#smelling salts challenge

[restingbuchface]

unhinged behavior from my favorite team in the whole world

[curry-and-gunpowder]

I knew Dazai was a talented young man, but I'm amazed how he apparently managed to be the first 18 year old minor. What can't he do.

[graceful-ashes]

Hen and Chimney casually mentioned that Eddie doesn't get flustered. Buck who's sat nearby on his phone doesn't even look up when he offhandedly says 'Yeah, he does.' Hen and Chim look at him dubiously.

'When?' Chim asks.

Buck looks up, now. 'Like all the time.'

'Name one time' Chim challenges.

'I'm with Chim on this one. I've never really seen Eddie flustered.'

Now Buck is the one looking dubious. 'Um, like when...uh...' His mind suddenly goes blank.

'See. You can't even give an example.' Chim gloats.

'Hey, no that's not fair. You put me on the spot.' Buck argues. 'He...like yesterday! He made me a coffee and said he'd already put sugar in it, yeah? And I said that's so sweet of you. And he blushed!'

'Are you sure he was blushing.' Hen asks clearly not buying it.

'Yeah, maybe he was just warm.' Chim counters.

'I'm telling you, he blushed!' Buck exclaims.

Hen and Chimney continue to look at him sceptically.

'Prove it.' Chimney challenges

'What?'

'Prove. It.' Chimney grins.

Buck just stares in disbelief for a moment before he caves. 'Alright, fine. I'll prove it. I'll get him flustered and you can see for yourself.'

This is how Buck ends up making a fool of himself later in the day when they're just finishing up on a call and Eddie is just frowning at him, confused, not at all effected by Bucks lame attempt to get him flustered.

Buck walks back towards Hen and Chimney in defeat. 'We're out on a call, he probably just has his guard up.' Buck defends.

'Uh huh.' is Hen's response to that. Chimney just snaps his gum, grinning.

Buck attempts a cheesy one liner when they're back at the firehouse. This earns him a part way baffled and part way amused chuckle from Eddie when he responds with 'Alright.' looking to Chim and Hen with an ~Are you seeing this?~ expression. Hen and Chim just hide their amusement behind their mugs.

Buck tries a few more times before giving up.

'Fine. You guys were right. Eddie is unflappable. I clearly don't know what I was talking about.'

'Hey, at least it was fun to watch you try.' Chimney teases. Hen smiles in amusement.

And that was that until much later on when Buck is cooking dinner and Eddie is helping. Buck comes up behind Eddie to reach for something over his shoulder and without thinking says 'Man, you smell good!' He turns his head just shy of pressing his nose to Eddie's neck. 'What is that?'

The spatula in Eddie's hand clatters to the floor and in his panic to attempt to catch it he elbows over the salt shaker. A deep red creeps up his neck and settles in his cheeks as he rights the salt shaker. He clears his throat. 'Uh, it's, uh ,the cologne you...um got me for my birthday last year.' Eddie attempts to compose himself and bends down to pick up the spatula.

'Really?' Buck asks surprised and oblivious to Eddie's flustered state leans in for another whiff. There's a THWACK sound and Eddie winces as pain blooms in his knee from where he knocked it against the counter.

Hen and Chimney are staring slack jawed from the couch.

'You were right.' Chimney admits, shell shocked.

'Huh?' Buck lifts his head to look at Chimney and Hen. Eddie also snapping his attention in their direction.

'He does get flustered. So very flustered.' Chim says in a daze. 'Not unflappable. Not unflappable at all...'

Eddie frowns in complete bafflement, his face still beet red. 'What?'

[arkaiveofurown]

you got drunk and seduced him

Pairings: Zoro x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, Sanji x Reader

You had too much alcohol, so you decided to have a little fun.

Word Count: ~500 - 1,000 words

tag: suggestive

my masterlist here ♡

——

Zoro

The Thousand Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, the afternoon sun baking the deck as you sprawl on a crate near the training area, a jug of cheap booze in hand.

You’ve been tossing back shots for the better part of an hour, watching Zoro slice through the air with his swords, sweat glistening on his scarred torso.

That single-minded focus, the raw power in every swing, the way he grunts with effort—it’s doing things to you, things the alcohol only amplifies.

You’ve always liked pushing his buttons, seeing how far you can take it before that gruff exterior cracks.

And right now, with your head spinning and inhibitions gone, you’re ready to say some downright filthy things to the Swordsman of the Straw Hats.

You stand, wobbling a bit, and stride over just as he sheathes Wado Ichimonji, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Oi, Zoro,” you call, voice thick with liquor and intent, stopping close enough to smell the salt and steel on him.

He glances over, one eye narrowing, already sensing trouble.

“What?” he grunts, short and sharp, but you just grin, leaning in so your words are for him alone.

“Y’know, I’ve been watchin’ you swing those swords, and I can’t help wonderin’ how good you’d be at handlin’ somethin’ else. Bet you could fuck me so hard I’d forget my own damn name, huh? Slice right through me with that big, hard—”

His face goes from annoyed to stunned in half a second, mouth dropping open before he snaps it shut, a rare flush creeping up his neck.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” he barks, but there’s a roughness to his tone that wasn’t there before.

You laugh, low and dirty, stepping closer.

“C’mon, tough guy, don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it. Pin me down, cut loose— I’m ready for ya.”

Do you think he’ll bite, or just swing a sword at you to shut you up?

Zoro’s grip tightens on the hilt of Shusui, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, you think he might actually draw it just to scare you off.

But his eye locks on yours, burning with something that ain’t just anger, and he steps forward, towering over you.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and you’re gonna regret it,” he growls, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine, the heat of his breath close as he glares.

You don’t back down, tilting your chin up defiantly, your smirk daring him.

“Make me, Zoro. I fuckin’ dare ya.”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken challenge, and his hand twitches—not toward the sword, but toward you, hovering just an inch from your arm as the Sunny’s deck creaks under the weight of the tension.

——

Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick sways under your unsteady feet, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the sharp burn of rum on your tongue.

Lanterns swing overhead, casting golden flickers across the weathered wood as the Whitebeard Pirates roar with laughter, their voices a chaotic melody against the crashing waves.

You’ve had one too many, the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through your veins, making your skin prickle with reckless abandon.

And there he is—Portgas D. Ace, lounging against the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, his freckled chest glistening with sweat from the humid night air.

That cocky grin of his, the way his dark eyes glint with mischief under the brim of his hat—damn, it’s doing things to you.

Why not play with fire tonight?

You stumble forward, a sly smile curling your lips, your heart thumping like a war drum as you close the distance.

“Hey, Ace,” you purr, voice low and dripping with intent, “you look like you could use some company. Or am I too hot to handle?”

His brow quirks, that grin widening as he straightens, clearly intrigued.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You sway closer, the rum making your movements bold, your hand brushing against his bare arm—skin on skin, electric.

His muscles tense under your touch, and you can’t help but linger, fingers tracing the edge of his tattoo, the black ink stark against his tan.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in so your breath ghosts over his ear, “I’ve always wondered how much heat you can really take. Care to test that with me?”

Ace lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he turns to face you fully, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’,” he drawls, voice rough like gravel, but his hand finds your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The heat of his palm sears through your thin shirt, and you press yourself against him, chest to chest, daring him to push back.

Your fingers slide up his neck, tangling in the dark waves of his hair as you tug lightly, whispering, “I like danger. Don’t you?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of raw hunger flashing through them, and you know you’ve got him hooked.

But then, in a swift move, he spins you around, pinning you against the railing, the cool wood digging into your back as his body cages yours.

“Keep teasin’ me like that,” he growls, lips hovering just above yours, “and I might just burn this whole ship down.”

Your breath hitches, the tension crackling like wildfire between you, and you can’t resist reaching up to graze your nails down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

What now—do you push him further, or let him take the lead?

——

Law

The Polar Tang’s dimly lit mess hall hums with the quiet clinks of mugs and the low murmur of the Heart Pirates unwinding after a long day.

You’re sprawled at a table, a half-empty bottle of sake in hand, the buzz in your head making the submarine’s steel walls feel less claustrophobic.

Across the room, Trafalgar Law leans against the counter, his sharp eyes scanning a medical text, completely oblivious to the party—or to you.

That stoic, calculating demeanor, the way his long fingers turn a page, even the damn spots on his hat… it’s infuriating how much you want him.

You’ve had enough of his cool detachment tonight.

With a smirk, you slam your bottle down, the noise cutting through the chatter, and decide it’s time to rattle the Surgeon of Death.

You stagger to your feet, the sake sloshing in your system as you saunter over, hips swaying with purpose.

“Captain,” you drawl, voice dripping with mischief, stopping right in front of him.

Law’s gaze lifts, those piercing gray eyes narrowing as he takes in your flushed state.

“You’re drunk,” he states flatly, already turning back to his book.

Oh, hell no. You’re not letting him dismiss you that easily.

With a daring grin, you reach for the hem of your top, peeling it off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your bra—black lace, clinging to your curves.

The cold air of the sub hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in your core as Law’s eyes snap back to you, widening for a fraction of a second before his jaw tightens.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice low, but you catch the faintest flush on his tattooed neck.

Leaning forward, hands braced on the counter beside him, you let him get a good look, your smirk wicked.

“Just givin’ you a reason to pay attention, Doc. Wanna check my vitals now?”

His fingers twitch around the book, and you swear you see a crack in that icy facade—will he snap, or keep playing the untouchable captain?

The room’s gone quiet, or maybe it’s just the blood pounding in your ears as you hold his stare, daring him to react.

Law slams the book shut with a sharp thud, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re starting.”

But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t call for Bepo to drag you off.

Instead, his gaze drops, lingering on the swell of your chest before flicking back to your face, a storm brewing in those eyes.

You tilt your head, tongue darting out to wet your lips, pushing him further.

“Then show me, Law. I’m all yours to dissect.”

His hand shifts, inching toward the hilt of Kikoku propped nearby—not out of threat but pure instinct—and you feel the air thicken, your skin prickling as you wait for his next move…

His long fingers hovering just above the blade’s grip.

——

Sanji

The kitchen of the Thousand Sunny smells of fresh herbs and simmering broth, a late-night sanctuary where Sanji works his magic.

You’ve wandered in after a few too many drinks with the crew, the buzz in your head making you bolder than usual as you lean against the counter, watching him chop vegetables with that effortless precision.

His blond hair falls over one eye, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air, and damn if he doesn’t look good in that apron.

You’ve always known how to push his buttons—he’s a hopeless romantic, after all—and tonight, you’re in the mood to be his muse.

Swinging your legs playfully, you lean forward, letting your voice dip into something sweet and teasing.

“Sanji, darling,” you coo, drawing out the words as you twirl the bottle in your hand, “you always make such a fuss over Nami and Robin, but what about me? Don’t I deserve a little of that special treatment?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide behind that blond fringe, and the cigarette nearly falls from his mouth as he stammers,

“M-my lady, of course, I—anything for you!”

You hop off the counter, closing the distance, and pluck the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke right in his face with a wicked smile.

“Then how ‘bout you serve me somethin’… personal? I’m starvin’ for a taste of you, chef.”

His face turns beet red, hearts practically popping in his eyes, but there’s a nervous swallow as you press closer, your hand brushing his apron.

On the other hand, Sanji’s no fool—he knows when he’s being played with, doesn’t he?

He recovers fast, a suave grin spreading as he sets down his knife, turning to face you fully.

“Ahh, my sweet, you wound me with such temptation! But I am at your service—name your desire, and I’ll whip it up!”

His voice drips with flirtation, but you see the way his hands fidget, the slight tremor in his fingers.

You step even closer, your chest brushing his as you murmur,

“I want the main course, Sanji. Hot, messy, and all mine.”

His breath catches, eyes darting to your lips, and for once, the smooth-talking cook seems at a loss for words.

The pot on the stove bubbles over with a loud hiss, steam rising, mirroring the heat building between you as his hand hovers near your waist, hesitant but oh-so-close to touching.

[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

[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part two]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven

ACT 2: THE THEORY ERA

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and others lando slower days. better mornings.

user8 WHOSE HAND??

user9 ok soft launch. we see you

user10 you used to be fun 🙄 ↳ user11 no this is romantic as hell don't stop lando

They were at the marina.

She’d asked if he wanted to walk. He said yes without thinking, then spent the next twenty minutes regretting how fast he said it.

They didn’t talk much at first.

The marina was half-lit, sky dimming to that deep, moody blue just before it slips into black. The air smelled like salt and engine oil and late summer. Waves lapped at the sides of the boats, soft and rhythmic. Everything around them was low, slow, quiet.

She walked beside him, not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to make him aware of her with every step. She wore something simple, white linen pants, a tank top, a sweater tied around her waist. Hair pulled back, skin glowing from the last of the sun. He hated how he noticed every detail.

They weren’t touching. They never really were. But it always felt like they almost were.

Lando shoved his hands into his pockets.

“So what, you just walk around the marina for fun?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice calm. “Good place to think.”

He side-eyed her. “You invited me. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

She just gave him that look again, the one where her mouth twitched like she was hiding a joke, but her eyes stayed steady. “Maybe I wanted company.”

That word made something shift in his chest.

He looked away. “You’re hard to figure out.”

She smiled in a way that said she knew all his secrets. “That’s the point.”

They stopped near the edge, where the dock curved outward and the water looked like glass. Lights from the moored boats rippled on the surface, casting reflections that wobbled and stretched. It was stupidly beautiful, and Lando hated how aware he was of it. Or maybe he just hated how aware he was of her.

She sat down on the edge without hesitation, feet dangling over the water. After a second, he followed, close but not touching.

A breeze swept in from the coast, cool enough to make her pull the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. Lando tried not to stare as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her profile soft in the half-light.

“This feels too normal,” she murmured.

He glanced at her. “Too normal?”

She shrugged, eyes still on the sea. “I thought fake dating a Formula 1 driver would be a little more…I don’t know. Flashy.”

He smiled. “You want paparazzi and champagne?”

“Not really. But I wasn’t expecting you to be quiet.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You are with me.”

