#This is longer than I expected but I regret nothing
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thef1diary · 6 hours ago
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team principal!carlos fucking the reader to sleep !!! she’s tried everything but can’t seem to go to bed 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫
— a classic sleep aid, I love this! Also this turned out to be less of a drabble and more of a fic (1.6k words) oops 🤭 18+ content below
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You stared at the clock on the nightstand, the numbers taunting you with every passing minute. The hotel bed that was once comfortable and took you to the depths of sleep within minutes now brought sudden aches in your body with every turn. Tomorrow’s race loomed over you like a storm cloud, and the harder you tried to relax, the tighter the knot in your chest became.
Your fingers hovered over your phone screen, and you hesitated for a moment longer before shaking your head and finally giving in. Dialing Carlos felt like a last resort, one you almost regretted as soon as the first ring echoed in your ear, but his voice had always been your anchor.
“Qué pasa, nena?” he answered on the second ring, his voice rough with sleep.
“I can’t sleep,” you confessed, your words a rushed whisper as if it was childish to say out loud. “I’m so nervous and worried about tomorrow.”
You half-expected him to stay on the phone, offering reassurance and calm words to lull you into sleep. Instead there was a soft rustle, and then:
“Open the door.”
“What?” you asked, startled.
“I’m here,” he said, and before you could process his words, there was a knock at your door.
You scrambled out of bed, opening it to find him standing there, dressed in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt—seemingly tossed on in a rush—with his hair adorably tousled from sleep. His dark eyes were warm, concerned, and he glanced at the hallway before stepping inside, immediately cupping your cheek.
“You should’ve called me sooner,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Didn’t want to disturb you, sir,” you replied, and he lightly chuckled, shaking his head. “For you, princesa, it’s not a disturbance.”
Heat creeped up your cheeks as you turned around, climbing back into bed and he followed without hesitation, pulling you into his arms as he settled behind you. His body molded perfectly to yours, his warmth slowly chasing away the chill of your anxiety.
He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve done everything right this weekend, mi amor, you just need to trust yourself.”
His hand rubbed gentle circles on your hip, his touch grounding, comforting. But even as his words melted some of the tension, your body remained taut against his, your mind refusing to quiet down.
“Still no?” he asked softly, sensing your lingering unease.
You shook your head, refusing to turn around to face him as frustration welled up in your chest. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Carlos. I just—”
“Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s okay,” he interrupted, almost surprised at the way you spoke about yourself. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring against your skin softly, “turn around.”
You hesitated, but his voice was firm yet soothing, coaxing you into trust. Slowly, you turned in his arms, your eyes meeting his in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. His gaze softened as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin.
“You’re too hard on yourself, princesa,” he whispered, his lips just a breath away. “You’re the best driver on the grid. No one works harder than you. And you don’t have to carry this weight alone.”
Your lip quivered, the self-doubt threatening to spill over, but Carlos silenced your protests with a kiss. It was soft and reassuring at first, but when you melted into him, he deepened it, his tongue slipping past your lips to claim you fully. His hand slid down your hip, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.
“You’ve been overthinking all night,” he murmured against your mouth. “Let me quiet your mind, nena.”
When you nodded, his hand slid under your shirt, fingertips brushing your bare skin. The cool air of the room kissed your torso as he pushed the fabric up, exposing you to him. His lips travelled down your neck, trailing fire across your skin before latching onto one of your nipples, rolling it between his lips and teeth while his hand teased the other.
A soft whimper escaped you as he worked you up, his ministrations both careful and consuming. His free hand wandered lower, sliding beneath the waistband of your panties, and further still to press against your pussy.
“Sir…” you breathed, but he silenced you with a firm press of his fingers against your clit.
“You’re so tense,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with quiet determination. “Relax for me, mi princesa. Let me take care of you.”
Carlos was both gentle and commanding, his touch a perfect balance of softness and control. He was careful with you, mindful of your upcoming race, yet there was a rough edge to his movements—a desperation to erase every ounce of tension from your body.
