friends with Cookie here. Lucky you, she’s got the best donuts in the neighborhood.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but she laughed and rolled her eyes before he could say anything. “Alright, enough buttering me up. Your coffee’s getting cold.”

The cops thanked her again, waved at Bucky, and headed out, leaving the shop quiet once more.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he looked at her. “So… they call you Cookie too, huh?”

She chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It’s just a nickname my grandma gave me when I was little. She used to call me her little cookie because I’d sneak cookie dough every time she baked. I guess it stuck, and eventually, the regulars picked it up, too.”

“Little cookie,” he repeated, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” she said, shrugging. “It’s kind of sweet, actually”

Bucky hummed in response, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Fits you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but before she could respond, he straightened up. “Guess I’ll head out now. I’ll be back tomorrow to take a look at that machine. Ah… actually... I owe you one more thing.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The door,” he admitted, glancing toward it sheepishly. “Remember I kind of... broke it thinking you were in trouble?”

Her mouth opened slightly in realization, and for a fleeting moment, the two of them were transported back to that chaotic instant, him storming into the kitchen, with his eyes wild with concern, only to find her jumping in her bra, startled but unharmed.

A faint heat rose to her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, busying her hands with the edge of her apron. “Right. The door,” she said, a touch higher than usual.

“I’ll run up to my place and grab a chain and a lock,” he offered, clearly trying to sound casual, though the tips of his ears were suspiciously red. “It’s not much, but it’ll hold until you can get it fixed.”

“That’s... really thoughtful of you,” she said softly, sneaking a glance at him. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, tightening his jaw slightly as if bracing himself, before turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll be quick.”

-------

When he returned, he carried a chain and lock in hand, the metal clinking softly as he stepped through the door. Without a word, he moved to the broken door and began securing the temporary fix, his movements sure and steady. She stayed nearby, her arms crossed lightly over her apron, watching him work.

“Will you manage to close up on your own?” he asked, testing the chain one last time to ensure it held.

She nodded, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He lingered momentarily at the doorway, meeting her gaze as though debating whether to press further. Instead, he simply stepped back, giving her a small, almost shy smirk. “Alright, then.”

He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Cookie.”

The nickname rolled off his tongue with ease, leaving her a little stunned as the bell over the door jingled behind him.

-----

That night, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the evening replayed itself in vivid detail. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every word exchanged lingered in her mind, refusing to let her settle into sleep. She rolled over, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tightly, only to let out a muffled squeal, burying her face in the fabric.

It all felt like something out of a novel, the kind her grandmother used to read, with their slow-burn tension and moments of unexpected closeness. Him standing there in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough with those ridiculously strong hands. The warmth of his smirk when he called her "Cookie" before leaving.

She sighed, turning onto her back again, staring at the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through her curtains. Don’t get carried away, she reminded herself. He was… Bucky Barnes, for crying out loud. The man probably had a private life he kept well-guarded. Dating, maybe even a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere. Someone who could offer him more than just late-night baking disasters and a small-town charm bubble in the big city.

“Oh, whatever,” she mumbled, throwing an arm over her face. It was free to fantasize, right? Just a harmless indulgence in the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.

----

Bucky lay on the couch in his apartment, replaying the events of the night on a loop in his mind. Her hand, firm yet soft, guiding his against the dough in that rhythmic motion. He could still feel her touch and her warmth seeping into his skin. He groaned softly, shifting as he became acutely aware of the pang of need stirring under his sweatpants.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. Was he really that touch-starved? The answer was obvious.

But then another thought struck him, one that pulled his focus away from his frustration. Her touch hadn’t made him uncomfortable. Not in the way he’d grown used to: tensing, the inevitable flinch, or the tightening of his chest. No, being near her, having her hands on his, had done the opposite in a way he hadn’t felt in years -decades-.

His mind shifted to the kneading machine. He had all but volunteered to fix the thing, despite only a vague knowledge of how it worked. He cursed under his breath, drowning in anxiety as he realized he could very well embarrass himself tomorrow. She’d been so grateful, trusted him so easily. The last thing he wanted was to let her down.

Then there was the other thing, the background he could never escape. Even though she’d been cool about it. He was damaged goods, and he knew that, but still... a part of him wanted her to notice him.

To see him, Bucky, the guy who helped her in the kitchen, who wanted to make her smile, who was ready to spend hours fixing her stupid kneading machine just for the excuse to see her again.

Fuck. This was going to be one of those nights.

----

By the time morning gave way to the agreed-upon hour, Bucky found himself standing outside the bakery, a hand tucked into his jacket pocket as he knocked on the glass of the front door. He might -or might not- have put some effort into dressing for the occasion, trading his usual hoodie for a henley that clung just enough to hint at his physique under his jacket. Still, the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night.

She appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel, and her face lit up as she spotted him.

“Cookie,” he greeted with a faint smirk as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Sergeant,” she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

The exchange felt oddly natural, like a line out of an old movie. She opened the door with a soft laugh, stepping aside to let him in. He strolled toward the back, the scent of freshly baked bread of the previous night lingering in the air as she followed.

“Let’s see the beast,” he said, nodding toward the old kneader, circling once like a predator sizing up its prey.

“All yours” she answered, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Think you can handle it?”

He shot her a mock-serious glance. “We’ll see.”

As he studied the machine, his eyes flicked to the sturdy work table beside it.

“You got a cloth or something to cover this?”

She frowned slightly, her brows knitting together in confusion. “A cloth?”

“Something that can get dirty,” he clarified.

“Uh… sure.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old, slightly worn tablecloth, tossing it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, unfolding it and laying it across the table.