That hung between them for a second too long.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of every inch of space between them. And more than that, every inch they weren’t touching. Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t trying to notice that. It just happened.

“Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

She turned her head slowly, resting her chin on her knee. “Or maybe you’re scared if you say something, it’ll start to feel real.”

His heart stuttered.

But she didn’t say it like a challenge. She said it like a passing observation. Like she wasn’t even talking about him.

Still, he didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything at all.

They sat in silence again, and it wasn’t awkward. But it wasn’t comfortable either. It was something else. A space with too many sharp edges and not enough words.

Eventually, she stretched her arms behind her, leaning back on her palms.

“So…” she said, slow and casual, “when do you think we have to start, you know…acting more convincingly?”

He blinked. “You don’t think we’re convincing?”

She smiled, but it was tight. “I think we are. I don’t know if they think we are.”

He nodded, unsure if they were still talking about the public anymore. Or if that had ever been the point.

“I guess we’ll have to be more obvious,” he said.

“Guess so,” she echoed.

And neither of them moved.

He hated interviews. Always had.

Not because they were hard, they weren’t. Say what you’re meant to say. Smile when you’re supposed to. Keep the edge off. Stay likeable. It wasn’t rocket science.

But lately, the questions had started shifting. Less about racing lines and car setups. More about…him.

Today wasn’t any different.

He’d just stepped off the pit wall after quali, still in his race suit, half-zipped, sweat cooling on the back of his neck. The sun was brutal, and his mind was still half on the lap he’d botched in sector three.

But the interviewer had that look, the 'so, let’s talk about your personal life' glint that made his stomach turn.

“Fans are saying you’ve mellowed out a bit this season,” the interviewer started, microphone up, grin too polished. “Anything to credit that to?”

Lando smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

He could’ve dodged it. He could’ve made a joke, shrugged it off, said something forgettable.

But instead,

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Maybe I just figured out what matters.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows went up, like he hadn’t expected that much honesty. “She watches your races?”

Lando exhaled through a smile. “Sometimes. Not always.”

He looked out past the paddock, toward the crowd, toward the edge of the garages where team staff filtered in and out. And maybe if he wished with his whole might, she might be standing there with her soft smile that promised everything will be alright.

But she wasn't. He was here in Miami, and she was back home in Monaco. And then in a brief moment of lapse, he repeated something she had told him on their third 'date' together.

“She says she prefers the parts where I’m standing still.”

There was a beat of laughter, polite, surprised, genuine.

The interview wrapped soon after, just a few more technical questions before they thanked him and moved on. But Lando stayed there for a moment longer, tugging his suit back up over his shoulders, jaw tight.

He shouldn’t have said that. Or maybe he should’ve.

He didn’t know anymore.

All he knew was that she’d hear it. Whether someone sent her the clip or she found it herself, she’d see the way he said it. The pause before the smile. The softness in it.

She’d know he wasn’t acting.

And that was what scared him.

Because the second she realised it, really realised it, he didn’t know what she’d do.

But he knew he’d already crossed the line.

1 voicemail from lando [1:04]

"hey, y/n. [pause]. I don’t know if you watched the race today. Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. Honestly, I kind of hope you didn’t. I wasn’t great. The car was fighting me the whole time, and I wasn’t really…in it.

I know I probably shouldn't be calling, or whatever, but [pause] I just...miss you. Is that weird of me to say? I don't know.

Everything is just so loud here. You’re the quiet in my head, if that makes sense. Probably doesn’t. I’m tired.

You weren’t there. I could feel it. It’s stupid. Sorry, I just wanted to talk to you. Even like this. Uh, yeah. [pause] Bye."

Hello, my angels! Here is part two of this series, yippee!! If you have any ideas or suggestions for other things I could do or any requests do let me know! Also, if you want to be added to the taglist let me know! Thanks so much for your support!!

Also in honour of Lando winning today, I may do a double update! taglist @sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege

[ashlovesfood]

Rearrange My Guts!

Tags: Dinner, cooking, reassurance, gentle, eye contact, we gonna keep playing eye contact or you gonna holla at ya boy? arousal, sticky slick, kissing, marking, hickies, Bruce and Clark are HORNY freaks, rough fucking, oral sex, face fucking, multiple orgasms, cum, Bruce is rough and Clark is gentle, switching positions, eyes rolling back, EVERYONE is FREAKYYY!

Visuallll (Doesn't match story but its okay!) (″･ิ_･ิ)っ

Clark Kent, one of the top reporters in the world, sharing you with Bruce Wayne- excuse me? It started off with you at work, texting your husband on break while you ate a quick snack. He was talking about one of his friends, a highly known writer that was currently visiting Gotham for an interview.

That’s when you decided to be friendly, and suggested dinner with him to help and try to get along. Maybe that’s where things started to take a slight turn… Bruce was hesitant at first, not being the hugest fan of sharing a dinner with his friend, but he agreed at last. Clark wouldn’t make a bold move right?.. As you got off work to start on dinner, the idea of making delicious roast potatoes and steak came to mind.

You started off with chopping the potatoes into cubes, seasoning the chunks with salt, pepper, and garlic, then drizzled the pan with olive oil. The kitchen oven warmed up nicely as you opened the door, a warm heat wave hitting you quickly. Potatoes were done and needed to cook, now came the steaks.

This process was somewhat challenging, your brain overthinking about what Clark would like and what not so you asked Bruce.

“Yes baby what’s wrong?” Bruce was in his office, cleaning his desk off and powering down everything in the building to go home while he listened to your voice. “Hi B. Sorry, just- listen what does Clark like for steak? I’m just- need to get it right for dinner or I’ll mess up and everything’s going to be ruined and,” “Sweets. Calm down and take a breath, just please wait. I can reassure you that Clark likes anything on his steak and he doesn’t have any allergies, he’ll eat anything handed to him. Medium rare is perfect for the steaks. Pretty big guy if I do say so myself honey, just trust me- he will like anything you make so do not overthink it okay?” “I- okay. Thank you, handsome. Really need that right now.”

You took a breath, letting the calm moment resurface so you could continue with tonight and not stress out. The call ended with Bruce saying that he and Clark would be coming at the same time, his voice giving you reassurance one more time before hanging up. The small heartbeat in your chest faded into a calm beat, the feeling of being helped by Bruce made you calm down instantly.

As you prepped the steaks with salt and pepper, the skillet was warming up waiting for you to place the meat in. It smelt fresh of food around the manor, the warmth bringing a welcoming feeling. “Oh the potatoes!” You grabbed the cute oven mitt from the hanger, sliding the door open to grab the pan of fresh roasted potatoes. The smell was heavenly, you smiled at your cooking and placed the pan on the counter to let it cool down. Sizzling brought you back to the skillet, the steak was seared on one side and you flipped it revealing the beautiful brown color. You added butter, thyme, and garlic into the pan letting the sauce infuse into the steak for a delicious flavor.

The door clicked open, and you heard voices. “Bun, are you here?” Bruce placed his coat on the chair and told Clark to follow him. “I’m in the kitchen!” The aroma of fresh steak wafted around in the air as Bruce and Clark walked in, your back turned to them as you watched the steak. “Good evening, Mrs.Wayne.” The heat turned off as the steak was perfectly cooked in the skillet, the butter basting the meat to make it extra juicy.

“Please, no need to be so formal with me. Call me by my name.” You gave him a polite smile, looking at his eyes through his black rimmed glasses. “B, can you cut the steak and I’ll set the table? Would you both like to drink wine?” Your eyes flipped to both of them as they answered, being fine with wine.

The cabinet above the fridge was holding the wine, your fingertips barely grazing the handle. Clark stepped behind you, reaching the cabinet door and pulling out the bottle of Bordeaux, his front pressing down on your back. Bruce eyed Clark but didn’t say anything as he placed the meat on the plates, a slight smirk wiped on his face. You shuddered at the feeling, the layers of fabric separating skin to skin contact. “I’m sorry- didn’t mean to get so close..” He placed the Bordeaux onto the counter, adjusting his glasses while he stepped back. You awkwardly chuckled, pretending like it never happened and that your panties were not kind of damp.  

“Dinners ready, both of you.” Bruce’s voice cut through the air, a shiver running down your spine going straight to your pussy. “Oh thank you Bruce..” You coughed to clear your throat as you walked towards the table, sliding the chair out to sit. All of you sat down to eat, having a light conversation about work, the background playing your soft dinner playlist.

“The food is delicious. I, you’re a really good cook Mrs.Wayne.” Clark complimented your skills, a slight blush washing over your features. The wine was definitely starting to catch up.. Bruce eyed you silently, then looked at Clark. They made a look that signaled something, their eyes diverting back to you. You felt your thighs clench together, why was the air so warm and sticky now?.. It smells like Clark’s cologne and Bruce’s scent, and arousal shoots through your body.

The dinner was abandoned as all of you fumbled around in the hallway, Bruce had his boner rubbing against your ass cheek while Clark was nipping at your neck. You moaned in ecstasy, the sound making them even harder. Clothes were strewn across the stairs, reaching up the floor of your bedroom. Clark took off his glasses, placing them on the nightstand as he watched you on the bed. Bruce was taking his time, making out with you while he rubbed your nipples, the cold air making them harden.

“Mnghh! N-Need you both..” You panted under the kiss, Clark and Bruce chuckled as they watched you tremble with pleasure. Bruce took your mouth, slapping his cherry red tip on your cheek, the small dribble of pre on your face. “Oh bunny.. ‘M gonna fuck you so damn good..” Bruce shoved his cock into your mouth, hitting your gag reflex making you roll your eyes back. Clark was in between your thighs, lapping at the slick that coated your skin. “Taste soo good f’me ma..” Clark’s mouth was sucking and licking up all your juice, his long tongue prodding your hole making your arch.

The pleasure was too much, too fast, too filling. Your first orgasm felt like a train wreck, you convulsed as Bruce and Clark kissed and marked your body, bite marks and hickies littered your skin. “M cummmingg..!” Bruce released his load into your throat, the hot ropes of fresh cum making his tip sensitive. Clark was rutting against the sheets, his pretty pink tip leaving a wet spot on the bed.

“Oh fuck- Bruce, switch w’ me..” Clark could feel all 10 inches throbbing with need, his pink tip leaking with precum, as Bruce was shooting blanks into your mouth his cherry red color he slipped out of you. You were panting, your eyes heavily lidded from the pleasure. “Ngh- no more, pleasepleasepleasee!” Your body was flipped instantly, Bruce was lining his tip up to your pussy while Clark was about to abuse your mouth. They looked at eachother, and used your holes at the same time.

“Hngh!” It made you feel so full, both holes being used like a fleshlight to their own will. The heavy sounds of grunts and groans filled the room, it smelt like musky cologne and the sweet smell of your delicious pussy. “Milking me so good bunny- Fuckfuckfuckfuck..!” Bruce sped up his pace, thrusting into your tight walls faster than before sending electric shocks through your body. Your eyes were rolled up into the back of your head, and you moaned around Clark’s base while he fucked your face.

It was overwhelming, the feeling of having your holes filled with giant cocks, and Bruce was allowing it! “Ma- use your tongue f’me..” Clark was using your throat to his will, the tip twitching as he felt the edge of his orgasm about to burst. You licked the veins that ran up and down, another orgasm or two making your body shiver. The slick was lubricating Bruce’s dick, his thrusts sloppy and rough, he’s about to cum. “Gonna cum in this sweet pussy..” Bruce groaned, his hot load filling your womb to the brim, it was soooo damn hot.. Clark followed shortly after, his abs clenching as another load was released into your body, the taste of his cum was lingering on your tongue. You whined when they took out their dicks, shaking from the aftermath of your body. “Mm.. I’ll use your dicks next time..!”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

A/N Releasing intro post by tmrr ★~(◠ω◕✿)

[sh4nksslvt]

Romance By Impact

A series of unfortunate training accidents, unexpected collisions, and very confused pirates—featuring awkward kisses, deadpan reactions, and maybe a few new feelings.

shanks x reader | zoro x reader | mihawk x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, accidental kiss, light romance a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 3k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

The tavern was rowdy in the way only a Red-Haired Pirates pit stop could be—laughter bursting at the seams, ale spilling like waterfalls, and someone’s boot hanging from the ceiling for no discernible reason.

You were seated at your usual corner table, safely tucked away from the wildest parts of the madness but still within arm’s reach of chaos if it happened to wander over. Which it always did. Because, of course, you were with them.

Tonight, chaos arrived in the form of Lucky Roux barrel-rolling across the floor, chasing after a chicken that had apparently stolen his sandwich.

You sipped your drink without blinking.

“Should we stop him?” you asked no one in particular.

“Nah,” came Shanks’s cheerful voice as he flopped down next to you, drink in one hand, and a smirk stretched wide across his sun-warmed face. “Roux’s gotta work through that betrayal himself.”

You tilted your head, watching the chase. “That chicken has excellent footwork.”

Shanks snorted. “It’s always the poultry you least expect.”

He nudged your shoulder with his, and the casual warmth of his presence settled around you like a blanket that smelled faintly of salt, rum, and trouble. You’d been with the crew long enough that this kind of night was practically a lullaby—boisterous, ridiculous, and, in a strange way, comforting.

“Bet you five hundred berries Benn falls asleep with his eyes open again,” you said.

“Double if he does it standing up,” Shanks countered immediately, raising his mug.

You clinked glasses in solemn agreement, like any two upstanding degenerates would.

The crew roared around you—music blaring, a couple of drunk pirates arguing over whether a narwhal could beat a sea king in an underwater arm-wrestling match—and for once, nothing too insane was happening.

Until it did.

It started innocently enough, as these things tend to.

Yasopp challenged Shanks to a drinking game. You were pulled in as the impartial referee, a decision that now, in hindsight, seemed… foolish.

Very foolish.

“I swear on my entire alcohol stash that I won’t cheat,” Shanks said solemnly, hand on his heart.

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know the rules yet.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “So I can’t cheat if I don’t know how.”

“…You are so full of crap.”

“Don’t judge me with those eyes,” he said dramatically. “Your judgment is louder than Benn’s gun.”