He settled between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, his hands gently spreading you open and pulling your panties to the side. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, his lips brushing against your pussy. “But I’m not stopping until you’re too tired to think.”
The first swipe of his tongue made you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets as he worked you over with slow, deliberate strokes. Carlos knew your body better than anyone, and he used that knowledge to his advantage, alternating between gentle flicks and firm pressure that had your hips bucking against his mouth.
Each flick, each press of his tongue against your clit sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you, your breaths turning into soft, breathy moans that only encouraged him further.
“Carlos,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as the tension in your body coiled tighter.
He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through your core. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured, pausing to press a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re so sweet and wet for me.”
Carlos kissed his way back up your body, his lips soft and warm against your flushed skin. He reached down, tugging your panties off and tossing them aside before shedding his own clothes in one fluid motion. His body was warm and solid against yours as he positioned himself above you, his hand stroking gently along your thigh.
His dark eyes searched yours for any signs of hesitation, but instead, you muttered a plea, urging him to fuck you.
Carlos guided his cock to your folds, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly pushed in. The stretch was delicious, his size filling you completely as he moved with deliberate care, giving you more time to adjust than usual.
“Perfect,” he rasped, his voice strained as he fought to keep his composure. “You feel so perfect, nena.”
He set a slow, sensual rhythm, each thrust deep and unhurried, his movements designed to draw out every ounce of pleasure. His hands roamed your body, caressing your hips, your waist, your tits, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.
Your body responded instinctively, meeting his movements with your own as the two of you found a rhythm that was unhurried yet all-consuming. The room was filled with the soft sounds of your breaths and the gentle creak of the bed, your thoughts and the world outside fading into nothingness as Carlos focused solely on you.
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and possessive, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hips rocked against yours. The connection between you was electric, every touch, every kiss, every thrust designed to remind you of his love and devotion to you, to your career.
You felt yourself reach the edge slowly, the heat pooling low in your belly as Carlos kept his pace steady, his thrusts deep and deliberate. You moaned against his lips, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging gently as he slowly coaxed out the energy within you.
“Please,” you gasped as you pulled back, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own labored breaths and skin slapping against skin.
“Go on, make a mess,” he murmured, his breath grazing the shell of your ear. Your only response was a moan, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. Carlos groaned at the motion, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing deeper and more deliberate.
He set a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he buried himself in you over and over. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your soft cries mixing with his low groans. Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed at the sensation, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.
Your body trembled as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak, and he whispered again, “now let go, cum for me, nena.”
With his words, you came with a cry that echoed through the room, your body arching off the bed as waves of ecstasy washed over you. He followed soon after, his release spilling into you as he buried himself to the hilt.
Carlos collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he caught his breath. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.
“Better?” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
You nodded, whispering a “thank you,” as your eyes fluttered shut as the tension that had gripped you all night melted away. Carlos held you close, his warmth and presence grounding you as sleep finally began to take over.
“Sweet dreams, mi amor,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead as he settled beside you, his breathing evening out as sleep claimed him too.
want more team principal!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days
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paperstorm · 1 day ago
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Thank you for the tags @heartstringsduet and @annoyingcloudearthquake! This is from Somewhere in a Song, chapter posting tomorrow :)
“Can I ask you something?” Carlos begins cautiously.
“Sure.”
“Where do you keep going? Like when we all go out for lunch or whatever, and you say there’s something else you have to do. Do you just – not wanna hang out with us?”
“Meetings.”
Carlos tilts his head in confusion.
“Like … AA meetings,” TK clarifies, and Carlos’s face crumples immediately into a frown.
“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me about that.”
“It’s okay. That’s where I was tonight, it’s not a secret, just …” TK shrugs. “I don’t wanna be a downer. Or have people look at me like …”
“Like what?”
“Like you are, right now. Like they feel sorry for me, and they don’t know what to say.” TK means nothing by it, he doesn’t fault Carlos for feeling those things, he would just rather avoid it.