Her confusion deepened as he positioned himself beside the kneader. “What are you-”

She didn’t get to finish the question before Bucky gripped the sides of the heavy machine, lifting it like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. He turned and placed it carefully on the table, adjusting it until it sat at an angle he deemed perfect for inspection.

She blinked, stunned for a moment before her lips parted in an incredulous laugh.

It wasn’t necessary, he could’ve worked on it just fine where it sat. But something in him wanted to do it anyway, to leave her watching, even if just for a moment.

She raised a brow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. There was a teasing glint in her eyes when she said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

Bucky froze for a second, then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her with an unreadable expression at first. But then the corner of his mouth quirked up, softening his otherwise stoic features. “Did it work?” he asked, carrying just a hint of challenge.

She felt a flutter in her chest she wasn’t ready to name. Biting her lip to suppress a smile, she fought to keep her voice steady. “Fix Edna,” she quipped, tilting her chin toward the kneader as if to deflect the heat in the air, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, an almost boyish mischief that made her pulse quicken. “Challenge accepted,” he said, turning back to the machine.

As he bent over the kneader, his metal hand steadying it while his flesh one worked the bolts loose, she let herself watch him for a moment. Something was mesmerizing about the way he moved: deliberate, confident, his sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked sculpted to dismantle things like this.

Luckily for Bucky, Edna really was a piece of cake. As he worked through the simple mechanics of the old machine, a wave of relief settled over him. He didn’t know why he’d been so preoccupied with the possibility of failure. Maybe it was because the stakes weren’t just about fixing a kneader, it was about proving himself in some quiet, unspoken way.

“Do you have a cable extension to test it?” he asked after reassembling the final part, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah, hang on,” she said, disappearing for a moment before returning with a long orange cord. She plugged it in, watching as he connected it to the machine.

When the kneader whirred to life, steady and smooth, she clapped her hands together once, the sound bright and cheerful in the warm kitchen. Her smile, wide and genuine, was aimed directly at him. “You did it!” she exclaimed, with a contagious enthusiasm.

Bucky felt a jolt in his chest, like a sudden surge of energy. That smile, so pure and full of warmth, made him feel capable of almost anything. For a brief moment, it silenced the nagging voices in his head that constantly questioned his worth.

He turned off the machine and lifted it again, carefully placing it back in its original spot. He adjusted it slightly, turning it until it sat exactly as it had before, deliberately and unhurriedly.

“Show-off,” she teased lightly, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Still riding the wave of her praise, he smirked, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. “So?” he asked, with a tone just bordering on playful. “You have to tell me now if it worked.”

She blinked, momentarily knitting her brows in confusion. “What…oh,” she murmured. He wasn’t talking about the machine. Her mind flicked back to their earlier exchange, and warmth crept up her neck as she bit her lip, suddenly feeling all too shy under his gaze.

“How could I not be impressed?” she said softly, meeting his eyes with a hint of nervousness.

Bucky’s smirk lingered since her words boosted his confidence. “Good to know,” he replied in a low, almost intimate tone.

Her laughter came nervously, breaking the silence. “Alright, Mr. Fix-It, let’s not-”

She didn’t finish her sentence since Bucky, still high on boldness, took a step closer. “You know,” he started in a steady voice, despite the rapid thrum of his heart, “I’m starting to think impressing you might be my new favorite hobby.”

Her lips parted in surprise, “Bucky…”

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he murmured, his flesh hand lifting just slightly, hovering near her arm as if waiting for permission.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, her nervous laugh melted into a smile, and her eyes locked onto his. “You’re not.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Closing the gap between them, he leaned in, in a mix of deliberate but hesitant movements, like he feared the moment might shatter.

When their lips met, it was soft at first, a gentle, tentative connection that quickly deepened. Her hands instinctively rested against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

For Bucky, the world seemed to narrow to just this: the warmth of her lips, the faint scent of flour and sugar on her skin, and the way she melted into him as if she belonged there.

When they let go, her eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, and her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Wow,” she breathed finally, the word barely audible but carrying all the wonder she couldn’t express.

Bucky’s gaze flicked between her eyes and her slightly swollen lips. His own breath was uneven, and his voice rough as he muttered, “Yeah. Wow.”

She let out a nervous laugh, her cheeks warm as she glanced down, only for him to tilt her chin up with a gentle finger. His expression had softened, the earlier mischief replaced by something more vulnerable.

Without waiting for her to pull away -or maybe daring her to- he leaned in again. This time, there was no hesitation, no careful testing. The second kiss was deeper, and more purposeful, stealing her breath away.

She responded instinctively, slipping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed closer. His metal hand found her waist, firm and steady, while his flesh one cradled her jaw, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a tender contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

The world outside the bakery seemed to fade, and when they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, her voice was soft, almost shy, as she finally managed to say, “If that’s how you fix things, maybe Edna should break more often.”

Bucky chuckled lowly, trailing his fingers down her arm as he leaned back just enough to see her face. “Careful, there,” he replied with boyish grin. “I might start breaking things on purpose.”

She laughed, shaking her head as her hands lingered against his chest. “Just… don’t let it be my heart, okay?”

The teasing glint in his eyes softened at her words, replaced by something deeper that made her heart race again.

“Never,” he promised leaning in slightly, nearly touching her forehead with his. Slowly, deliberately, his body shifted closer, bracketing his hands on her sides, palms resting lightly on the edge of the workbench, gently caging her in.

“If you have me, doll…” His voice softened, laced with a husky tremor, as though each word was pulled from the deepest parts of him. He paused, pressing his lips together briefly, while his gaze flickered uncertainly. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the weight of unspoken fears and hopes battling within him. “I’ll treasure you the way you deserve.”