The drinking game was a disaster within two minutes. Shanks was supposed to drink only when you called “go,” but he insisted he had “emotional premonitions” of when the right time was, which led to half the table being soaked in rum, and you nearly getting knocked off your seat laughing when Yasopp fake-passed out from "betrayal."

The grand finale happened during a particularly rowdy round, when Shanks, in the middle of turning to dodge a flying peanut (launched by a vengeful Lucky Roux, still chicken-less), whipped his head around—and smacked right into you.

Forehead, nose, lips.

An accidental kiss.

A very smack-worthy, full-on, blink-and-you-miss-it kiss.

There was a beat of silence as your heads bumped slightly, your faces still awkwardly close. He blinked at you. You blinked back.

“…Well,” you said, completely calm, “that’s one way to dodge a peanut.”

Shanks blinked again, then burst out laughing, tipping backward so hard he almost fell off the bench.

“You—” he wheezed between laughs. “You just got accidentally smooched, and your only comment is about a peanut?! DAHAHAHA”

You took another sip of your drink. “You missed the peanut. Poor reflexes.”

“I’m an emperor of the sea!”

“With poor reflexes.”

The table erupted in laughter. Yasopp fell off his chair. Benn, true to the bet, was already dozing with his eyes half-open in the corner.

Later that night, the party simmered down into lazy chuckles and off-key sea shanties. You and Shanks were still at the table, now sharing a plate of spicy skewers someone had abandoned (their mistake).

“So,” he said eventually, nudging you again. “About the kiss.”

You looked up from your skewer squinting at him. “You’re not gonna propose or anything, right?”

He almost choked. “What?!”

“Some people get very dramatic about first kisses,” you said matter-of-factly. “If you were about to declare undying love and offer me a life of sword-swinging romance, I was gonna need at least three more drinks.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then grinned, slow and wide.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Shanks stretched, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “I was gonna make a cheesy joke about how that kiss stole my breath away, but now I feel like you’d hit me.”

“I might. Gently.”

“Deserved,” he admitted.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, settled deep into the bones of the night, the kind of silence that says we’re fine, we’re good, we’re idiots, and it’s okay.

Then Shanks leaned his elbow on the table and gave you a smirk that was half mischief, half curiosity.

“But seriously,” he said, “not even a little flustered?”

You thought for a second, then shook your head.

“You’re not my first accidental kiss, Shanks.”

He gawked. “What?”

“There was this thing with some guy once,” you said, picking up another skewer. “He fell asleep mid-training, woke up, swung his sword, tripped, face-planted into mine. Lips. Boom. Instant nap buddy.”

Shanks looked personally betrayed.

“I thought we had something special.”

You shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “Sorry, I’m a walking magnet for chaos. If anything, this makes us even.”

He was quiet for a beat, then started chuckling again.

“You know,” he said, grinning, “I think I might like that about you.”

“Not the chaos part, right?”

“No, especially that part.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping shoulders with him again. “You’re lucky I’m immune to charm.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to try harder.”

You turned to him, deadpan. “Try aiming better next time. If you're going to kiss me, at least make it count.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

And then Shanks’s grin turned absolutely feral.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

You got up, stretched lazily, and patted his head like one might a particularly smug golden retriever.

“It’s a ‘you spilled sauce on your shirt’ distraction, actually.”

He looked down.

There was no sauce.

You were already halfway to the door.

“Hey!” he called after you, laughing. “That’s cheating!”

You raised your mug in a mock-toast without turning around. “So are emotional premonitions, Captain!”

ZORO

The sun was brutal. The kind of heat that could fry an egg on the deck of the Thousand Sunny if you weren’t careful—or cook your brain if you were dumb enough to train during it.

Which is why you, naturally, were dumb enough to train during it.

“Your stance is all over the place,” Zoro grunted from where he stood, shirtless and already glistening with sweat. His swords were tucked under one arm like an afterthought.

You adjusted your footing. “You said that five minutes ago.”

“And it’s still true five minutes later. Amazing, right?”

“You’re a terrible teacher,” you muttered, shifting again.

Zoro snorted. “And you’re a terrible student. So we’re even.”

It was a typical afternoon—Zoro had been training solo on the upper deck until you wandered in with a practice sword and what you claimed was a completely reasonable curiosity about swordsmanship. He, of course, took this as a challenge to prove why he was the best swordsman on the ship.

You took it as a challenge to mildly annoy him while improving your footwork.

“You're using too much shoulder,” he said, stepping around you. “All power, no control.”

“You sound like Sanji when he critiques my chopping skills.”

Zoro scoffed. “Don’t lump me in with the eyebrow.”

You grinned. “Hit a nerve, mosshead?”

“Try again, and I’ll knock you on your ass.”

“Oh no, sensei, I’m quaking.”

Zoro rolled his eyes, stepping in to correct your posture, hands rough but surprisingly careful as he nudged your wrist and shoulder into position. He stood too close for it to be entirely comfortable—not for you, at least—and his breath was warm against your ear when he muttered, “Now, swing.”

You did.

Too fast. Too hard. Too ambitious.

Zoro moved to block—too late.

There was a flurry of movement. Your feet caught on each other. His elbow knocked into yours. Balance gone. Two bodies tumbling—

And then—

Wham.

His weight half on top of you. The practice sword somewhere nearby, long forgotten. His lips smashed awkwardly against yours—messy, breathless, more collision than kiss.

Silence.

Hot, stifling, vaguely sandy silence.

Zoro lifted his head, eyes wide like someone had just hit him with a frying pan. His nose bumped yours again.

You blinked at him.

“Well,” you said, voice dry, “that’s one way to teach me about impact.”

Zoro scrambled back like he’d been electrocuted, nearly tripping over his own sword in the process.

“I—I didn’t—That wasn’t—” he pointed at you, flushed, eyes wild. “You fell!”

“Correct,” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I was there.”

“We collided!”

“Yep.”

“Your face was just—right there!”

“I imagine it still is.”

Zoro stared at you like you’d grown a second head. You sat up fully, dusting off your shirt, and glanced around.

“Honestly,” you said casually, “I’ve had worse landings.”

“That was your mouth!”

“Well, it wasn’t your foot, so I’m counting my blessings.”

He stood there, mouth slightly agape, looking like his brain had entered maintenance mode. You picked up your fallen practice sword and twirled it idly.

“Anyway,” you added, giving him a once-over. “You okay? You didn’t, like, sprain your pride or anything?”

Zoro blinked. “I—I kissed you!”

You looked at your wrist like you were checking an invisible watch.

“And I’m still breathing,” you said. “So no emergency.”

“You’re weirdly calm about this.”

“Zo, you once mistook a cactus for a training dummy and challenged it to a duel. Our standards for ‘weird’ are skewed.”

Zoro turned scarlet.

“That was one time.”

“I still have the sketch Usopp made of it.”

“I will burn it.”

You shrugged, walking past him toward the rail to stretch your sore legs. “Go for it. I have backups.”

He followed after a second, still visibly flustered, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“So,” he said slowly, suspiciously, “you’re not… mad?”

You looked at him. “Mad? You tripped and accidentally kissed me. I’m not gonna sue you for emotional damages.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t, like, a move or anything—”

“I know.” You smiled, folding your arms. “Though if it was, I gotta say—clumsy technique. Room for improvement.”

That shut him up.

For about three seconds.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You kissed me.”

“That doesn’t mean I like you!”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you did.”

More silence.

Then Zoro turned abruptly toward the rail and muttered, “Well, maybe I do.”

You stared.

He stared harder at the horizon.

“…Did you just confess to the ocean?”

“It’s neutral ground.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“And you’re annoying.”

You stepped closer, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Do you always fall on top of people when you’re into them?”

“Only the ones who can take it.”

You smiled, surprised and not surprised at the same time.

“I’m flattered.”

He side-eyed you, still red in the ears. “So… you don’t mind?”

“The accidental kiss? Or the part where you basically admitted you like me?”

“Both.”

You gave it a moment. Then shrugged. “I don’t mind either.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You looked him up and down. “You’re hot, skilled with three swords, and somehow managed to trip and kiss me without impaling either of us. That's impressive.”

“You have low standards.”

“I have realistic standards. And I’ve seen you snore in a tree upside-down. I’m not exactly expecting poetry and roses.”

“…Good. I don’t do that stuff.”

“Obviously.”

You leaned on the railing beside him.

“You know,” you said casually, “if you want to properly kiss me sometime, you could just ask.”

Zoro stiffened.

Then, very slowly, he said: “…You mean, like... on purpose?”

You nodded. “Yeah. With mouth coordination and everything.”

He looked like he was solving a physics equation in his head.

“That’s… bold of you.”

“I am bold.”

He glanced at you, then at your mouth, then away again, scowling like it personally offended him.

“Maybe later.”

You grinned. “You say that like I’m on a schedule.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “annoying brat,” but didn’t walk away.

Later that night, you found a small bundle of snacks on your bunk—your favorite, carefully tied with a red string.

There was no note.

But Zoro was mysteriously missing from post-dinner drinks.

And when you found him again, fast asleep on the training deck with a slight smile and a very obvious blush…

You didn’t say a word.

But you did steal his bandana and left a note in its place:

“Next time, I’m aiming for your mouth. On purpose.”

MIHAWK

The first thing you learned after arriving on Kuraigana Island was that everything was too quiet.

The second thing you learned was that Mihawk didn't do "chit-chat."

He spoke in silences and glances, moved like a blade through shadow, and regarded most human emotion with the polite detachment of someone observing a minor weather event.

You weren’t sure why he agreed to let you stay, but you weren’t complaining. Something about “discipline” and “training potential.” Or maybe he just liked the sound of your sword clashing against his—it was hard to tell.

Currently, the clash in question was taking place in the overgrown courtyard behind his castle. Vines curled along shattered pillars, moss blanketed stone steps, and two crows cawed disapprovingly as Mihawk parried your strike with less effort than someone brushing lint from a coat.

“Tighter grip,” he said, flicking your blade aside.

“I have a tight grip,” you huffed, adjusting your footing. “My bones are humming.”

“Your technique is humming,” he replied, stepping around you. “Your bones are just trying to keep up.”

You gave him a look. He returned it with a subtle, unimpressed tilt of his head.

“I’m going to hit you eventually,” you muttered.

“Unlikely.”

“Says the man with a bird for a butler.”

“Perona talks more than you. And she’s a ghost.”

You lunged again—he sidestepped effortlessly. Your momentum carried you forward, and before you could recover, Mihawk moved. A blur. His hand on your arm, redirecting. Your balance tipped.

One misstep.

You fell.

So did he.

Right on top of you.

His hat flew off.

Your mouths met in a brief, surprised, and completely accidental kiss.

It was soft. Barely a second. Warm. Smelled faintly of red wine and leather.

Then—

He blinked.

You blinked.

The crows blinked, probably.

“…Well,” you said, still flat on your back. “That’s one way to parry.”

Mihawk didn’t move immediately. His face was inches from yours. He was clearly calculating something—trajectory, blame, moral ramifications, possible prison time.

Then he leaned back, brushed nonexistent dust from his coat, and offered a gloved hand.

“I believe that qualifies as a technical error,” he said flatly.

You took his hand and stood. “Are you talking about my stance or the kiss?”

“The latter,” he said. Then, after a pause, “The former was already unsalvageable.”

You snorted. “Charming as always.”

“Mm.”

He turned to retrieve his sword, as if he hadn’t just accidentally kissed someone in the middle of sword training on an abandoned island.

You rubbed your jaw. “You kissed me.”

“I landed on you.”

“Lips-first.”

“That was not intentional.”

“Shame. You’re weirdly good at it.”

Mihawk paused mid-step. His eye flicked to you like a dagger. You could’ve sworn one of the crows wheezed.

“I am proficient in many skills,” he said at last.

You nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll add ‘spontaneous kissing’ to the list.”

“Remove ‘self-preservation,’ while you’re at it.”

You grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

He turned back toward the castle with his usual smooth grace, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder:

“You’re due for footwork drills. Ten laps.”

“For kissing you?”

“For falling.”

“Again, you fell too.”

“And yet here I am. Standing. Composed.”

“Smug.”

He didn’t deny it.

You did your laps. Begrudgingly. Grumbling.

By sunset, Mihawk was seated on the stone steps, wine in hand, his sword resting beside him like an extension of his arm. You joined him, flopping down with a huff and sweat-damp hair.

“You planning to avoid talking about it forever?” you asked.

He sipped his wine. “Define ‘it.’”

“The part where you kissed me.”

He glanced sideways. “Do you truly require verbal confirmation of what your mouth already knows?”

You blinked. “Is that your version of flirting?”

“It’s my version of clarity.”

You stared at him. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I am denying the accident. Not the effect.”

You tried not to visibly short-circuit. “That was almost romantic.”

“I could try again,” he said calmly, still watching the horizon.

“Oh yeah?”

“Properly this time.”

You hesitated.

Then turned to face him. “Alright.”

He looked at you fully now, gold eye sharp, steady. There was no dramatic lean-in. No swelling music or cinematic pause.

He just placed his wine down, leaned in slowly, and kissed you.

Softly.

Deliberately.

His lips were cool from the wine, but his hand warm as it rested lightly on your jaw. No rush. No fumble.

Just precision. Control.

Steel and silk.

When he pulled back, you were pretty sure the crows had tactfully flown off.

“Well,” you said faintly. “I see why people fear you.”

“Because I kiss well?”

“Because you do everything like it’s a duel.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You leaned back, satisfied. “So... are we dating now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Will it interfere with training?”

“Only if you kiss me mid-swing.”

He gave the faintest smile. “Then we’ll manage.”

Later, you found a red wine left near your sword. Wrapped with black ribbon. No note.

Very Mihawk.

You kissed his cheek in the morning.

He didn’t protest.

But your next sparring session? Brutal.

You limped for three days.

© dollywons for the dividers <3

[auroralwriting]

𝓊𝓈.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: does he regret the secret of you?

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

gracie abrams songfic challenge

You meet Finnick by the shore, always.