Carlos presses his lips together. He looks away and for a moment TK regrets his honesty. But then Carlos’s eyes meet his again and he says, “I don’t know if feeling sorry is exactly how I would describe it.”
“No?”
Shaking his head, Carlos says, “No, it’s … I can’t imagine how hard it is, what you’re doing. I’m not happy you’re going through something hard, obviously, but I think you’re … impressive.”
A response gets caught in TK’s throat for a moment, and his voice is raspy as he softly says, “Thanks.”
Carlos nods at him. Their eyes linger as a few more seconds tick slowly by. “I’m gay.”
TK’s ears hear the words, but it takes his muddled brain a lot longer than it should to catch up and understand what they mean. His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. He can’t say he was expecting that, and at first he doesn’t know how to respond other than a slightly dumbfounded, “Oh.”
“Sorry, I – shit, I shouldn’t’ve just blurted that out.” Carlos huffs and rubs his hands over his face. When he folds them back in his lap, there is a distinctly anxious look on his face and TK doesn’t like that at all.
“It’s fine,” he assures. “Since we’re having gooey-feelings sharing-time, anyway.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“I mean, kinda, yeah,” TK chuckles.
Carlos looks at him and laughs too – in palpable relief – when he realizes TK is teasing. He shifts in his seat, and TK belatedly realizes it’s probably uncomfortable because it’s so small and dainty. The sofa looks as if it were designed for a petite, upper class woman to delicately perch on a hundred years ago, not for a tall, broad-shouldered man to lounge on in the modern day.
“Do you wanna …?” he asks pointing at the bed next to him. It feels even bigger than a king-sized mattress and he’s all the way to one side of it, leaving enough room for multiple other bodies.
Carlos’s eyes dart back and forth two or three times between TK’s face and the empty bed next to him, and then without words he stands and steps out of his slip-on sandals. TK doesn’t watch him so it isn’t awkward – or, isn’t more awkward – as Carlos mirrors him; propping pillows against the headboard and leaning back against it with his long legs stretched out.
He tips his head back and he’s quiet for a moment, before he tells the ceiling, “Nobody knows except Grace, not even Judd or Mateo. Not my parents, not … anybody.”
TK remembers how lonely that felt, and he didn’t live in that reality for anywhere near as long as Carlos probably has. “I guess it’s not that common, where you’re from.”
“Man, don’t do Texas like that. I’m from Austin, there’s a huge queer scene,” Carlos argues, but he’s teasing, too. “In country music … kind of a different story.”
“Right.”
“I actually remember really clearly back when your first album came out, because you used the word ‘he’ in three different songs.”
TK frowns and smiles at the same time. “That’s very specific.”
“Yeah, I specifically remember it because it blew me away,” Carlos says, that earnest glint back in his eyes that TK’s grown used to. He’d thought at first it was part of an act, of an aww shucks, ma’am character Carlos was playing, but he’s come to realize Carlos is just truly that sincere. “There’s hardly anybody openly queer in country music even now, but definitely not almost 10 years ago. I didn’t know that was something you could do, I didn’t know you could write a song about a boy and put it on an album and a label would let you release it into the world.”
“I had to fight for it,” TK tells him. “It’s not all that different in rock music, to be honest. I’d kind of forgotten about that, actually, but there was definitely pressure to change the pronouns in those songs.”
“But you didn’t.” Carlos smiles at him. “I remember listening to them in my bedroom, with my headphones, wondering if I could ever write something like that. And maybe … I don’t know. Maybe feeling a little bit less alone.”
Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses
@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo
@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21
@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript
@lemonlyman-dotcom @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive
@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter
@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @thisbuildinghasfeelings @whatsintheboxmh
@irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89 @nancys-braids
@carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday
Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk
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ultr4vjolence · 23 hours ago
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@ULTR4VJOLENCE MISC RECS 2.0 .ᐟ
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ CHO HYUN-JU
ᥫ᭡ dreams and lights (mean nothing if i can't have you)
how did it get to this? blood coated on your skin and murder seeping from each wall, echoes of bullets in your ears and the warmth of a hand in yours; enveloping, all-encompassing, larger and softer than any other that’s held you. and blood. so, so much blood. how did you get here?
the cheerful buzzing of the circle is louder than life itself. hyun-ju’s hand is coated in the phosphorescence of it, miles apart with eyes that pierce right through you. the blue reflections on her cheek make bile rise in your throat; red illuminates your face when your number is called, and red coats your eyes when she dares meet them.
ᥫ᭡ unforgettable
you can’t wait any longer for her to come around, knowing either of you could be gone in an instant. luckily for you, she feels the same way.
ᥫ᭡ version of me
it takes one miracle for her life to change. whether or not it's too good to be true or rather, if she's dreaming or not, she'll leave it for another day.
ᥫ᭡ you are all i long for, all i worship and adore
it’s as if the world has quieted around you, the edges blurring until it’s only her and the way she’s looking at you—soft but searching, vulnerable but steady.
it feels like a path is unfolding before you, one that you can’t resist. it’s as if the universe itself is nudging you forward, whispering ‘this is it, this is the moment.’ there’s a weight to it, a certainty that nothing will ever be the same after this.
her fingers slide between yours, hesitant at first, but then firmer, like she’s testing the waters and daring to hope. Her breath quickens and she’s glancing at your lips, too.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ EDDIE MUNSON
ᥫ᭡ ruined expectations
when marriage season begins, you've just returned home from a grand graduation from finishing school. expectations are high, a marriage and an heir must be produced as soon as possible, and an old friend doesn't seem interested in being a friend any longer. being the good, obedient daughter that you are expected to be, you do what is asked of you and definitely do not get distracted by that old friend. certainly not. your childhood friend turned rake who only greets you with disrespect, disgust, and disinterest?
nope. eddie munson is not a distraction. at all.
* an angsty regency era au rake!eddie munson x virgin!fem!reader slow-burn.
ᥫ᭡ boundary testing
you and eddie are just exceptionally good friends who keep redefining the boundary of said friendship. so long as you both agree that what you’re doing is in the confines of said friendship boundary, then it’s just…that. you’re just friends. just really, really good friends. really good friends who sometimes kiss a little (a lot). and at your friend’s christmas party, things take a unique turn. for better or for worse, you don’t know yet.
ᥫ᭡ through a glass darkly
eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. he wondered which flavor of weird she was. art weird? theater weird? band weird?
weird weird?
he shrugged. he liked weird.
in other words, you’re the new girl in town, and eddie is intrigued.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ARTHUR MORGAN
ᥫ᭡ the old therebefore (when nothing is left anymore)
fourteen years ago, dutch van der linde saved your brother’s life and offered you a home amongst outlaws and thieves. since then, you’ve been robbing and fighting your way across the nation, all while caring for your reckless brother, john marston, and trying to force down feelings for your partner-in-crime, arthur morgan. but after a failed robbery in blackwater forces the entire gang to flee, all hopes of freedom on the great frontier are lost. danger descends from all sides, forcing you to confront the uncertain future and the regrets of your past.
or, a complete retelling of red dead redemption II from start to finish…
ᥫ᭡ a new beginning
determined to hunt down your father’s murderer and bring him to justice, you refuse to be deterred when your venture takes you to the dangerous backwoods of roanoke ridge and you run into the last man you had ever wanted to see again. or maybe deep, deep down you had. a turbulent and treacherous journey awaits, where battles will be fought not only against man and nature but within your heart as well as the long but unescapable road towards forgiveness begins.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ CHALLENGERS TRIO
ᥫ᭡ runner-up
this is the story of how you and tashi duncan become best friends in college. or more so, the story of how she had chosen you to be her best friend. if only you knew then what a dangerous thing that was—to be chosen by someone like tashi.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ FEZCO O’NEILL
ᥫ᭡ baby, can you see through the tears?