There he was, exposed and raw, offering her the most vulnerable parts of himself. And she saw it all, the battered pieces, the scars both seen and unseen, and the wonder in his expression that someone like her could even consider him worth it.

All the previous cockiness evaporated as he waited for her response, his breath caught in his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t dare.

She blinked up at him, parting her lips slightly as her hands lifted from where they rested against the workbench. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, before reaching out, tracing the curve of his jaw.

“You already do,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed the faint stubble on his cheek, and she smiled softly, a mixture of disbelief and certainty shining in her eyes. She rose onto her toes and brought her lips to his. The kiss was more deliberate this time, an answer in every sense, with a confidence that left no room for doubt. When she pulled back slightly, she looked into his hooded eyes. “I’ll take care of you too, Bucky. I promise, " she said tenderly.

His lips curved into a rare, radiant smile, one that softened every hard edge of his tired face. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her with such unguarded joy it made her heart flutter all over again. Then, without warning, his strong hands found her waist, and he lifted her effortlessly off the ground.

She gasped, a delighted laugh spilling from her lips as he spun her around, the room blurring for a moment as the motion carried them both. His own low chuckle mingled with hers, a sound so rich and full like a victory, a triumph for once,  over the weight he’d been carrying for so long.

When he set her down gently, he kept his hands on her waist, and she leaned into him, their laughter fading into a warm, contented silence as she rested her hands against his chest. His heart raced beneath her palms, matching her erratic pulse.

They didn’t need to say anything more. At this moment, their shared warmth in the dusty floured kitchen was enough. The world and the rhythm of the weekday could wait a little longer.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[ab-horror]

[lustingfood]

Tandoori Chicken Garlic Bread (x)

[bunnyboyzyon]

First my real answers

Fries, chips, biscuits, cookies, soda, candy, cigarettes, beanie, cotton candy

Second why does no one know that the third thing is red lobster's biscuits

These specifically are drop biscuits, they're a no yeast bread with a very thick dough but not thick enough to knead with your hands so the dough is dropped onto the baking pan via spoon scoops (hense the drop part of drop biscuit, this is called a drop dough), they are usually made specifically with cold butter that is cut in with forks or a pastry cutter, when baked they flake because that butter is solid going in and creates layers, and they can be sweet or savoury

These specifically ones have cheese mixed into the dough and garlic butter on top

What do yall call that

i'm conducting an experiment. everyone who's from an english speaking country state your country, regional area and what you call the following images. i need to see something

[bunni-v1]

do you think that lighter would have like any embarrassing fetishes like an armpit fetish or like a belly bulge kink or sm? just needed to share that thought rq

Mdni

Idk what you classify as embarrassing, but I know he’s got plenty of fetishes. I’ll list some of the ones I personally think he’d find humiliating.

Firstly, yes he has a belly bulge kink, duh. He’s so big it pretty much comes with the territory. There’s just something about being able to see himself through your skin as his dick presses up and pokes out through your belly. It’s so hot. You’re so small compared to him, but you take him so well. He also likes it when you’re so stuffed full of his cum that your lower abdomen is literally extended from it. He can press down against it and you’ll gush — that’s what heaven looks like for Lighter.

He’s probably got some kind of breeding kink. It’s less about having a baby or getting you pregnant (if you can even get pregnant to start), and more about the trust that comes with it. It’s weirdly heartwarming to him that you trust him enough to let him fuck you raw and cum inside. Also feeds into the previous kink as well.

He’s big into cock and ball torture but you’ll never get it out of him. You’ll have to find out on accident somehow, and once you do it’s pretty much over for him. Cock cages are his personal favorite, being held back from cumming by having his dick physically restricted is thrilling to him. He’s also lowkey into sounding, though that one is more touch and go depending on the day.

I didn’t know this fetish had a name but CFNM (clothed female naked male). He likes it when you’re fully clothed and when he’s bottoming, essentially. It’s rare you’re in a position of power over him, but fuck does it get him going when you’ve got him naked and tied up and whimpering for you while all the good stuff is hidden from him. Power play is bottom Lighters bread and butter.

He’s into seeing you in leather, any kind of leather. Preferably something of his but it doesn’t have to be. There’s something about you in the rough rugged fabric that really turns some gears in the hopeless head of his. He likes the sensation of it under his hands, and it’s especially nice when he’s fucking into you. Just an added stimulation that looks super fucking good on your already perfect body.

Last one is that he really likes edging on himself. He’s too sweet to edge you (more like he’s too eager) when he tops, but if you edge him it’s a whole different story. It’s painful and awful but god the satisfied smirk on your face makes it so worth it. Especially when you finally let him come, it feels so much better when he’s overstimulated and crying like a baby. Just be careful not to take it too far, he might get impatient and turn it around on you. He’s strong enough to break just about anything you tie him up in.

Essentially… Lighters embarrassed of being a bottom 💀 It really harshes his whole vibe he’s got going. Like imagine how much respect he’d lose from people if they found out he cries when you don’t let him come. He can’t have that getting out 😭

[best-dressed-on-mt-olympus]

Who the hell is

Jdhdushd

Anon-? You got a lover? Did my son not inform me of his LOVER.

- @1ceyanonhasarrived

" I was going to... ha"

[kaoticspoonie]

What we don't have is leige sugar/pearled sugar.

Which I get the imported version at least?

Also instead of having hard flour we actually have soft flour - cake flour! Our all-purpose is closer to bread flour, and their European flour is closer to cake flour!

Which is why sometimes translating recipes from Europe isn't just about changing the measurements but also the type of flour/sugar. Also butter and some other ingredients r different enough chemically to make a difference in baking.

Apparently because my dad watches so much Bake Off he’s only learned the British terms for certain things. Like he was going on about caster sugar and I was like what the hell are you talking about and he was actually talking about superfine baker’s sugar.