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, the waves hush against the sand, and the air still smells like salt and promise. It’s early enough that the rest of the district is asleep or pretending to be, which gives you these precious minutes alone, just you and Finnick. Just the two of you, before the world wakes up and remembers who he is.

You’re sitting on the rocks, legs pulled up to your chest, when he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. A comforting feeling, something you only trusted him to do.

“You’re late,” you tease.

“I brought breakfast.” He holds up a paper bag with two flaky pastries, slightly squished from his run over. “Peace offering?”

You turn your head slightly so your nose brushes his. “Depends. Did you get the sweet one?”

He kisses your cheek. “Always.”

You take the bag and tug him down beside you. The world is still golden and quiet and yours.

Everyone in the district knows Finnick Odair. Of course they do. He’s the Capitol’s golden boy, the youngest victor in history, a name whispered with awe and fear and a tinge of envy. But you know him differently. You know him when he’s not trying to be charming, when he forgets the way he’s supposed to carry himself like a weapon. You know him when he’s barefoot and laughing, when he cries in your arms, when he dreams out loud about a future that might never come. When you’re swimming in the sea and running barefoot down the stony pathways of four.

And somehow, against all odds, you’re his. In secret. Not because you’re ashamed. Because it’s safer that way.

If the Capitol knew—if Snow knew—he would destroy you just to remind Finnick who he belonged to. So instead, your love lives in the spaces between. Glances across the square. Notes tucked into fishing nets. A second pair of footsteps behind the cliffs. And mornings like this one, where time bends just enough to make room for you both.

“You’re staring,” Finnick says, and when you look over, he’s grinning at you with one brow raised.

“Can’t help it,” you say, leaning into him. “You’re prettier in the morning light.”

He laughs, the sound warm and real. “You’re the only person alive who says that to me like it means something.”

You thread your fingers through his, fitting together with practiced ease. “That’s ‘cause when I say it, it does.”

The waves crash louder, a seagull swoops above, and Finnick watches you like you’re the only constant in a life full of chaos. “You ever think about running away?” he asks quietly, like he’s not supposed to even speak the thought out loud.

“All the time,” you reply. “But I don’t think we’d make it past the district border.”

He nods. “I know. I just… I think about it more now. About you and me and a little boat and no one knowing our names.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “I like the sound of that.”

He turns to face you, suddenly serious. “If I ever get the chance to go, I’ll take it. And I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he says. “I don’t want this life forever. I don’t want to keep pretending. I want us.”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re scared he’ll hear it. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “Then I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait.”

The months go by like pages turning too fast.

Your love is all little things. Late-night walks on the pier. Pressed flowers in your pockets. Hidden kisses behind nets and market stalls. He braids tiny shells into your hair and says you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and you tell him he talks too much, but you kiss him like you believe it.

And then.. everything changed.

When they announced the Quarter Quell, your heart dropped before his name was even drawn. You knew. You knew Snow would never let him go. Not after all he’d endured. Not when Finnick’s smile was still the Capitol’s favorite currency.

You had braced yourself for goodbye. But instead, miraculously, inexplicably, they came for you. District 13.

President Coin said it was for your safety. Someone had told them of Finnick Odair's secret lover and how he needed her--you. But you weren’t stupid. You knew the truth: it was to keep him tethered. To keep him sane. To remind him what he was still fighting for.

Finnick didn’t know you’d been brought to District 13, not at first. You were underground, in hiding, protected and silenced and surrounded by strangers in gray. But when he stumbled out of the hovercraft after being rescued from the arena, bleeding and trembling and half-alive, they let him see you.

They didn’t expect him to fall to his knees when he did.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost, hands trembling as they hovered inches from your face. Like he was scared you’d disappear again. That he’d imagined you like he had so many nights in the Capitol, when loneliness felt like it would kill him before Snow ever could.

You took his hands and pressed them to your cheeks, kneeling in front of him slowly, like he was some wounded animal. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

He sobbed into your neck. And from that moment on, you didn’t hide anymore.

In District 13, you sleep in the same bed. It’s not like before, no ocean breeze or tangled nets or kisses by moonlight, but it’s real. It’s a borrowed bunk in a metal room, and still, somehow, it feels like a palace. Because it’s yours. Because he’s yours.

He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. You don’t ask what he’s dreaming of. You already know. So you curl around him, press your lips to the side of his neck, and hold him until his shaking stops.

He always says the same thing: “You’re my only safe place.”

Sometimes, he says it with tears still drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, it’s whispered against your shoulder like a prayer. And you believe him. Because you feel the same way.

In District 13, people glance sideways at you in the beginning. You don’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder if you’re scared out of your minds. Let them wonder who had possibly caught Finnick Odair's attention. It didn't matter, because it was finally real to you.

But there’s nothing fake about the way Finnick pulls you into him during the middle of strategy meetings, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s bored out of his mind but perfectly content as long as you’re there. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he holds your hand in the cafeteria line, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You could be grabbing bread and water and he’s still brushing his thumb over your knuckles like you’re made of something divine.

You catch people smiling sometimes. Not the cold, calculating kind. The soft kind. The kind that says: oh, this is real.

He kisses you in the hallways. He steals kisses like he used to, quick and sly, like you’re both teenagers again, but now it’s in full view. You’ll be talking to Gale or Katniss, and Finnick will just walk by, press a kiss to the side of your mouth like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and keep walking like it didn’t leave you flushed and dazed.

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him once, when he does it in front of a crowded room.

“You love it,” he grins, hands already slipping around your waist.

“I do,” you admit, letting him press his forehead to yours. “God help me.”

He kisses you like the world has already been saved.

When the war ends, and the world opens back up, Finnick refuses to go anywhere without you. It’s not a protective thing, it’s a need thing. A love thing.

You rebuild a life together near the coast, in a village that smells like freedom. You sleep tangled up like driftwood, limbs always brushing. You wake up to his lips on your cheek, his voice murmuring some half-sung melody he’s writing in his head. And when you leave the house, together, always together, people don’t bat an eye when he threads your fingers together like it's second nature.

Because it is.

You go to markets and he picks out your favorite fruit without asking. You read on the beach and he lies with his head in your lap, humming under his breath. You take walks along the shoreline, and he insists on skipping rocks even though he’s absolutely terrible at it. He’ll pretend to pout until you kiss him. It works every time.

He kisses you so often it becomes a rhythm. A punctuation. A language.

And he loves being yours publicly. After years of being forced to wear a mask in the Capitol, after years of fake smiles and someone else’s hands, you are his truth. You are the thing he never had to fake.

He tells people stories about you, often unsolicited.

“She makes the best tea,” he says to a wide-eyed kid in town. “Once she brewed a cup that knocked me out for eight hours straight. Slept like a baby. Woke up drooling on her shoulder.”

He grins at you like you hung the stars.

You roll your eyes. “It was chamomile, Finnick.”

He shrugs. “Magic.”

Sometimes you find yourselves just watching each other.

You’ll glance across the room and find his eyes already on you. Like he’s always checking, just to make sure this is still real. You’re sitting on the dock one evening, feet in the water, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders.

“Remember how we used to hide behind that net stall?” he murmurs, pointing down the shoreline.

You smile. “We got caught so many times.”

He laughs, tipping his head back. “That one time your braid got tangled in the ropes—”

“—and you tried to play it off like we were just admiring the craftsmanship.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It was a fine net.”

You laugh until your sides hurt. And then you lean into him, quiet, hearts beating in sync. “We don’t have to hide anymore,” you say softly.

He kisses the side of your head. “We never will again.”

“Do you regret it? The secret of us?” You asked.

Finnick shook his head, “I never regret any of our moments together.”

You’re the kind of couple people talk about in stories now. Not because of the war. Not because of the Capitol. But because of how good your love is. How whole. How loud and soft and lasting. They see the way Finnick looks at you like you’re his whole world. The way he tucks flowers behind your ear and doesn’t care who’s watching. The way you press kisses to the corner of his mouth every time you say goodbye—even if it’s only for a five-minute errand.

They say love in Panem never lasts. But you and Finnick? You’re the exception. You’re always touching. Always close. Always choosing each other. Not just in secret. Not just in private. But in every room. Every day. Every lifetime you’re lucky enough to share. And gods, are you lucky.

[wroetolando]

𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where Lando’s biggest win isn’t on the track—it’s marrying you

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: love of my life - harry styles

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The morning of the wedding was a blur of nervous excitement, stolen glances in the mirror, and the soft hum of music filling the bridal suite. Outside, the world was buzzing—the chatter of guests arriving, the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs of the coastal venue, the rustle of flower arrangements being set in place. It was everything you had ever dreamed of, and yet, in this moment, your heart pounded with an overwhelming mixture of love, nerves, and anticipation.

Lando was waiting at the altar.

Your fingers toyed with the lace along the edge of your veil as your bridesmaids made their final adjustments. Your dress—timeless, elegant—hugged you in all the right places, its intricate beading shimmering under the soft glow of the setting sun. The air smelled of roses and salt, a perfect blend of nature’s embrace and the carefully curated details you had spent months planning.

A knock at the door.

Your father stepped in, eyes glassy with emotion as he took you in. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, blinking rapidly. “I feel like I might pass out.”

He chuckled, offering his arm. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep you upright until you make it to him.”

Him.

Lando.

The man who had turned your world upside down with his laughter, his unrelenting kindness, his ability to make you feel like the most important person in any room. The one who had held your hand through every fear, every challenge, every late-night worry.

And now, he was about to be your husband.

The music shifted, the gentle strum of strings signaling your entrance. A hush fell over the guests as the doors opened, revealing the path lined with delicate white petals, the golden glow of the evening sun casting an ethereal light over everything.

And there, at the end of the aisle, stood Lando.

His breath visibly hitched the moment he saw you. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored black tuxedo, a single white rose pinned to his lapel. But it was his expression that made your heart stutter—his usual mischievous grin replaced with something softer, deeper. His eyes, filled with so much love and reverence, shimmered with unshed tears.

As you walked toward him, each step lighter than the last, it was as if the entire world faded away.

Lando wiped at his eyes the moment you reached him, letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, squeezing your hands the moment your father placed them in his.

You smiled, blinking back your own tears. “So are you.”

The officiant began speaking, but you barely heard the words. All you could focus on was Lando—his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, how his eyes never once left yours.

Then, the vows.

Lando exhaled shakily, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I wrote these down because I knew if I tried to say them from memory, I’d probably forget everything the moment I looked at you,” he admitted, chuckling as a few guests laughed softly.

Then, he looked up, his gaze locking onto yours.

“You are my greatest adventure,” he began, voice thick with emotion. “From the moment you walked into my life, you have been the calm to my chaos, the steady presence I never knew I needed. You have loved me through every win, every loss, every self-doubt. And somehow, through it all, you still look at me like I’m someone worth loving.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Lando swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I vow to love you in the quiet moments, not just the big ones. I vow to remind you every single day how incredible you are, how lucky I am to stand beside you. I vow to hold your hand through every storm, to be your home no matter where we are in the world.”

His voice broke slightly on the last sentence, and you instinctively squeezed his hands, grounding him.

“You are my checkered flag,” he whispered. “No matter what, I will always come home to you.”

Sniffles echoed through the crowd, and even the groomsmen were subtly dabbing at their eyes.

You took a shaky breath, unfolding your own vows. “I spent so long trying to find the perfect words for this moment,” you admitted. “But the truth is, nothing I say could ever fully capture how much I love you.”

Lando’s lips pressed together, his grip on your hands tightening.

“You have given me a love so big, so undeniable, that it fills every corner of my heart. You make me laugh when I want to cry, you see me when I feel invisible, and you remind me every day that love isn’t just about the good moments—it’s about showing up, even when things aren’t perfect.”

You blinked back tears, voice steady. “I vow to always stand beside you, to be your safe place, your biggest fan. I vow to love you through every lap, every finish line, every road that life takes us down.”

A single tear rolled down Lando’s cheek, and you instinctively reached up, brushing it away.

“You are my favorite story,” you whispered. “And I can’t wait to spend forever writing it with you.”

The moment the officiant announced you as husband and wife, Lando didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, cupping your face as he captured your lips in a kiss so deep, so filled with love, that the entire world seemed to stand still. The crowd erupted into cheers, but all you could hear was the rapid beat of his heart against yours.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The Reception

The venue was breathtaking—a canopy of fairy lights twinkling overhead, the tables adorned with white roses and flickering candles. Lando kept you close, his arm constantly around your waist, his lips pressing against your temple every few minutes as if he still couldn’t believe you were real.

The laughter and hum of conversation filled the beautifully lit reception hall, the warm glow of fairy lights casting a golden hue over the elegantly decorated tables. As the night settled into a comfortable rhythm, the clinking of silverware against glass signaled the next part of the evening—the speeches.

Lando squeezed your hand under the table, his thumb tracing soft circles against your skin. He leaned over, whispering, “Ready for some mild embarrassment?”

You giggled, nudging him. “I’m more worried about you.”

The first to stand was Max, Lando’s best man, who smirked as he picked up the microphone.

Max took a deep breath, giving Lando a teasing look before turning to the crowd.

“Well, I never thought I’d be standing here, giving a wedding speech for this guy,” he started, chuckling as Lando groaned. “Not because I didn’t think he’d find love, but because, let’s be honest, Lando has always been married to racing first.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Lando playfully threw his napkin at Max.

“But then she came along,” Max continued, turning toward you with a warm smile. “And suddenly, the Lando we knew—the one who spent more time sim racing than sleeping—started talking about something other than cars. Or should I say, someone.”

You felt your cheeks warm as Lando squeezed your hand tighter.

“You are patient, you put up with his terrible jokes, and you somehow manage to keep him in check—which, honestly, deserves a trophy of its own.”

The guests laughed, and Max took a quick sip of champagne before his expression turned sincere.

“Lando, mate, I’ve seen you at your highest and your lowest, but nothing compares to how you look at her. I’ve seen you win races, achieve milestones, but finding someone who loves you for you, beyond all of this…” He gestured to the lavish venue, the world of racing that had shaped them both. “That’s the real victory.”