he’d walked into the room looking like a dream. your eyes burned the first time you saw him. you told him this later and he blushed and laughed, but it was true. it’s hard not to cry right now, watching as he’s escorted into the visitor hall where you’re sitting at a tiny square table. a guard brings fez towards you, and he’s like a vision haloed by white buzzing fluorescent lights.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ KAZ BREKKER
ᥫ᭡ it’s nice to have a friend
one of these days, you’ll realize how hungry you are for the scraps he throws you and that it’s not a good look that you’d rather salivate for him than devour the feast anyone else could give you. but today is not that day. you’re both fourteen, you’ve only just run away from home, you’re still trying to carve out a place in this world, his world.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ SILCO
ᥫ᭡ drink with me
the lanes never sleep. the sunken streets may lie beneath piltover’s heavy shadow, and it's faults are numerous and deadly, but no one can claim that the Undercity is boring. there is always colour to be found, if you know where to look. it’s something you pride yourself on – the ability to see what others can’t. some mistake it for simple optimism. but you know it’s more than just that. it’s the thing that’s kept you alive this long, in more ways than one. you’ve always been happy to go wherever life has taken you, and you’re a big believer in gut instinct.
but you never expected to end up working as a bartender at the last drop – having been scouted by a blue haired girl who wouldn’t take no for an answer. neither did you expect to find yourself landed with the terrifying task of ensuring silco’s personal drinks cart is kept well stocked. and you certainly never expected to find yourself inadvertently become the weekly drinking partner of the eye of zaun himself.
ᥫ᭡ bend but not break
silco is a wealthy industrialist who makes a deal with piltover to open trade with zaun, in which his own diplomatic dealings are just to gain more power and undermine piltover. he purchases an old mansion in the wealthiest part of of piltover in hopes of raising his ward to give her a better life than he had, including looking for a wife to blend in with his new surroundings, a masquerade game of lies. he never anticipates you, his new governess, hired by sevika for his young ward, jinx.
a young woman in house that has more questions than answers. a strange and hidden creature lurks in the attic. a man, that should be fighting for zaun as he once did, is now mingling with his sworn enemies and this close to buying a seat on the council. a man, who is an enigma, raising a girl who isn’t his and you finding him more and more intoxicating as you fall into his world of shady politics.
jane eyre AU.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ORIGINAL CHARACTERS
ᥫ᭡ glimmer in the void
you’re part of a crew on a deep space exploration ship traveling beyond the solar system. when the ship is attacked and crashes on a nearby planet, you find yourself stranded with an unexpected and intriguing creature.
ᥫ᭡ blood catalase
you’re a crime scene cleaner who happens across an advertisement for a mansion housekeeper in exchange for room and board. it’s close to work, close to your university, and an easy job. the ultimate package. right away, you notice the owner’s beauty as well as his eccentricities, but decide to commit to it. the spiral into depravity and debauchery begins when you’re tasked with cleaning the site of a savage murder, solidifying you as a irreplaceable treasure.
ᥫ᭡ opaque
in this world, androids outnumber humans, privacy does not exist, and your public profile determines whether you sink or swim in society. following the dissolution of your job and glamorizing your resume, you’re invited to interview with the prestigious hyperion—the world’s foremost in AI and robotics—for a position to test the newest android model. after a surprising turn of events, you’re introduced to elio, the first of the generation seven androids and the catalyst of your awakening.
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𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ JAKE SULLY
ᥫ᭡ fantasize
it’s official – jake is sick and tired of norm giving him shit. while he can’t claim to know as much about pandora as norm does, there’s still a few things jake can afford to do to piss him off even more for the fun of it, and it just so happens that norm’s sister works as a scientist in the human compound – which to jake spells perfect revenge in its simplest form.
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██████████ 100%
A C C E S S G R A N T E D. . .