And I’m sure now I’m about to get ten million comments from other Americans who have only learned about superfine sugar from Bake Off calling me crazy so come on, let me hear ‘em. I can take it. I’m expecting you.

[gremlin-girly]

Day 14: Winter Soup

Pairing: Winter Soldier x gn!reader

Fandom: MCU

Tags/Warnings: FLUFF, insinuation of ptsd/past abuse, ya'll are just having some nice soup :), petnames (sweetheart)

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be translated, copied or reposted or put through an AI machine.

Summary: When a strange man turns up in your home for some unknown reason, you decided to offer him some soup.

Word Count: tba

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Not many people know what to do when there's a strange man in their kitchen. The usual ports of call, according to life and TV, is to:

a. Scream

b. Call the cops

c. Hide

d. All of the above

But somehow you created your own special fifth option (hereby referred to as option e): Give him soup.

He pokes at the soup with his spoon and you watch him over your own bowl. You can't tell if he's about to burst into tears or dart off into the night. There's something about his eyes, something that tells you he's a lost, stray in need of food and probably a hot bath rather than a six foot lug of a man in tac gear.

After a particularly hot slurp of soup, doing the whole hoo-ha-ooh charade, he looks up at you.

"Sorry," You mumble with an apologetic look. "Hot."

He nods but doesn't say anything. So, he clearly understands English. You watch as he stirs his soup again before finally bringing it to his lips. The air is heavy. You don't know why you care about what he thinks of your soup, but you do.

You want to make a joke; asking him not to kill you if it's awful but you think better of it. You still don't know if he would kill you.

His hum catches you off guard and you jump, looking over at him. His eyes flutter, and you think he definitely will cry. He sniffs a few times and raises a shaky hand with a second spoonful again, before he's suddenly gorging the soup.

His spoon clatters against an empty bowl and he looks over at you worriedly and you just smile at him around your own spoon.

"Want seconds, sweetheart?" You ask gently, getting to your feet and angling yourself to the stove. You're face is blasted with the smells of basil, garlic and roasted tomato as you lift the lid from the pot. You hold out a hand for his bowl which he carefully hands to you.

Ladling the soup to the brim (thank God for Bulk Soup Sundays), you reach into the bread bin and butter two slices of bread, placing them next to his soup when you set the bowl down. Retaking your seat, attempting to finish your own bowl, you watch him curiously.

He mumbles a thank you as he tears into the bread with his teeth, and you offer a warm smile.

"No worries. Help yourself to as much as you need."

You had the strangest feeling like your life was going to change, thanks to the stranger before you. Although, you didn't know just how much.

[creekfiend]

Pip I have to tell you! You know the egg in a hole breakfast? Well I've been frying up the "extra" piece of bread that came from the hole, frying it up in butter, and calling it the butter puck. It makes me think of you

BUTTER PUCK

[cecilyv]

New Fic: the chain I forged (9-1-1, buck/tommy)

Happy Holidays, my friends. @liminalmemories21 and I had Tommy get Christmas Caroled just for y'all. Wherein he meets some ghosts (or possibly hallucinates as a result of whatever was in those shots Lucy handed him last night). Either way, he’s too old for this shit.

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." — Jacob Marley, in Charles Dicken's, A Christmas Carol

11.6k | General Audiences

[Read here on Ao3]

He comes awake abruptly, the hair on the back of his arms standing straight up. He lays there, trying to get his breathing back under control, when he hears the chair creak on the other side of the room. Shit. Fuck. Damn. There’s someone here. And not in the fun kind of way, the way he'd gotten used to with Evan — shit, Buck (he still gets that wrong in his head, when he's half asleep, still a little drunk). He'd gotten used to Buck getting up in the middle of the night, and then pausing before he got back into bed to take a sip of water, put on chapstick. Six months shouldn't have been enough to overwrite the pattern of a lifetime of sleeping alone. But— He still reaches for Evan — fuck. Buck. He still reaches for Buck when he wakes up, expects the heat of him next to him in bed, expects his pillow to smell like Buck’s shampoo and aftershave.

This time though, there's a person in his room and it's not Buck; doesn’t sound like him, smell like him. He breathes and smells dirt and cold and rot. He keeps his eyes closed, facing the ceiling, trying to remember what he might have on hand to defend himself with. Tries to figure out how this person got into his house without setting off the alarms. What he's here to steal.

"I know you're awake," whoever it is says, voice low and raspy like he doesn’t use it much. There's a rustle of fabric as the guy shifts position. "I ain't here to hurt you. You can go on and sit up, open your eyes."

He pushes himself up warily, flicks on the light and blinks in the sudden brightness. Blinks again. A burglar in a Halloween costume was not on his list of possible scenarios. And why, he wonders, if you're going to dress up to break into people's houses, wouldn't you wear a mask?

He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and a vest, but what Tommy can’t look away from (and doesn’t want to look at at all, honestly) is his skin so tight across his face it’s translucent ( like butter scraped over too much bread, a voice in his mind echoes). And the guy has— He squints, and then shakes his head. Looks back. Those look a lot like the inflamed boils Evan — Buck — had had. This seems very specific for a Halloween costume robbery. He would have expected more dead president masks.

"Uh. You're welcome to take whatever you want. I'm not going to fight you on it." It's just stuff.

The guy — the cowboy? — crosses his arms and looks annoyed. "Ain't here for your stuff."

Tommy glances at his bedside table like that's going to reveal that he'd gone to bed with a kitchen knife, or a hammer, or something useful. There's a glass of water and a book he's been saying he's going to read for going on a year now. "Okay. So, why are you here?" Keep him talking, he thinks.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Ain't here to kill you either. Didn't I just say I weren't here to hurt you? Keep up."