Max lifted his glass. “To Lando and his amazing wife—may your love always be on pole position.”

A round of applause erupted as everyone raised their glasses, Lando laughing as he clinked his with Max’s before leaning over to kiss your temple.

Next, Lando’s mother, Cisca, stood, wiping at the corner of her eye as she picked up the microphone.

“First, I want to thank everyone for being here to celebrate such a beautiful day,” she began, smiling warmly at the crowd before turning toward the two of you. “As a mother, you always dream of seeing your child grow into someone kind, strong, and loving. Lando, from the moment you were born, you brought an energy into this world that was impossible to ignore.”

Lando grinned, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve always been fearless—on the track, in life—but what I admire most is the way you love. You love with all your heart, without hesitation, without holding back. And when she came into your life, I knew immediately that she was someone special.”

Cisca turned to you, her eyes filled with nothing but warmth. “You bring out the best in my son. You’ve given him a sense of peace I’ve never seen before, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

Lando swallowed hard, clearly trying to keep it together.

“With that,” Cisca smiled, raising her glass, “I wish you both a lifetime of laughter, adventure, and love that only grows stronger with time.”

The applause was deafening, and Lando wasted no time standing up to pull his mother into a hug.

Lando’s father, Adam, was next, standing with the calm confidence that clearly ran in the family.

“Now, I promise I won’t make this too long because, let’s be honest, my son’s attention span isn’t the greatest.”

Lando laughed, shaking his head as the room erupted with amusement.

“But in all seriousness, seeing your child find their person—it’s a feeling I can’t quite put into words,” Adam continued. “Lando, you’ve always been determined, always pushing for greatness, and I have no doubt that same determination will make you an incredible husband.”

His gaze softened as he looked between the two of you.

“Marriage isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up every day, choosing each other, even when it’s not easy. And if there’s one thing I know about both of you, it’s that you don’t back down from a challenge.”

He raised his glass. “To my son and my new daughter—may your love be the greatest victory of all.”

Lando’s brother, Oliver, and his sister, Cisca, stood together, sharing a knowing look before Oliver took the mic.

“So, growing up with Lando…” Oliver trailed off, shaking his head as the crowd chuckled. “Let’s just say, we’ve seen him in his prime. And by prime, I mean running around the house in his underwear, causing absolute chaos.”

Lando groaned, covering his face as everyone laughed.

“But through all of it, one thing has always been true—Lando has the biggest heart. He might be stubborn, he might be competitive, but when he loves, he loves.”

Cisca took over, smiling warmly at you. “And we see that love every time he looks at you.”

Oliver nodded. “We’ve never seen him happier, and that’s saying something because this guy literally lives for adrenaline. But you? You’re the real thrill.”

They raised their glasses together. “To Lando and his incredible wife—welcome to the family.”

Carlos stood, shaking his head with a smirk. “I feel like I should start this by saying—finally.”

Laughter filled the room, Lando groaning as Carlos winked at you.

“I’ve had the privilege of knowing Lando for years, and trust me, it’s been an experience.”

More laughter.

“But in all seriousness,” Carlos continued, his voice softening, “watching Lando grow, both on and off the track, has been incredible. And seeing him with you? It’s like he’s found his missing piece.”

Lando’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I wish you both a life filled with happiness, adventures, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of patience for Lando’s bad habits.”

The room laughed as Carlos raised his glass. “To a lifetime of love and laughter.”

Oscar took the mic last, pausing for dramatic effect.

“I was going to prepare a long speech, but then I remembered that Lando can barely sit still for five minutes, so I’ll keep it short.”

Lando snorted, nodding. “Fair enough.”

Oscar smiled, glancing at you. “You make him better. Not just as a driver, not just as a person, but in ways that are impossible to put into words.”

A beat of silence.

“That’s how you know it’s real.”

The room let out a collective aww, and Lando shook his head, clearly caught off guard by the sincerity.

“To the happy couple,” Oscar said, raising his glass. “And to making sure Lando never forgets how lucky he is.”

Lando laughed, clinking his glass with Oscar’s before turning to you. “I definitely won’t.”

As the applause and cheers filled the air, Lando leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Still think marrying me was a good idea?”

You turned, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “The best decision of my life.”

And with that, the night continued—filled with laughter, dancing, and love that would last a lifetime.

Later in the night, after the cake had been cut and the dance floor was filled with swaying couples, Lando pulled you away from the crowd.

“Come with me,” he whispered, lacing his fingers through yours.

He led you down a small path lined with lanterns, away from the noise, until you reached a quiet balcony overlooking the ocean. The waves crashed softly below, the scent of salt and jasmine filling the air.

Lando turned to you, eyes shining. “You know how they say life moves fast?”

You nodded, heart still racing.

“Well,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours, “for once, I don’t want to rush. I just want to stay in this moment, with you, forever.”

You smiled, brushing your lips against his. “Then let’s make forever ours.”

And with the stars as your witnesses, you did.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[smutmind]

Are you taking requests for the "How She Pays" series? Because I think that Twice´s Chaeyeong would be a great fit

Something like paying for an expensive modern art piece with sex because it way more expensive than what she thought it would be and she´s not carrying enough money, or something like that connects with her artsy style

Appraised and Claimed

Twice Chaeyoung X Male OC The pawnshop smelled of tobacco wood and forgotten time.

Chaeyoung stepped inside like she owned it, boots clicking over mosaic tiles, black hair spilling down her back like ink. The air clung to her skin—thick with heat and history. Every shelf brimmed with character: brass compasses, pocket watches, velvet boxes hiding tarnished secrets. This place wasn’t just old; it had teeth.

She moved like music, hips rocking with subtle intent. The denim on her thighs clung desperately, paint-streaked and threadbare. Tattoos licked out from under her crop top, curling up her ribs, over collarbones, blooming into a garden of rebellion.

"You sell stories, or just the leftovers?" Her voice came out dusky, flirtatious.

Terrance looked up from behind a mahogany counter. Broad-shouldered, skin deep cocoa, a salt-and-pepper beard that framed lips like a carved secret. He wore a simple black tee, sleeves rolled tight against biceps. Late 30s, maybe 40, with eyes that'd seen too much but judged nothing.

"Depends what kind of story you're chasing."

She lifted a rusted music box from a shelf. Delicate engravings. Tiny ballerina, faded pink.

"This one," she said. "It’s mine now."

Terrance shook his head slowly. "That piece isn’t for sale."

Her brow lifted. "Everything has a price."

"Not this."

Her smile faltered for a blink. "Seriously? Do you know who I am?"

"I know what you think that means."

"It means I can pay ten times what it's worth. Hell, I could buy this whole shop."

He nodded slowly. "And still not enough."

The air went taut. She stepped in close, her chin tilting up, challenge sharp in her gaze. "You must really like old junk."

"It's not junk," he snapped, voice like gravel. "It was my sister's. She played it every night until cancer stole her voice. It's the last sound I have of her."

Her mouth parted, expression softening. "That... okay. That's something."

He turned back to his ledger, the dismissal clear.

Chaeyoung didn't move. Then: "What if I gave you a memory worth more than the past? Something unforgettable."

"Flirting won’t work."

"Who said anything about flirting?" Her smile turned wicked. "I’m offering you a trade. Body for a box."

He exhaled, slow. "You're really not used to hearing 'no,' are you?"

She stepped even closer, so near their breath mingled. "You’re kind of turning me on with it."

He hesitated. Her bravado was fraying now—a hint of fire licking at her ego. Her eyes searched his face. "You don’t want me?"

"Wanting’s not the problem. It's what happens after."

"Then stop thinking. Just want."

The clock behind them ticked. Her knee brushed his arm. Electricity.

"Lock the door," she whispered.

He moved.

Click.

The sign flipped. CLOSED.

Her smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Good boy."

She slid from the counter and circled him, fingers trailing down his spine.

"So what happens now, Mr. Sentimental?"

He crossed the floor slowly, each step grounding. Controlled. Watching her. "Now? Now you try to make yourself unforgettable."

She kicked off her boots, one foot bare on polished wood, the other on hand-woven Persian. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her crop top. "You think I'm bluffing?"

"I think you're dangerous."

"Good. Because I bite."

He pulled her close, his grip bruising. She gasped, her fingers curling into his shirt.

"Then show me."

She dropped to her knees, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Hands moved with purpose, unfastening his jeans. Her lips parted.

"You going to remember this?"

"Every goddamn second."

She wrapped her fingers around him, breath catching. "You're huge."

"You can back out."

She smirked. "I don’t run."

Her mouth closed over him, tongue working, slow and wet. She took him deeper, inch by inch, until he groaned and his hand tangled in her hair.

"Fuck, Chaeyoung. Just like that."

She moaned around him, the vibration sending him spiraling. She gagged, adjusted, then went back down. He hissed, voice rough.

"Goddamn, you're going to make me come just like this."

She pulled back, eyes shining. "Not yet. I want all of you when you do."

He lifted her effortlessly, laid her back across the velvet-lined display case. Her legs parted, eager. He slid fingers down, teasing her through soaked lace.

"You're dripping."

"For you. Only you."

He slid inside in one thrust. She cried out, head thrown back.

"Jesus, you're thick. Stretching me so full."

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he thrust harder, driving her hips into the rattling counter, palms flat on the glass behind her for balance. Her breath hitched, a sharp gasp turning into a moan as his rhythm found something ruthless.

“Shit—okay—” Her voice broke around the words, torn between pleasure and overwhelm. “You’re… really not playing tonight.”

“Not when you sound like that.” His voice was gravel, his grip bruising. “So fucking wet for me.”

She tried to reply but another slam into her soaked center stole the air from her lungs. Her head tipped back, throat exposed. The sound she made was raw, guttural.

Then it happened—an uncoiling heat deep in her gut, rushing outward. Her body tensed, spine arching as a sudden wave gushed free from her, soaking them both. Her eyes flew open, shocked.

“Oh my god—I—fuck, I haven’t—” she stammered, trembling. “I haven’t done that in years—”

He stared down, soaked and grinning. “Look at you. Fucking perfect.”

Her legs were still shaking, her voice caught between breath and need. “Don’t stop,” she managed. “Don’t—”

He bent over her, dragging a kiss along her collarbone, and thrust again. She choked on a sob of pleasure, then bucked under him, her entire body tightening. Her nails found his back, digging deep.

“I’m cumming—fuck, I’m cumming again—”

Her orgasm tore through her, thighs locking around his waist as her body pulsed around him. She rode it with abandon, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, lips trembling.

When she came back down, blinking through the haze, her voice was hoarse but clear. “Your turn,” she whispered. “Come for me. Use me.”

He hesitated, just a moment.

She reached up, tugged his hair. “Please. Don’t hold back. I want it.”

That was all it took. He pulled out, breath ragged, and she shifted upright, guiding him back between her thighs even as her body still twitched. She straddled him again, his length stretching her too wide.

“Still too big,” she gasped, bouncing. “But I don’t fucking care—”

He grabbed her ass, lifting her with both hands as she bounced on him, their bodies slick, obscene sounds echoing in the tiny shop. Her breath hitched with every impact, arms looped around his neck, mouth open in a grin that bordered on madness.

“Fuck, you’re strong,” she gasped, voice shaking. “You like throwing me around, don’t you?”

“You like making a mess all over my dick,” he shot back, hoisting her higher before slamming her down again. “God, you’re tight even soaked.”

“Mmhm,” she moaned, biting her lip. “I’d rather sock this cock than take home that stupid antique anyway.”

He snorted, lips brushing her ear. “Is that so?”

“Dead serious,” she breathed. “That box? Might’ve been priceless before—but now it smells like sex and desperation.”

Laughing, he spun them and set her down on the glass counter with a clatter of trinkets. “Then let’s finish ruining it.”

She leaned back, breasts rising and falling, legs spread lazily. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Sentimental?” she teased. “Come on me. Mark your territory.”

He stared, jaw clenched, chest heaving. One hand worked his length, slick and furious, the other resting on her thigh. Her eyes locked on his, challenging.

“You wanna see what you do to me?” he growled.

“Every last drop,” she whispered.

And he gave it to her—hot spurts painting her collarbone, her chest, even her chin. She didn’t flinch. Just watched him, lips parted, loving every second.

When it slowed, she dragged her fingers through the mess across her stomach, then licked one clean. “Guess I am the treasure in this shop.”

He chuckled, breathless, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. “No fucking doubt.”

She grinned up at him, smug and glowing. “Think anyone’ll still want that box after this?”

“Only if they’re into scented antiques,” he said, brushing her hair back.

She laughed, breath still uneven, then reached for her bag. “Here,” she said, scribbling something onto a receipt with a swipe of her lipstick. “My number. In case you feel like appraising something else next time.”

He reached out to take it, still dazed, chest heaving.

But instead of heading for the door, she slid down to her knees in front of him, her smile slow and wicked.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Her fingers wrapped around him again, guiding him to her lips. “Saying goodbye like a proper girl should,” she murmured. “Don’t get sentimental on me now.”

Then she took him into her mouth—soft, wet, reverent. He groaned, hips twitching as she sucked him slow and deep, tongue circling, moaning softly like she missed the taste already.

“Damn…” he breathed, hand tangling in her hair. “You’re fucking unreal.”

She didn’t stop until he pulsed again, just enough for her to hum approval and swallow, licking him clean with practiced ease. When she stood, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking.

“Told you I’d rather suck cock than take home that box.”

He could only nod, spent and stunned, watching her walk to the door.

The bell jingled as she slipped out into the night, hips swaying, leaving behind a ruined counter, a destroyed antique—and him, cock twitching, still aching, her number in his hand like a promise.

-----

added a little spin to your idea.