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ultr4vjolence © 2025 .ᐟ
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netscapenavigaytor · 2 years ago
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hmmph... people in jet set radio tag talking abot leak stuff and wiki vandalism. when every body should be talking about. ME AND MY FRIENDS MAEKING EDGY BRAINWEIRD BULLSHIT . (joke) (nobody would even know about this properly outside of discord) (just wanted to make a post because my brain is full of many thoughts) (jet set radio fans dm me if you want my bad yoyo opinions) (there is a lot of that. and other dubious opinions too)
#jet set radio#making this post so fast so that i can't regret it and not post it :thumbsup:#ULTIMATELY LIKE. i think i really want to join a jet set radio discord but im wayyyy too afraid to#so i just kind of keep waving jsr in front of everybody else like Hey. Hey can you look at this? For me?#which admittedly i did drag AT LEAST one other person into my madness so im doing something right. but that is not enough for me#and like idk if this fixation will fizzle in a month. its already lasted scary longer than expected#and done scary things that most hypfixes don't (unpublished 8000 word fanfic. god help me)#and even that aside i have no idea whether or not this fandom is receptive to hcs that are like. idk. this brand of weird and kind of edgy#[long ramble over the nature of ''dark'' headcanons and how i am afraid of getting typecast to a kind of writer i am not removed]#Any Way tl;dr any jet set radio fans want to stick their hands through the bars of my enclosure please dm me. its normal in here (LIE)#aaand hmm that. took up way more tags than expected. i wanted to . actually say my piece on the leak#i guess short version of my thoughts on the leak is ''nothing we can do but wait and see if its real''#but also regardless of my opinion on the leak itself (dont care for the artstyle much but eh) (also its funny that corn isnt there. rip)#i think ultimately i am Against the idea of a new jsr game. something something capitalism and nostalgia pandering#but whatever nothing i can do but wait.#everybody just play Jet Set Radio Paradox instead (you can't) (it does not exist) (why do i keep doing parentheticals on this post)#wow this post is a solid 0/10. posting it now so i dont just delete it#error 0
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vunblr · 2 months ago
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Roots and Branches
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Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.
Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.
Word Count: About 18.6k.
notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.
By the way, I’m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.
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The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.
It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.
The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.
For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.
Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.
“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”
She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.
Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.
“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.
The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.
She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.
Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.
Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.
As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.
He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.
He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.
She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.
He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.
Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.
“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.
She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”
Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”
She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”
Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”
She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.
Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.
Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.
She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.
She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”
He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”
She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”
When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.
“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.
She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”
Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”
He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.
Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”
He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.
“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.
He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”
She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”
He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.
He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.
Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.
“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.
His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.
Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.
------------
She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.
It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.
Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.
By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.
“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.
Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.
Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.
----------
Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.
After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.
Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.
At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.
“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.
She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”
“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”
Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”
After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.
Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.
The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.
“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.
The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”
“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”
Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”
“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”
Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”
Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.
“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.
She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”
Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”
Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.
“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”
“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”
Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.
Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.
Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”
She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.
The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”
Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”
“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.
Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”
“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.
As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.
“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.
Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”
“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”
Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”
Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”
The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.
Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.
As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.
A storm was coming.
It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.
He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.
Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.
It was shaping up to be one of those nights.
When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.
The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.
“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.
She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.
The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.
The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.
The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.
On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.
One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.
He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.
And then, unbidden, he thought of her.
The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.
------------
The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.
“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”
She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”
Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.
“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.
They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”
She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”
Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”
“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”
He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”
“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”
He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”
“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”
Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”
“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.
He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.
Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.
And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.
The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.
As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.
She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.
Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”
The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”
His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.
The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.
“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.
She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”
Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.
“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.
“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.
It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.
Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.
“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.
She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”
His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.
“Oh, you don’t have to-”
“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.
She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.
“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.
“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.
She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”
He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.
The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.
One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.
As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.
Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.
There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.
He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.
When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.
“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.
She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”
He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”
She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”
There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”
“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”
She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.
“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”
His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.
“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.
As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.
He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.
He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.
He was interested.
Shit.
Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.
On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.
And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.
He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.
What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?
Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.
For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.
Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.
And then there was Bucky.
Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.
Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.
-----------
Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.
So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.
The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.
Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.
“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”
Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.
He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.