He's not sober enough for this. "Okay. I give. Why are you here?"

The guy relaxes, like he's been waiting for this cue. "I'm here to show you what has been, what is, and what is yet to come." And Tommy thinks, okay, Galadriel.

Tommy gives him a blank look, and the guy elaborates. "I owe a debt." He stops, like that’s all the explanation he thinks Tommy should need.

Tommy wracks his brain, but, "I think I would remember meeting you. Was it on a call?"

"Didn't say it was to you.” Pauses and says reflectively, “I wasn't always a good man, but I always paid my debts, and no one can say different." There's another pause and then, “Unless it was to a bank."

Okay, sure. This seems … nope, he’s got nothing. This seems like nothing he can possibly put a name to. This is clearly what he gets for letting Lucy talk him into going out after their last shift, and then letting her buy them shots. The wages of sin. Or something. "Are you seriously telling me you’re here as the Ghost of Christmas Past? Because you owe a life debt? To someone? Who is not me?"

The Ghost — sure, why not — nods, like he's glad Tommy is finally catching up.

He looks closer at the guy, really looks and — leather vest, chaps, boots, boils. Just fuck his life. "You're Billy Boils, aren’t you?"

Billy makes a face, like he tasted something nasty. "William James McCurdy. At your service.”

[ghostmarmot]

My college had me read "A Midwife's Tale", which re-emphasized what my mother had told me about the New England colonies, where the women baked the bread, churned the butter, brewed the beer, and traded amongst themselves. Most transactions in those days were barter for those that weren't wealthy. And the women did all of it. They made the trade goods. They agreed on the price. They ran the economy.

And the term "spinster"? It used to denote someone so skilled at spinning or other fiber arts that she could make a living on her own. Before it was turned into a pejorative, it was a compliment. An acknowledgement of skill.

a phrase that kinda bothers me when talking about women's historical roles in europe is "cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children." you hear it so often, those exact words in the same order even. and once you learn a little more you realize that the massive gaping hole in that list is fiberwork. im not an expert and have no hard numbers, but i wouldnt be surprised if fiberwork took up nearly as much time as the other three tasks combined, so it's not a trivial omission.

it's not a hot take to say that the mass amnesia about fiberwork is linked to the belittlement of women's work in geneal, but i do think there's a special kind of illusion that is cast by "cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children." you hear that and think "well i cook and clean and take care of children (or i know someone who does) and i have a sense of how much work that is" and you know of course that cooking and cleaning were more laborious before modern technology, but still, you have a ballpark estimate you think, when in fact you are drastically underestimating the work load.

i also think that this just micharacterizes the role of women's work in livelihoods? cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children are all sisyphean tasks that have to be repeated the next day. these are important, but not the whole picture. when we include all kinds of fiberwork—and other things, such as making candles or soap—women's work looks much more like manufacturing, a sphere we now associate more with men's work. i feel like women's connection to making and craftsmanship is often elided.

[evidenceof]

i have just said something ridiculous to you

Joe Toye has a nice face, George thinks. Strong nose, strong brows, and a scowl that George realized he liked to earn. Miles deep into 2nd Battalion's march to Atlanta, George Luz hears an Irish song from across their frozen campground.

happiest holidays, @blood-mocha-latte, my hbo war 2025 secret santa baby!! ♡ crossing my fingers and hoping i did their voices/headspaces justice. this present is brought to you by equal parts mary oliver's 'i have just said,' that you love, and toye's atlanta march predicament™. i very humbly give to you my very first luztoye fic.

I have just said something ridiculous to you and in response, your glorious laughter. - 'I Have Just Said' by Mary Oliver

-----------------------------------

December 1, 1942 | 2330 hours Campgrounds, 38 miles from Fort Benning

The butter tastes like nothing on his frozen tongue. George winces at the thin oily film it leaves behind in his mouth after he swallows. Too fucking cold, everything was too fucking cold. A ragged chuckle saws its way through his throat while he watches Perco fight a losing battle against his hard slice of bread. Eventually, he rips it in half, elbow colliding with the tent wall and almost costing them their flimsy shelter. A hundred and fifteen miles and they had to survive off of stale bread and pats of butter.

“The way we live you’d think we’re already at the front of the fucking lines.” Perco’s voice was muffled under a thick scarf. “I don’t know what’s worse. This or shit on a shingle.”

“Come on, we got it made.” George lights a cigarette, and flicks off his lighter in an attempt to sweep away any talk of war. “Sightseeing the backcountry, free food, free clothes. These fuckin’ boots? Babies are the best in General Patton's Third Army, so I’ve heard.” His boot lands back on the cold ground with a pathetic thump from where he lifted it. 

“Aw, shut up, Luz.” Perco shoves him backwards, hard, half a slice of bread still in his hand, but with a grin already plastered on his face.

Just barely missing the tent wall, George regains his balance. “All right, all right. Jeez,” he laughs. He presses his hand on Perco’s head to push himself up, earning him a scowl. “Gonna go find a fire before this thing collapses on us.”

The flap of the tent all but snaps in half when he throws it open. Ice crackles down the drab green canvas like peanut brittle. Outside, cold air smacks against George’s face as he takes in the columns of tents around him that stand frosted and gleaming in the moonlight. The temperature had dropped earlier in the afternoon, but tomorrow promised worse terrain because, as far as George was concerned, God had abandoned 2nd Battalion specifically. Why else would they be the only ones walking all the way to fucking Atlanta? There's thirty eight more miles and not nearly enough bad Sobel impressions in George’s back pocket to last them that far.