[kotoku]

bath time with the touden party

content - bathing with the touden party / domestic fluff shenanigans / could be read as platonic or romantic 

pairings - laios touden x reader / chilchuck tims x reader / marcille donata x reader / senshi & reader / izutsumi & reader

warnings - not so family-friendly words

word count - 1.5k

✤✤✤✤

✢ When the idea of bathing together is first proposed, Laios is greatly flustered by the idea of being nakey with you

✢ However, it immediately becomes one of his favorite things to do with you, especially at the end of the day when all you want is relaxation and a good cleansing

✢ He’d love to help wash your back and the areas you can’t reach, gingerly scrubbing your skin to rid it of grime 

✢ He’d also like threading his fingers through your hair, spreading the shampoo and conditioner evenly while massaging your scalp

✢ You’d do the same for him, having him facing away from you in between your legs as you tenderly massage and even out the shampoo/conditioner

✢ He immediately melts into your touch, soaking deeper into the bubbles as he revels in your presence

✢ Laios is the type of man to cry when you do this, feeling so loved and cared for by you who takes the time to make sure he’s all clean

✢ Sometimes Laios might play around with you in the bath, splashing water or blowing soap in your direction

✢ He’d also do those hair/beard styles with the bubbles, making all kinds of goofy expressions at you (he’d especially try to mimic monsters)

✢ Laios might own a rubber ducky or two in a modern au, having it displayed on the corners of the bathtub

✢ You and Laios would rant to each other about anything, from gossip to fixations, it’s such a nice way to unwind

✢ When the two of you are finished bathing, he will offer to help dry your hair, using a towel and then a comb to untangle any knots

✢ If you have a skincare routine, Laios would love to take part in it, inquiring about the different products and what they’re for

✢ In the end, he smells like sage, an earthy yet slightly sweet scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ It would be hard to convince him to have a bath with you, but he’d crack eventually

✢ He’s keen on helping you scrub your back and wash your hair, thoroughly scrubbing and rinsing the suds off 

✢ Chilchuck is the type to dump a bucket of water over you to rinse the soap off…

✢ A small play fight might break out between the two of you due to his sarcastic and mean attitude, you know better though

✢ Trying to wash his hair would be a challenge for you, he wouldn’t let you touch it, persisting that he wash it himself

✢ When he has difficulty reaching his backside, however, he begrudgingly lets you help scrub him down

✢ The aroma of the bath salts and the steam from the water relax the both of you, Chilchuck sinking into your side subconsciously  

✢ The two of you take the time to chat a bit (about the other’s day, what to eat for dinner, etc.…), basking in the silence when the conversation goes dry

✢ After the two of you wash up, you ask him if he would like to comb out your hair, maybe even style it if he wants to

✢ With a roll of his eyes, he gently combs through your hair, being mindful of your ears and how hard he might tug 

✢ Depending on your hair length, he doesn’t mind braiding it or putting it up despite his complaints about there being a lot of hair/shedding

✢ If you have a skincare routine, Chilchuck would only take part in a bit of it, not fond of the texture that's on his face after applying multiple products

✢ He’ll ask questions here and there about the products, finding out their purpose and the ingredients used in making it

✢ If his daughters are into that sort of thing, he’ll ask you for your recommendations so he can gift it to them

✢ In the end, he smells like pine trees, an earthy and fresh scent 

✤✤✤✤

✢ When you ask Marcille if she wants to bathe with you she’s ecstatic !!

✢ She loves baths and rambles about how it's important for casting spells, etc… 

✢ She’ll jump at the opportunity to scrub your back for you, in fact, she wouldn’t mind scrubbing all of you, finding solace in taking care of your wellness 

✢ Marcille especially loves doing your hair, threading her fingers between your locks to make sure the shampoo/conditioner covers every strand

✢ She’ll throw in a little scalp massage, loving the feeling of you sinking into her 

✢ When you offer to do the same for her (scrubbing and doing her hair), she can feel her heart beating out of her chest

✢ She’s buzzing with energy before you start, eventually relaxing into your touch with a satisfied sigh 

✢ Marcille is definitely the type to use bath salts and herbs, teaching you about their benefits for the body and mind

✢ She would have a eucalyptus bundle hanging from the showerhead, further enhancing relaxation 

✢ When the two of you are finished washing up, she’d ask if you would want to dry her hair for her with a small flush on her cheeks, she wouldn’t mind if you decided to brush through it as well…

✢ She’s practically putty in your hands, melting into your tender touches with pink cheeks and a dopey smile 

✢ Of course, she’d return the favor by drying your hair as well, offering to comb through it if you want

✢ If you have a skincare routine, have no fear for Marcille also has one !! (definitely a skincare girly in modern times)

✢ She’ll inquire about the products you use while also showing you hers, the two of you would probably delve into a conversation about skin care products and cosmetics (your favorite brands, the brands you hate, etc.…)

✢ In the end, she smells like lavender and vanilla (sometimes she might smell a bit lemony/fruity), a soft and floral scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ …This guy doesn’t even take baths…

✢ You’d probably have to throw him in to get him to bathe

✢ You’d let him wash up on his own but insist that you wash his beard and hair so he isn’t half-assing it

✢ You take your time thoroughly scrubbing through his beard and hair, making sure all the dirt and grime come out (can’t risk him having fleas or something)

✢ Even though he grumbles in the beginning, he quiets down and relaxes in the water, his muscles easing from the tension

✢ When he’s finished washing up, you’ll help trim his beard or shave any stray hairs, ensuring that his hair and beard are well-kept

✢ You offer him some of your skincare products, but he usually declines, not really interested in it until you start listing the effects it has on the body

✢ Senshi only lets you put a little on him though, not liking the feeling of multiple products on his skin

✢ You’d probably rub in some beard oil as well so his beard doesn’t end up drying out and stuff

✢ In the end, he smells like coconut and vanilla, a sweet and creamy scent

✤✤✤✤

✢ …Have mercy…

✢ It might be a little hard to have Izutsumi let you bathe her, insisting that she can do it herself (plot twist, she needs help with the knots in her fur)

✢ So she begrudgingly lets you help her, giving you strict rules to not do anything weird which you assure her that you aren’t some kind of freak (stares at Laios**)

✢ You’d take your time carefully combing through her hair and fur, making sure not to miss any spots

✢ She’d hesitate before letting you rub shampoo/conditioner into her hair, gradually leaning into your touch with a small purr rumbling in her chest

✢ You’re mindful of her ears and tail, avoiding getting water or soap stuck in her eardrums and crossing the line by touching her tail

✢ Izutsumi wouldn’t really know how to help you with your own stuff, so you’d just have to wash your hair and scrub your back by yourself

✢ When the two of you are done, she lets you pat her dry with a grumble, whining about how you’re just like her old party members

✢ You’d sit her down and comb through everything again, making sure there’s no knots 

✢ If you have a skincare routine, she’s not really interested but would probably try a face mask with you

✢ She’d end up laughing at you, saying you look like an oni

✢ In the end, she smells like petrichor (rain), an earthy yet unique scent 

[thewritetofreespeech]

Hello!! Could you maybe do some vampire-related headcanons for Alucard? In the show, they're said to be an 'advanced predator species' that evolved from humans. What habits or instincts do you think does he have that stem from that? In his relationships or just in his general life?

In my personal opinion, Alucard is more human than vampire. In his youth anyway.

Later in life he leans more into that side of himself. Realizing how long he will live and what that means for him. It’s one of the reasons that characteristics between Alucard from Castlevania and Alucard from Castlevania: Nocture are different.

Eternity is truly forever. You don’t realize that until you have to live it and that jades a person and reflects in the choices they make.

Vampires by nature are very possessive. They loose so much to time that they hold on to what they can. Alucard is no different in this aspect.

At first, he chooses to be alone but quickly realizes that people need people. And despite his best efforts to convince himself he is a people.

Relationships come with their own challenges; particularly if they are human. However, Alucard is very needy and possessive of his partner. Clinging to them, although he hopes in still a cool/aloof way.

Vampires have a very keen sense of smell, which Alucard inherited. It’s why he disliked Trevor so much when they first met.

Not his swagger (although that was annoying) it was because he and his terrible furs smelled from being out in the wilds or the streets for so long. He wanted to get away from the smell more than just Trevor.

Vampires also have a sharp sense of taste. To that end, Alucard can’t stand strong flavors like lemon or heavy salt.

Alucard chooses to remain calm and levelheaded most of the time because his anger is the one thing that truly scares him.

Being angry lets out his vampire side more, and his vampire instinct is to rip apart those that have wronged him.

Besides those that would hurt others, Alucard doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

[muwapsturniolo]

Chapstick challenge 💋ྀིྀི M. Sturniolo

“Either this chapstick’s busted, or I’ve lost a sense.”

⟢ nothing but fluff tbh. bestfriends to lovers? thats really it.

divider by me!

“How’s this supposed to work?” Matt asks, eyeing the scattered tubes of Space Camp chapstick lined up along the kitchen island. The girl grins to herself as she sits down and props her phone up.

“We’re doing the Chapstick Challenge,” she says, adjusting the angle. “But like… our own version. Since we’re best friends, kissing’s obviously off the table.”

Matt plops down next to her, scratching at his scruff as he grabs one of the tubes. “Right, makes sense. So… how exactly does that work?”

She snatches the chapstick from his hand with a mock glare. “Simple. I put one on while you close your eyes. Then I blow air in your face, and you try to guess the flavor.”

Matt raises an eyebrow, half amused, half confused. “You’re gonna what now?”

“Blow air,” she repeats, fighting a laugh. “It’s like smelling it, but… creatively.” He snorts a laugh but nods, settling in. “Weird, but alright. Let’s do it.”

And so it begins—the phone’s recording, catching their laughter as they jump into the challenge.

“Okay, close your eyes,” she giggles, wiping the salted caramel off her lips with a makeup wipe. She pats them dry while Matt shuts his eyes, ready to guess.

She scans the last three tubes and grabs the fruit punch chapstick. Holding it up to the camera with a grin, she quickly applies a swipe.

“Ready?” she asks.

Matt nods, eyes squeezed shut.

She leans in and blows a gentle puff of air at his face, then leans back, watching for his reaction.

His brow furrows. He opens one eye. “Wait—did you even put any on? I don’t smell a thing.”

She laughs and nods. “Yep. Want me to try again?”

He shrugs. “Sure, maybe I missed it.”

She blows air again—still nothing.

“I’m not smelling anything. Do you?”

She puckers her lips, trying to catch the scent herself. “Yeah, I can smell it. Let me try once more.”

For the next few minutes, they repeat the process—reapplying chapstick, Matt sniffing the tube with his eyes closed—getting nowhere.

Finally, he sighs. “Either this chapstick’s busted, or I’ve lost a sense.”

She groans softly and reaches for the makeup wipe to clean off the chapstick, but before she can, Matt gently catches her wrist.

“Wait,” he says quietly, his voice low and earnest. “Let’s try something else. I want to figure it out.”

She arches a brow, crossing her arms, skeptical but curious. “How?”

He shrugs awkwardly, cheeks warming just a little. “Just… blow in my face again. Maybe it’ll help.”

She exhales a quiet laugh, muttering that it’s probably pointless, but leans in anyway. As she puckers her lips to blow, Matt moves first, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips softly but deliberately against hers.

Her whole body stiffens for a moment, shock flashing through her. Then, unexpectedly, she melts into the kiss, her eyelids fluttering closed as warmth spreads through her chest. The softness of his lips, the quiet rhythm of his breathing—it all feels sudden, electric, and strangely right.

Seconds stretch out like seconds and forever all at once. When they finally pull apart, their eyes lock, breaths coming a little too fast.

His voice trembles as he asks, “W-was it fruit punch?”

“Y-yeah… yeah, it was,” she stammers, her voice soft and hesitant, cheeks burning with warmth.

A thick silence settles between them—heavy, yet strangely soothing. They sit close, the air around them buzzing with unspoken words and sudden realization. Neither moves, caught in the moment where everything feels fragile and electric all at once.

The only sound is the quiet hum of the phone recording, capturing the space between their breaths—an unexpected pause filled with everything they’re too unsure to say.

Suddenly, Matt closes his eyes once more, his breathing steady but deliberate. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he extends his hand, pushing one of the remaining flavored chapsticks toward her—a quiet, unspoken invitation.

She looks down at the pineapple-flavored chapstick resting in his palm, her fingers brushing against his for just a second. A soft smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, her heart fluttering with a mix of nervousness and something warmer, something hopeful.

“…Are you going to kiss me again?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, fragile yet filled with a tender hope.

Matt cracks one eye open just a little, and there’s a playful, almost boyish gleam in his gaze that makes her chest tighten. “Oh, I’m definitely kissing you again,” he says, voice low and playful.

“Good,” she murmurs, scooching over so she's closer to him, their knees touching. “Because I was kind of hoping you would.”

The air between them thickens, charged with playful tension and unspoken promises, as their smiles widen and the challenge takes on a whole new meaning.

[prisvvner]

✫・゜・ ☆ﾟ. ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇʙᴀʀꜱ & ʜᴇʟʟꜰɪʀᴇ

─── pairing: biker!ryomensukuna x mechanic!femalereader

─── synopsis: you used to run tokyo’s streets. now you build the monsters that do. but when a rider in black shows up on a hayabusa with eyes like blood and a smirk like a loaded gun—something starts ticking again. something you swore you buried.

─── content: 5.4k words, street racer au, strong language, swearing, mention of hidden trauma, street culture

─── author's note: ahhh i couldn't wait anymore to post this hehe <3 this is part one of the series, so buckle up and enjoy! i had so much fun writing this :* btw if y'all like this and want to be added to the taglist, just comment on here or send me a message

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part one ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part two

The sky is still bruised in tender shades of lavender and rose, colors bleeding across the horizon like the fading fingerprints of some restless god, half-remembered and unwilling to let go. Tokyo lies beneath you in a fragile pause, caught in that brief, sacred moment between the weight of night and the pulse of dawn—when the city hasn’t yet stirred, but something ancient hums beneath the silence. It’s a breath held, a secret waiting to spill.

You slide open the narrow window of your studio apartment with a faint creak, the hinges stiff with age, groaning like they know every restless night you’ve spent awake. The air sneaks inside in a cool whisper, carrying the smell of wet asphalt, faint ozone, and the lingering ghost of burnt fuel from last night’s ride. You slip barefoot onto the fire escape outside, metal cold and slick with dew beneath your toes. It bites at your skin, a familiar sting that feels more like a handshake than a warning, sharp and real.

The fire escape’s metal ribs curve and twist, rusty and rough under your grip, but steady as always. The world below is still draped in shadows, buildings long and lean against the early light, their rooftops spiked like the jagged teeth of a sleeping beast. Somewhere far off, a siren wails briefly, fading into the city’s slow awakening. But up here, everything is quiet. Almost holy.

You pull your shirt tighter against the chill, the fabric soft and worn—threadbare at the collar, carrying the faint smell of motor oil and cigarette smoke. In your hand, the chipped black mug feels like a small furnace. You cradle it like a talisman, the bitter, scalding coffee inside burning away the last sticky clinging of sleep. No sugar. No mercy. The steam rises in lazy tendrils, blurring the edges of the sharp skyline, curling upward like smoke from a forgotten fire.

You light a cigarette with a flick of your wrist, a habitual dance you don’t really want but can’t seem to stop. The flame briefly illuminates the hardened lines of your fingers, the scars beneath your nails, silent stories written in oil and sweat. You inhale slowly, the smoke filling your lungs like a secret you’re keeping from the world. It’s harsh and bitter, a burning echo of last night’s road and the machines that never quite quiet.

Below you, the city stirs as the first tendrils of light spill across the streets, catching the wet pavement in shards of pink and gold. Neon signs flicker dimly, their colors bruised and faded from nights spent screaming in the underground veins of Tokyo. The sharp scent of rubber and gasoline rises from the gutters, mixing with the faint salt of early rain. Somewhere close, a bike idles, its low growl a promise of power and speed, an unspoken challenge in the morning stillness.

You’ve been running on fumes since 8PM. Last night, a Ducati was dead weight, cold and stubborn like a beast that refused to bow. But you tore into it with grit and grind, knuckles cracked and slick with oil, hands moving in rhythm like a dark lullaby to steel and fire. From the first spark to the growl that finally tore through the silence, you pushed it past the edge—past broken, past tired, past everything that tried to hold you back.

When the bike roared to life, you weren’t just fixing a machine. You were staking your claim on the night.

By 2:30AM, the city was a neon blur beneath you—purple and orange streaks slicing past shuttered storefronts and sleeping cars. The Ducati’s engine sang under you, a low, hungry growl that matched the fire in your chest. Tokyo’s veins were your own, every turn and straightaway a shot of adrenaline straight to your spine.

The exhaust burned hot behind you; your breath cold in the night air. The road was empty, but your heart hammered like the bass in a street race. Speed wasn’t just a rush—it was a goddamn lifeline.

By the time you eased back into the gritty glow of your garage, your muscles screamed and your skin still tasted of gasoline and midnight air.

Your gaze drifts downward.

There, nestled between cracked sidewalks and chipped concrete walls, lies your kingdom.

BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE.

The letters on the worn sign above the bay door flicker with neon lights—magenta and cyan, fractured and buzzing in a slow, electric heartbeat. The paint is chipped, flecked with rust like dried blood on steel. Whoever expects perfection here clearly doesn’t know you.

This place isn’t clean. It’s not polished. It’s raw. Unapologetic.

You built it that way.

BLACK DOG snarls at the world like a beast unchained, scars and all. The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to every inch of it, the sharp tang of sweat and motor grease hanging thick in the air. This garage is more than just a workspace—it’s a cathedral carved out of grit and gasoline, a sanctuary for those who live fast and bleed slow. The kind of place where broken machines aren’t just repaired, they’re resurrected. Beneath your hands, cold steel and shattered dreams find a new voice, growling back to life in furious roars and snarls that echo through Tokyo’s underbelly.

Your hands.

Calloused and steady, scarred from years of wrestling engines back from the brink.

You—Black Dog—the whispered legend in every back alley and midnight meet-up. The fixer, the ghost, the mechanic who can coax the deadliest beasts of metal and rubber back onto the streets like new, only faster and meaner.

You built this empire when you were just seventeen, ripping your dreams out of the cracked concrete with nothing but stubborn grit, stolen tools, and a defiant heartbeat that refused to quit. Back then, no one believed you’d last a year. Hell, most thought you’d be crushed under the weight of the city before your first gearshift. But here you are. Years later, the streets themselves seem to bend toward you. Now, they line up outside your bay doors, hungry for the chance to put their broken machines in your hands. Because when Black Dog says it’ll run again? It doesn’t just run. It dominates. When Black Dog says it’ll scream faster than anything else tearing up the night? You’d better believe the city’s about to witness a new kind of chaos.

You take a long drag from your cigarette, the smoke swirling around your face like a smoky veil, tendrils curling into the early dawn air. Your eyes drift up, tracing the jagged skyline where the first pale fingers of morning stretch and crack the dark like fractured glass. The city breathes slowly beneath you, caught between sleep and the relentless rush ahead.

You breathe it all in—the quiet hum of possibility, the electric promise pulsing in the stillness, the recklessness stitched deep into every nerve, every heartbeat pounding with the thrill of what’s to come. This moment, this calm before the storm, is yours alone.

The day hasn’t started yet.

But when it does?

It’s going to have to catch you.

You flick the cigarette away, watching the ember arc through the blue-tinted dawn like a dying star shot from your fingers. It falls slow, then sputters out on the cracked concrete below with a hiss, swallowed by the cold. The air stings your lungs—sharp, bitter, real—and it sobers the last edge of the adrenaline still ghosting through your veins from the ride.

You slip back in through the window, pulling it shut behind you with a snap that rattles the thin walls and echoes like a gunshot in the quiet.

Your apartment above the garage is barely more than four walls and a bed, but it holds the war trophies of a life lived fast and without apology. Scattered mechanic’s manuals stained with grease and ink, half-crushed energy drinks, a cracked burner phone that refuses to die, and a battered leather jacket thrown over the back of a metal chair like a knight’s armor after battle. The air smells like sweat and steel, coffee grounds and fuel. Home Sweet Helhole.

But there’s no time to linger. The city’s heartbeat is rising, thick with heat, horns, and hunger—and it’s already calling your name.

You shrug on the jacket, faded black leather with the frayed collar and the crooked patch over the chest that reads BLACK DOG in rough, blood-red thread. It’s stiff from rain and wear, stitched with stories no one will ever hear. You slide your fingers across the collar once, then grab your keys from the hook by the door, their metallic clatter echoing off the silence like a starter pistol.

Your boots hit the floorboards hard as you move down the narrow stairwell. The buzz of the fluorescents overhead stutters in rhythm with your steps, tired lights in a building that never sleeps. The metal stairs creak with familiarity, like an old friend nodding good morning.

At the bottom, the bay door is already cracked open—just a sliver—but it’s enough. A beam of pale light slices through the cavernous dark like a scalpel. Beyond it, the street glows with early neon, the colors soft but bleeding in electric blue, heat-lamp red, the heartbeat pink of Tokyo's underbelly waking up.

Inside, BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE exhales.

You feel it before you see it. The slow, warm breath of machines asleep but dreaming. The scent of hot metal and burned rubber hangs in the air like incense. Every surface glints with the potential for violence: wrench sets gleaming like surgical tools, socket heads lined up with military precision, shelves sagging with parts salvaged from wreckage and rebirth.

The garage is a sanctum carved from concrete and conviction. It hums, alive and holy, every exposed beam and oil-stained floorboard vibrating with memories. This is where machines come to be resurrected. This is where you make the dead run again.

And there it is.

The Ducati.

Last night’s beast, still warm.

It sits low and lethal on its rear stand in the far corner, shadows slipping off its sleek, charcoal frame like smoke. The rain from the night ride has dried to a delicate crust of grit over the paint, streaks of road dust clinging to the fairings like warpaint. Its belly pan still glows faintly from the heat. The chain hums faintly as it settles, the residual energy twitching like a coiled snake still dreaming of motion.

You ran her through hell last night. Three hours in the city’s underbelly, burning through tunnels, dodging night-shift semis, racing ghosts down the Shuto Expressway. The tires are still warm, the rear worn just a little more flat, the edge feathered from hard corners and tight exits.

She didn’t complain once.

Your hand lifts, fingers brushing along the Ducati’s fuel tank, just once. The touch is reverent, intimate.

You whisper, “Still alive, aren’t you?” and the silence answers back like a purr.

From the shadows near the main bench, a voice murmurs—low, calm, familiar.

“Shake, shake.”

You smirk, turning toward the work light above the long steel table.

“Inumaki,” you greet him, stepping into the halo of harsh white. “You’re up early.”

He doesn’t look up right away, just nods, sleeves rolled past his elbows, grease already staining his hands. He’s hunched over a disassembled VFR engine like a surgeon elbows-deep in a heart transplant. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, faint smoke curling in the air above his head, the scent not tobacco, but something stranger, softer. Seaweed. Tuna. Wasabi.

“Onigiri,” he mutters, voice flat but amused, that familiar deadpan that somehow says everything.

You roll your eyes, toeing a rolling stool toward him with the side of your boot. “Clutch acting up again?”

Inumaki shrugs—his universal language for yes, but it’s complicated. You both know what needs doing. You always do.

The two of you fall into the rhythm without a word. The bench lights cast harsh shadows across your faces, and the tools start to sing. Ratchets click. Torque wrenches groan. The city continues its slow crawl into day, but in here, everything’s sharp and simple.

This place is yours. These machines are yours.

This life is yours.

And out there? The streets are waiting.

They don’t know it yet, but today?

You’re going to make them bleed.

You sling your leg over the rolling stool like it’s a Harley and glide across the oil-slick floor with practiced grace—this is your kingdom, and every bolt, stain, and dent knows your name. You twist with a lazy flair and kick the socket drawer open with the heel of your boot, tools rattling like coins in a gambler’s palm.

“Didn’t I tell you to bed the clutch plate last time?” you say, voice casual, not even glancing up. “Not rip it out like it owes you money and ghosted your sister.”

Inumaki doesn’t flinch. Just exhales like the moments beneath commentary. “Mentaiko.”

You scoff, grabbing a 10mm socket and a torque wrench, flipping both in your hands like twin knives.

“Yeah? Tell that to the gearbox that sounds like it’s been chewing cinderblocks and shame.”

You nod toward the mangled innards of the Honda VFR in front of you. The side casing’s off, the clutch is toast—plates blackened, the basket chewed to hell, springs warped like a bad joke. Someone clearly mistook ‘torque spec’ for ‘guess and pray.’

You shoot him a sharp look over your shoulder.

He’s chewing on his cigarette like it said something rude about his mother.

“This is why I don’t leave you alone with wet clutches. No finesse. You treat it like it insulted your drift lines.”

“Shio,” he mutters.

You snort, arching a brow. “Don’t ‘salt’ me, grease monkey. This thing’s one bad downshift from painting the pavement with transmission teeth.”

Still, your hands are already working—fast, sure. His, beside yours, are rougher, rawer, but learning. You lay the plates down in a neat stack like cards in a gambler’s spread.

“Listen,” you start, tapping the inside of the casing with your wrench. A hollow thunk answers. “No preload on the push rod. Again.”

Inumaki tilts his head. The universal ‘I knew that.’

“Then why the hell didn’t you fix it?”

He just grins around the cigarette and hands you the replacement friction plates like it’s some sacred ritual.

You take them with a roll of your eyes. “Ketchup,” you mutter, throwing his language back at him.

Sometimes you wonder if apprentice is even the right word for Toge Inumaki. Stray you fed once and now refuses to leave feels more accurate. You found him elbow-deep in the guts of a stolen GT-R, spark plugs in one pocket and a busted knuckle dripping blood onto the timing chain like it was some kind of offering. He had rewired the ignition harness using speaker wire and pure gall. Instead of calling the cops or walking away like a sane person, you tossed him a rag and said, “Wanna learn how to do that without catching fire?” He’s been here ever since—silent, stubborn, chewing on a cigarette like it’s a nervous tic, talking in rice ball ingredients like you’ve got time to play charades with a damn carburetor. But the kid gets it. Clumsy with finesse, yeah, but fast. So fast. You show him once how to gap plugs on a rotary engine and the next day he’s porting an RX-7 like he was born doing it. He’s got the hands for this life, raw and reckless, and more importantly, the brain. He just hasn’t realized how rare that combo is in this scene, where most punks think horsepower fixes bad driving and confuse nitrous with a personality.

You’ve had others roll through BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE, flashing egos louder than their exhausts, asking for twin turbos on stock internals or trying to shove VTEC into anything that breathes. They burn out. They always do.

But Inumaki? He stuck. Quiet as a socket wrench, always watching, always just one job away from getting it perfect. And with the underground circuit heating up, more runs going down along the docks, more late-night test pulls echoing down Shuto, more grease-covered kids whispering about sleepers, traps, pink slips, your garage has become a nucleus. You’ve got R34s, Supras, Evos lined up like soldiers.

You don’t just fix machines here; you tune soul into them. And Inumaki’s becoming a part of that. Not a sidekick. Not a little brother. Not even a friend in the soft sense. But he’s yours. He’s BLACK DOG. Even if he never says it.

The music overhead kicks up, a bass-heavy trap remix pulsing through the rafters. The kind of beat that makes engines throb in rhythm and your boots tap the concrete without permission.

The garage breathes. Lives. Fluorescents flicker overhead, casting electric halos across engine bays and exposed wires. The air is a mix of burnt clutch, spilled fuel, brake cleaner, and old vinyl. A familiar perfume to anyone who speaks fluent octane.

You glance over your shoulder.

The R34 Skyline in the next bay catches your eye. Deep black, matte finish, gold Volk TE37s. A goddamn beast. Beside it, a Supra Mk4 with its hood off and wires spilling like veins. The kind of cars people dream about. You build them. You bring them back from the brink.

You stand up and inspect the Skyline’s front fender, run your fingers across the paint like checking for a pulse.

“This thing’s running lean at 7K. Probably the MAF again,” you mutter to yourself.

Then louder: “Inumaki! What’d I say about the fuel mapping?”