With a single drag, he polishes off the remainder of his cigarette. Squinting, he spots Lip and Guarnere in the middle of what looks like an attempt at walking without having to bend their knees. Their frosty puffs of breath mirror the smoke he exhales. He sees Lip’s hand raise to greet him at the same time a bad tune cuts across the field, louder than the muffled grousing from inside the pup tents. Only George whips his head towards the direction of the sound.

“Luz, what’re you up to?” Lip’s voice is firm. George doesn’t see, but he hears the smile in it.

“Better not be doin’ anything fuckin’ stupid. I’m goddamn tired of that pansy chicken-shit officer breathing down my neck all fuckin’ day,” spits Guarnere, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. “Sobel, I mean. Winters ain’t no chicken-shit at least.”

George doesn't expect the polite chuckle from Lip who's quick to follow it up with a stern, “Bill.” At that, Guarnere raises an eyebrow like a demanding child, a look that George knows he never let his ma see. “But he’s right, keep your head outta trouble, Luz. Got enough to deal with while Toye’s relegated to K.P,” continues Lip with a grimace.

George tips his head in the direction of the broken Irish song still flitting in the air. “That him?” The scowl on Guarnere’s face is confirmation enough. “What’d he do?”

“Go ask him if you’re so fuckin’ curious,” Guarnere sneers. “Hey, I’m serious Luz. Give Sobel an excuse to take away passes and I’ll shove a trench knife up your ass.”

George knuckles his forehead to mock-salute Guarnere and gives Lip a wink. “I’ll behave for you, Bill,” he sing-songs. It only takes him a second to quash his finished cigarette under his boot before his feet start moving towards the sound almost involuntarily. He finds Toye hunched over a fire, chin resting on his legs that are folded in front of him. Even tucked into himself, there was something intimidating about his angles. It’s those goddamn broad shoulders of his, wide like no one’s business. Certainly not George’s. He doesn’t recognize the words Joe is singing but the tune’s familiar enough. Once or twice, he found himself straining to hear it in the Toccoa showers. It almost feels like a shame to put an end to it. Almost.

“Thought someone was dying. Your bad singing why they’re making you do this?” chides George, nudging Toye with his boot before he takes a seat on the ground. 

Toye clenches his jaw in acknowledgment, any lingering mirth vanishing from his face. “Luz,” says Toye, already exasperated. George watches him jab the weak fire with a stick. The orange glow casts shadows on his irritated face. Nothing quite like pissing off Joe Toye. He has a nice face, George thinks. Strong nose, strong brows, a scowl that George realized he liked to earn. Even with the darkness under his eyes, Toye looks sturdy.

“Aw, c’mon Toye. Not happy to see me?” His teeth chatter and Toye’s lip twitches into the beginnings of a smile. “Lighten up will ya?”

A gust of wind makes them both adjust their scarves. From under his own, Toye shakes his head before glaring at the stick in his hand. George can see him weighing out the pros and cons of throwing it into the pit. “I did. Look where that got me,” says Toye, eventually.

“Hey, least you’re warm right?” George smiles at him while dislodging a clump of dirt from the sole of his boot to throw in Toye’s direction. When it hits the side of his leg, Toye barely flinches. So it was like that, huh? George digs his heel into the hardened ground, dragging himself closer to Joe. “So what’d you do? You can trust me. Who the fuck am I gonna tell?”

Toye continues staring at the flames like they’d done something to offend him. When he doesn’t answer, George inches forward, tracking cold moisture and mud on his trousers. For a moment he’s convinced Toye isn’t paying attention, but George sees how his eye twitches in time with the sound of his ODs scritching against the ground.

“Toye. Toye. Toye. Joe Toye. C’mon, buddy. Tell good ol’ George,” he says, slightly out of breath as he continues to drag himself closer. 

Bright dots of orange float up into the inky blue night when Toye jostles the firewood with his stick. “Not sure you wanna know, Luz,” he says gravely. “What, you need new source material or something? Running out of punchlines?”

“Me? Nah. Been practicing my Strayer,” says George, grinning. He’s not sure if he imagines the little nod from Toye. “When I get that pitch perfect, it'll last us ’til we ship out at least. You’ll fuckin’ see.” There’s caked mud on the ass of his ODs, he feels it. But now Toye was in perfect prodding distance and that made the journey worth it. With his fist, George nudges him once, twice, but he still looks like a goddamn statue staring at the fire, unmoving. “C’mon Toye. What’d you do?”

Nothing prepares him for how quickly Toye swivels his body towards his. He’s so close that George feels his breath on his cheek when Toye says, “You really wanna know? How about you ask me nice, Luz? Throw in a little favor?”

“Like what…?” says George, schooling his face into seriousness. Were Toye’s lashes always this long? George swears he feels the phantom brush of them against his goddamn forehead. He isn’t proud of the way it makes him miss a beat or causes that slight tremble in his voice. Nothing he couldn’t chalk up to the cold, he thinks. And he fucking would, if anyone asks.

“Like take over with these fires for me, you fuckin’ idiot,” growls Toye in his usual low gravelly voice. The white of his teeth catches the corner of George’s eye, then the pink of his lower lip. Damn. It feels almost too late when Toye thwacks the long stick against George’s chest and he nearly falls backwards. “My arm’s falling asleep.”

Clearing his throat to pull himself together is a decision George regrets immediately. It’s raw and cold like the rest of him. But he can deal with the shards of glass lodged into his windpipe better than the fucking knots that just erupted in his stomach. What was with that? He swipes the stick and turns to face the fire so that Joe is just a smudge in his periphery. From a few feet away, he hears Lieb and Alley laughing mercilessly. The thought of them witnessing all that makes his face burn, but he reminds himself everyone’s huddled in their own pup tents.

Toye's voice, resigned now, floats from beside George suddenly. It’s soft from fatigue. “Kid wanted to know what it felt like,” he says but doesn't continue. 

“What what felt like?” George pokes the fire. There’s a hiss and crackle of wood before Toye replies.

“What it’s like to pick up a skirt,” mumbles Toye, sounding embarrassed, forgiving maybe. “Says he gets nervous easy. He’s a buddy of mine from Dog Company, knew him from Pennsylvania, worked the coal mines together. He’s… you know? All stiff-like. Kinda like—”

“Like Winters?” George answers. “The fuck is wrong with you people from Pennsylvania. You born with a complimentary stick up your ass or what?” George wonders if that was too much, but he hears a huff from beside him—a sound that, from his limited knowledge, is the closest thing Toye gets to laughing. There’s a giddiness in his chest that tells him he’s been wanting to hear that for a while.

“Yeah. Yeah, like Lieutenant Winters,” replies Toye, less grave now. George turns to find him smiling down at the ground almost sleepily. It triggers a fresh set of knots right below George’s belly. It makes sense that the guy would ask Toye, George decides. With a face like that, eyes like that, he could bring home just about anyone he wanted. “Tells me he gets jittery, that friend of mine. Loses his fucking words. Needs practice. Needs advice,” says Toye. 

“Just need a face like yours.” It tumbles out of George’s mouth automatically. God, he wanted to shove one of the burning logs down his throat. But if Toye heard, he didn’t show it. Recovering, George continues, “What’d you tell him?”

Calm as anything, Toye lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t. Gave him a little practical exercise and pushed the guy against a wall,” he says with an even voice. From where he’s turned, the fire illuminates only a portion of his face. Even from a partial view, George could tell he wasn’t joking. Unsurprising; Toye rarely did. “Evans saw.”

“So he served you K.P. duty for jostling a guy? Sounds about right.” George laughs, imagining Evans’ prissy frown. “Your broads usually slam you against walls?”

As an answer, Toye smiles, all teeth, and George stops laughing. 

“It was nothing serious. Wanted to see how well he could come up with one of those lines of his in that position. Said he’s been practicing,” insists Toye. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his lip at the sudden shift in George’s face. “I was gentle though, but I think that was the problem. I, uh… I think he liked it.”

There was something about the image George couldn’t quite put together in his mind. He frowns. I think he liked it. 

“You shoulda seen Evans’ face. Kinda looks like yours right now actually, but less red,” Toye grins and George fights the urge to hide his head under his scarf. “Ripped my friend away from me and doled out the punishment. But really, the fucking kicker was him telling me to go see the chaplain. Fucking self-righteous asshole.”

“The chaplain? Since when the fuck do you need to—” Suddenly, it clicks in his mind, and he imagines the scene Evans must have walked into that night. Toye resting a hand against the wall beside the private’s face, the incline of his broad shoulders pointing inward, caging him. Gentle . Those big eyes and lashes too fucking close: Toye looking like the very picture of ease. Only in his head, George erases the face of the nameless PFC from Dog Company and replaces it with his own. Toye’s angles leaning towards him, lips inches away from his face, the feeling of his gravelly voice trailing from the tip of George’s nose all the way down under his shirt. He chokes a bit when he says, disbelieving, “No. Fuck, Toye. Nah, that ain’t right. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” says Toye tightly and looks up to glare at him. George can’t quite meet his eyes. “I was lightening up, remember?”

This close to the fire, George’s hands still feel like ice. “You’re insane, Joe. Fucking insane,” he says, trying to shake off the thought of Toye being close, peering up at a guy through his lashes like a dame. Suddenly, George’s trousers feel tight and his head was spinning in all possible directions.

“Didn’t hurt him. Was only trying to help. I was gentle, like I said,” Toye says lightly, voice already edged with sleep and without a trace of guilt. “Want a demonstration, Luz?”

“What, so you can get caught again? You plan on being K.P. until we’re shipped out?” George hears the higher register in his voice, and feels the way his heart rams against his sternum. He can’t look at Toye so he pokes the fire instead. A hot splinter flies onto his hand and he lets it sting, steering his full attention to the tiny patch of burning flesh.

Toye’s voice is thick with the lack of sleep, but more importantly is suddenly right behind George’s ear, brushing against the tiny hairs he didn’t know existed there. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I can keep a secret,” whispers Toye. George almost moans, but catches himself. It comes out a fumbling huff instead. The tightness of his trousers stop him from moving away.

“Well,” George tries to say. His zipper brushes against his skivvies and he almost jumps. If not for the jacket, the tented crotch area of his trousers would be on full display. Christ, he hopes Toye’s sleep-deprived enough to forget all this by the end of the march. “I can’t.” 

Toye laughs, fully now. George feels it on his nape, the hahas hitting his skin like long-burning coals. God, it felt good. 

“I’ll try it on you one day, Luz,” says Toye. George isn’t sure if he imagines Toye’s palm resting on his hip. It's too much and he feels like passing out. All the blood from his brain seems pool to right down into his crotch. It was getting harder to think, let alone respond. 

“You’re funny,” manages George eventually. Toye’s breath smells like Juicy Fruit, sweet.

“Yeah? I like surprising people like that,” says Toye, like a purr. When he moves away, Toye keeps the smile fixed on his face. The missing pressure of his hand leaves a cold mark on George’s side. So that was real. The affirmation only intensifies the heat below his stomach.

“You make a habit of shoving enlisted men against walls?” breathes George. It feels too good to keep this line of conversation going, everything in his body says so. But George couldn’t trust himself or his faculties. He was still thinking of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.

“Among other things.” Toye smirks lazily at him, and tilts his head up at the sky. George tells himself it’s the fatigue and the proximity to smoke that makes every word Toye says sound flirtatious. This fucking march had everyone acting strange, especially him.