He doesn’t glance up. “Kombu.”

You scowl. “It’s not ‘kelp,’ dipshit—it’s detonation. If this baby pings at top end, we’re gonna melt a piston, and then I’m gonna melt your face. We’ve got a race in three nights. You wanna be the guy telling the crew we grenaded a Skyline because you couldn’t tune an air-fuel ratio?”

He raises a finger like a peace sign. “Tuna.”

“Blame the ECU again and I swear I’ll flash it with Windows 95 just to prove a point.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered, and goes back to torquing bolts.

There’s tension in the air. Not between you two—but outside. In the city.

You feel it in the texts lighting up your burner. Half-coded messages from racers and riders pinging like a sonar.

Midnight soon?

Shuto clear.

Pachinko front lot @ 2 AM.

It’s all whispers, all oil-slick rumors of something big happening soon.

“They’re saying Zenin’s crew might show up for this one,” you deadpan, staring at your phone. “And if that happens, we’re gonna need everything we’ve got tuned to warfare.”

Inumaki looks up from the VFR.

“Shake?”

You nod grimly. “Yeah. That Zenin.”

They’re not just racers. They’re yakuza with engines strapped to their egos, and if they’re coming back into the underground scene? Something big is shifting under Tokyo’s streets.

You turn, slapping a rag against your palm.

“Finish the VFR. Torque to spec. No shortcuts. We’re not just tuning—we’re going to war.”

Inumaki flashes a grin and dives back into work.

You pace across the shop floor. Past the bikes, the cars, the piles of parts that look like chaos but are organized in your head like an engine schematic. There’s a half-gutted Evo X in the corner. You pop the hood, check the AFR, mutter, “Boost is too hot. I need a lower IAT.”

“Inumaki! Where’s that front-mount intercooler kit from last week?”

“Tuna mayo,” he calls.

“I swear on every JDM god, if you shoved it behind the scooter engines again, I’m installing it on your spine.”

There’s a thud. A pause. Then he shuffles back holding the FMIC like a cat bringing home a bird.

You smirk. “Good boy.”

This—this right here—is home. Not some white-walled apartment. Not a neatly made bed or a cup of green tea. No. Home is the smell of high-octane fuel and sweat. Home is tools in your hand and music on the speakers and Tokyo whispering secrets just beyond the bay doors.

BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE isn’t just a garage. It’s a haven. A temple. A battlefield.

And you?

You’re its priest.

Every machine here has a story. And every racer who walks through that door leaves a little blood on the floor and a little legend behind.

The races are coming.

And when the streets call?

You’ll answer.

One rev at a time.

By noon, BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE is buzzing like a hive on nitro.

The bay doors are rolled open, letting in a wash of humid Tokyo heat and the distant growl of traffic. The scent of grease and gasoline hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional waft of sweetbread from the convenience store down the block.

You don’t get time to smell it, though. You’re too busy juggling torque specs and ticking clocks.

Another Civic rolls in, this one low-slung and angry, rattling like it’s got secrets. Its owner jumps out the second it parks, barely killing the engine.

“Is this where the Black Dog works?���

You raise a brow from behind a welding mask, sparks flying from the angle grinder in your hands. “Only on days ending in Y. You got a problem or just wanna gawk?”

“I—I heard you’re the only one who could tune my K-series. Everyone else said it was fried.”

You set the grinder down with a clang. Pull off your gloves. Step closer.

“Pop the hood.”

The guy obeys instantly. You run your hands along the valve cover, check the plugs with a flick, scan the wiring loom with a narrowed gaze.

“She’s not fried. She’s been abused.”

He blinks. “You can fix her?”

You grin—sharp, smug, just this side of dangerous. “I can make her purr.”

By two, the shop’s full.

The Supra guy came back with his cousin’s RX-7. A biker gang from Yokosuka rolled in asking about exhaust baffles for their Hayabusas. Some rich kid tried to bribe Inumaki with sushi to “make his GTR sound like a demon.” He left with a politely written intake checklist and the very real fear that you were going to reprogram his entire ECU in binary if he asked again.

A salaryman in a wrinkled suit stood by the waiting area holding a rusted old Ducati Monster like a dead pet. You took one look and told him: “I’ll resurrect her. But she’s gonna come back meaner.”

He looked like he wanted to cry.

The phones ring nonstop. The worklist stacks up like invoices in hell. But you?

You’re in your element.

You bark torque numbers over your shoulder while bleeding brakes on a Celica. You balance throttle bodies with one hand and sip canned coffee with the other. You’re already three steps ahead of every request.

Compliments fly, whether you acknowledge them or not.

“You did the black Evo down in Shibuya last week, right? It sounded like a damn thunderstorm.” “That twin-turbo 350Z on IG? That was you?” “She’s the only reason my RX doesn’t rattle apart at redline.” “Heard she rebuilt an R1 from the frame up in three days—blindfolded.”

You just keep working.

Inumaki trails behind you like a silent specter, catching your tools before you even ask, communicating entirely in his strange little language and well-placed grunts. The two of you are a rhythm, a machine inside the machine.

Even the customers notice.

“You two… like, telepathic or something?” one of them wonders, watching you toss a wrench backward without looking, and Inumaki catch it in one smooth motion.

You don’t even answer. Just smirk and slam the hood shut on the Civic, toss the keys to the wide-eyed owner.

“She’s ready. Don’t redline her until she loves you.”

By seven, the sun’s low and bleeding across the sky in streaks of rust-orange and violet.

The last customer rolls out with a roar. The garage falls quiet.

Inumaki’s got grease on his jaw, sweat on his collarbone, and dark circles blooming under his eyes. He’s halfway through wiping down tools when you toss him a towel.

“You’re done.”

He pauses, blinks.

“Go,” you tell him. “You’ve earned it. That Ducati needs a new clutch hub, and I need someone semi-conscious to order parts tomorrow. Go before I bolt you to a dyno and make you do cardio.”

He hesitates like he wants to argue, then just offers a small, sincere “Salmon.”

You ruffle his hair on the way past. “Get outta here, rice ball.”

The door clangs shut behind him.

Silence.

Finally.

You lock up the front, flick the shop lights to low, and roll your sleeves back up. A single halogen lamp flickers on above bay three, painting the floor gold.

In the corner sits the project.

An old 1970s Nissan Fairlady Z. Body stripped, frame clean. All matte primer and raw potential. You’ve had it under wraps for months, waiting for the right parts, the right mood, the right silence to get it started.

Tonight feels right.

You walk over slowly, reverent. Pull the sheet back. Run your fingers across the fender like a promise.

“You ready, girl?”

No answer, of course.

But you swear you hear the city outside hold its breath.

You grab your welder, flick on your favorite playlist—old punk, rough and gritty—and lower your goggles.

And then you begin.

Piece by piece.

Bolt by bolt.

Until the night swallows the noise and your work becomes the only thing left awake.

The clock just hit midnight, the halogen hum above bay three is the only thing singing, casting a sharp white glow over the skeletal frame of the Fairlady Z. Sparks fly in bursts like angry fireflies as your welder hisses to life. The smell of scorched steel and burnt ozone coils in the air. You pause only to wipe your face with the back of your glove, leaving a smudge of sweat and soot across your cheekbone.

It’s muscle memory now. You don’t think—you move. Spot weld. Clamp. Adjust. Torque. It’s a rhythm deeper than breath, older than scars. And somewhere between tightening the subframe bolts and prepping the rear diff, your mind slips sideways.

Backwards.

To the old roads.

Shuto Expressway. Bayshore Route. Spiral ramps and narrow cuts through the city’s underbelly. Midnight lit by taillights. Your first drift was at thirteen. A hand-me-down AE86 your cousin said was too beat to survive another race. You proved him wrong by redlining it through the mountain curves until the tires screamed like demons and the tach needle danced past sanity.

You lived for that chaos. For the smell of rubber and rain. For the thunder of engines echoing off tunnel walls at 2 AM. For the moment right before the turn where time cracked open and you could hear your heart louder than the exhaust.

You learned how to heel-toe before you learned how to flirt.

Learned how to rebuild a carb before you learned how to lie.

From thirteen to seventeen, you were a ghost in the Tokyo underground—known only as Black Dog. No decals. No sponsors. Just a matte-black Silvia S13 with mismatched body panels and a growl that made people part like water when you showed up.

You could still feel the wheel under your fingers sometimes. That twitch of oversteer, the moment of surrender before the tires caught again. That was freedom. That was everything.

Until—

Your hand stills.

The torque wrench slips slightly.

You blink once, sharp, like slicing a memory in half before it finishes bleeding.

You don’t go there.

Not yet.

You exhale slow. Metal cools under your palm. The garage is still again. The kind of still that feels heavy. Pressed-in.

You start reaching for your tools again when you hear it.

That sound.

Low. Throaty. Not the frantic whine of a wannabe. No, this is deeper. Confident. A howl, not a scream. A beast purring just below redline. It echoes through the side alley like it owns the concrete.

You straighten up slowly, pushing the scratched visor of your welding mask up to your forehead with the back of a gloved hand, sweat and grease clinging to your skin like a second layer. Your heart's already beating with that old rhythm—steady, low, but ready to spike. The rhythm you thought you’d buried years ago under layers of oil-stained routines and the kind of peace only a roaring engine can offer.

Then it happens.

Twin LED beams cut through the haze clinging to the inside of the garage windows, piercing the fog like wolf eyes in a snowstorm. The silhouette that follows is as sleek as a shadow with intention—a black Suzuki Hayabusa, rolling up slow and smooth like it owns silence. Every part of it is murdered out: fairings, rims, frame, helmet. Even the tire walls look darker than they should be, like the road itself tried to cling to the thing. There’s no badge. No decals. Just matte black skin over something clearly monstrous underneath. The engine hums low and intimate, the kind of purr that makes mechanics flinch and thrill in equal measure.

It doesn’t park. It arrives.

The Hayabusa halts just outside the open bay of the back entrance, the idle slowing into something hypnotic—less a sound and more a warning.

You stay rooted where you are, half-lit in the orange glow of a hanging bulb, standing beside your Fairlady Z like a sentry. One hand braced casually against the fender, the other curled without thought into a fist at your side. Not out of fear. Just reflex.

The rider doesn’t dismount right away. Just sits there, one gloved hand drumming the throttle in a rhythm so subtle it almost sounds like breathing. A tick. A pulse. A message in Morse code if you were the paranoid type.

Then— The kill switch flicks with a practiced motion.

Silence drops like a guillotine.

The man peels off the helmet in one smooth motion, revealing a head of dark pink hair, tousled and wild like a flame caught in the wind. It shouldn't fit, shouldn't make sense with the blackout look of the bike—but somehow, it does. The strands catch the low shop light and turn into pastel fire.

Then you catch his eyes.

Crimson. Bright, sharp, unapologetic. The kind of red that doesn’t just see, it dissects. Judges. Memorizes. There’s something surgical about his stare, like he could tear down the entire garage with his gaze alone and rebuild it just to see if he could do it better.

Tattoos crawl up his throat and across his jaw, black lines thick and vicious, looping like the coils of a serpent, bold as war paint. The ink over his neck wraps like a collar made of smoke and spite. It snakes across the hollows of his collarbones, disappears beneath a zipped-down leather jacket that fits like sin.

He’s artfully feral. Clean but dangerous. A contradiction dressed in blackout gear and arrogance.

You’ve never seen him before.

But you’ve felt people like him before. Out there, on the edge of midnight highways. In the split second before two engines scream in harmony. In the half-second glance exchanged at the start line before the lights go green.

He tilts his head, eyes still locked on you, expression unreadable. Like he’s already done the math on your top speed, your breaking point, your favorite gearshift pattern.

Like he already knows your name, even if you’ve never heard his.

You narrow your eyes, wipe your hands on the rag tucked into your waistband, slow and unimpressed. You nod toward the open bay with your chin.

“If you’re here to show off,” you break the silence, voice dry as gravel and twice as sharp, “you’re about five years late and two turbochargers short.”

A smirk tugs at one side of his mouth, more fang than friendliness.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

He just swings a long leg over the Hayabusa and plants his boots on your turf like he’s been walking on it for years. Like this place—your place—is just another stop on his map.

You watch him approach, something cold and old stirring at the base of your spine.

You don’t know it yet, but something’s shifted.

A new chapter, loud as a rev limiter, just dropped into gear.

And it’s not just the night that’s watching anymore.

It’s the street.

And the street is starving.

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@dahliadaenerys @greenday-bingus

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @cafekitsune ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not. 🏍respect the grease and the grind.

[alistairsprayerwarrior]

Showing versus Telling

I struggle a lot with "showing and not telling." Here's some exercises and techniques I've tried to practice this from researching different methods that I just conjured up together (please take with a grain of salt, everyone is different, lol.):

Object Observation: Choose an object in your immediate vicinity and describe it without naming what it is. Include details about its texture, color, size, shape, and any other distinctive features. Basically: have someone else to identify it based on your description.

Character Emotions: Write a list of emotions and for each one, write a short scene that shows a character experiencing that emotion without directly stating what the emotion is. i.e., Instead of saying, "Alistair was angry", you could say... "Alistair's fists clenched, his jaw tightened; his face turned red as he stared at the broken amulet on the floor."

Active Verbs: Challenge yourself to rewrite sentences using more active, specific verbs. i.e., "She walked into the room" (telling) could become, "She strutted into the room, her boot heels clicking against the marble floor" (showing).

Sensory Details: Choose a setting, real or fictional, and describe it using all five senses. What can a character see, smell, hear, taste, and touch in this environment, or moment?

Dialogue: Use dialogue to reveal information about your characters and the plot. Instead of telling the reader that a character is upset, show it through what the character says and how they say it.

In-Depth Character Description: Take a character from your story and describe them in detail. Show their personality through their actions, speech, and appearance, rather than direct statements.

Rewrite Telling Sentences: Take a piece of your own writing or a passage from a book and identify the "telling" sentences. Rewrite them in a way that "shows" instead.

Hope this helps! ✍(◔◡◔)