“You are insane,” he says again, voice trembling. No way in hell was this guy a fairy. Didn’t fucking look like one anyway, all broad shouldered and angular. Nothing about him swished: not his fucking voice, or his fucking hips. Shit just don’t add up like that. But neither did the tightness in his OD trousers that didn't feel like it would disappear fast enough.

“A compliment coming from you, George.” Toye buries his face in his palms. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he says, the words drawn out of him like an exhale.

George watches his body sway slightly, tipping almost imperceptibly in and out of consciousness. “You sleep at all Joe?” Toye yawns as an answer; it shudders through him. He was just tired and spread thin, George thinks, they all were. And that got you acting different, that got you acting abnormal.

“No. But Evans still has it out for me. He’s lurking somewhere,” Toye says, not looking up from where George thinks he’s already fallen half asleep. The sharp angles of Toye’s shoulders droop, sagging under the weight of a second day without sleep. George lights another cigarette, finally, to keep his hands from doing something really fucking stupid like throwing a blanket over Toye and shoving his head onto his lap. Shit that guy from Dog Company can’t do, he thinks, feeling an odd barb of possessiveness while looking at Toye’s drooping head.

“Hey, I got this, all right?” argues George, gesturing at the growing fire.

“Shut up, Luz. I’m not looking for handouts.” But Toye’s voice dips in volume, belying the stubbornness in it.

“C’mon, Joe. You can’t be the only one handing out favors from the goodness of your heart,” George offers something like understanding. From his palms, Toye glances up at him, questioning. He’d look almost offended if he didn’t look so soft.

“Twenty minutes. Sleep. We got thirty-eight miles left in the morning and you look like shit,” continues George. Toye’s gaze doesn’t move away from him. So he stares back, feeling a little selfish, tracing Toye’s dark lashes and pink lips with his eyes. He wonders if they’ll ever get to sit this close again. “I’m saying if Evans comes around, I’ll charm him for ya.”

“Yeah?” says Toye, still looking at George, a small smile hooked on his lips. The sounds of the camp feel like they’ve all but disappeared. “Yeah. You’re good at that.”

His cigarette burns down to the filter but George continues to suck on it, unable to fish it out with his shaking hands that he’s hidden in his jacket pockets. They’re warm now, so it couldn’t have been the cold causing the trembling. He can still feel Toye’s laugh ricocheting on his neck.

Toye breaks their little staring contest and faces the fire. “Fine, twenty minutes.” 

���Sure buddy.” George watches Toye’s chin droop down onto his chest and his eyes flutter shut, lashes twitching. He’s asleep immediately. When he’s sure Toye was out cold, George fishes out a blanket from his pack and drapes the whole thing across Toye’s shoulders with a gentleness he didn’t know he had. “Take as long as you like.”

[smashorpass50plus]

Happy belated Winter Solstice! Woukd you like a soup recipe? You're getting one cause some fast food played the same ad to me 50 times in a day, so I made dippable soup and fresh bread.

This isn't going to be super put together, but let's go

2 Acorn squash, quartered

2 yellow onion

2 roma tomato's

2-6 peppers of your choosing (bell pepper and sweet peppers recommended, but spicy can work)

Butter (Opt olive oil or avocado)

4 tbsp herbs de providence

Salt to taste

2-3 c chicken or veggie broth

1 1/2c Greek yogurt (used to bring tang and creamiest to the soup, sub with what suits your taste.)

Turn oven onto 400°f/200°c.

Quarter the squash, onion, tomatoes and set on tray. Half the peppers and scrape the seeds out. Put on try - try to avoid overlapping, but crowding is ok.

Put butter/oil over the cut up pieces. Make sure all pieces have some oil on them. Sprinkle salt and herbs (If you're going for spicy peppers, feel free to change this flavor profile).

Once oven is good, bake squash 30-40 mins, or until fork tender. If anything on the tray starts to burn, remove from the tray and continue cooking the rest of the tray.

Once fork tender, take out of oven and let cool. Take out a blender, and blend everything on the sheet - remove any skins, seeds, or roots. Be careful - the food can still be hot.

Move the mixture to a pot and boil with the broth until consistency you like. I aimed for a dippable kind of soup for fresh bread. Serve with bread. Optional, serve with shreaded chicken breast, sour cream, chives.

Soup can freeze up to 4 months if stored properly.

[neetily]

I love eating bread and butter.

[mousedetective]

I need at least $90 more to buy flour, sugar, cheese, another small ham, peanut butter (I managed to make a loaf of banana bread with the last of our sugar this evening, so my mom and daughter can snack on banana bread and PB sandwiches if I can get more), rolls and a few other items, since soemone sent $10 to the PayPal account (the $15 that got sent to my ko-fi account went to the overdraft I owe PayPal...I forget I have that listed). Thank you so so much for the help and the reblogs!

Need Help With Food, Transportation & Bills!

PAYPAL | AMAZON WISHLIST | KOFI | GOFUNDME |PATREON | HOLIDAY WISHES LIST @ DREAMWIDTH

12/17/24 - NEW POST!

First off: my mom is back from the hospital! She's still in pain but shes going to have in home physical therapy and doctors visits for a while, so hopefully she'll be on the med soon. Thank you to everyone who helped me visit her in the hospital and get the supplements and vitamins we needed.

We still have one outstanding bills (the internet) which is around $89 total, and we still need food. I'm $421 overdrawn, which I also need to take care of before the 1st of January. So any help covering all that and getting another $100 for food would be amazing.

I also need $50 to get an Uber to pick up my mom's meds that can't be mailed once her doctor submits the pen needles for her insulin to the pharmacy. That I need via the PayPal listed above.