“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”
Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”
Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“
“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”
For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”
----------
The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.
Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.
She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.
The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.
By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.
She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”
Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”
Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”
“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.
“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”
She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.
“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”
Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”
“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”
She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”
She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.
The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.
Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.
Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.
“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.
“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.
“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.
“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you��d make it.”
Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”
“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”
He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.
Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.
“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”
“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.
She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”
He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”
“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.
“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.
Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.
He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.
That should be illegal.
“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”
She blinked, startled. “What?”
His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”
“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”
As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.
She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”
“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly
He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”
That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”
The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.
“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.
“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”
Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”
Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”
Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.
“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”
Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.
She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”
Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.
“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”
“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”
Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”
“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”
Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.
“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”
She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”
Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.
“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.
She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”
He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.
Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.
Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.
She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.
With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.
That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.
She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.
An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.
She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.
Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.
Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.
“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.
He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”
“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”
Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”
“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”
His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.
“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.
Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”
Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”
“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”
“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.
Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”
She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.
“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.
Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”
Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.
Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.
The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.
The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.
What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.
The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.
She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.
Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.
And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.
Don’t kid yourself.
The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.
God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.
Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.
Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.
----------
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.
“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”
Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.
Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.
“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.
It wasn’t Dorothy.
Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.
For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.
“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”
It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.
She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”
Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”
Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”
He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”
As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.
She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.
The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.
Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.
After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.
“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.
He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”
His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.
“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.
“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.
When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.
She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”
Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”
“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”
He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.
“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.
Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”
He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.
Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.
With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.
---------
The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.
“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”
Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”
He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”
“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”
He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”
“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”
After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.
He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.
“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”
Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.
“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.
He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”
She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”
Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”
Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”
Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.
“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”
Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”
“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”
Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.
Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”
He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”
Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”
“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”
As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.
She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”
Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.
His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”
She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.
Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”
“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”
“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.
She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”
“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”
He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”
“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”
“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”
“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.
He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”
She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”
That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.
Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”
His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”
“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.
Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”
She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”
“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”
She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”
Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”
Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”
A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.
She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”
Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”
She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”
He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.
She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:
Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.
A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.
The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.
She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.
She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”
She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.
“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”
She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”
They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.
“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.
Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.
As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”
His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.
“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”
Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.
She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.
His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.
“This too clingy for you?”
A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.
Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.
“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”
His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.
Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”
Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.
His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.
The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.
Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”
She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.
A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.
He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.
His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”
She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.
She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.
“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.
Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.
“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”
Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.
“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”
She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.
He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”
A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.
He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”
Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.
Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.
“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”
Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”
His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.
“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”
Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”
Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”
Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.
Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”
He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.
“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”
Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.
“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”
And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”
Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.
“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.
“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.
His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”
Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.
The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”
She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.
Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.
“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.
She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.
“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”
Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.
“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”
“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”
Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.
Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.
His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.
“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.
Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.
“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.
She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”
He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”
Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”
With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.
For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.
A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”
Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”
She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.
“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.
She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.
He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.
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Dividers by: @strangergraphics
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ozzgin · 5 months ago
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I'm playing Crime Scene Cleaner and all that floor scrubbing got me thinking... Content: gender neutral reader, morally grey reader, organized crime, violence, murder
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Yandere!Crime Boss who needs someone to clean up his frequent messes, and you happen to be in desperate need of money. He will reward your hard work handsomely; all he demands in return is loyalty. You quickly learn what it means to stray from his orders, carrying body after body, and mopping never-ending pools of blood.
Well now, you're not half bad, are you? He didn't think you had it in you. A regular, law-fearing citizen, now disposing of leftover bullets and hiding condemning evidence from the cops.
"What am I supposed to do with all these drugs and stacks of bills?" you ask over the burner phone, staring at the lavish table you'd stumbled upon during your latest cleaning service.
"Consider it your tip", he responds with a chuckle, somewhat taken aback by your honesty.
What a ridiculous twist. He finds himself trusting you more than his own men. You always do your job flawlessly, no questions asked, and for whatever reason you never fail to provide a full report of your findings. He couldn't care less if you left with a suitcase full of cash. He doesn't need the leftover scraps from some dealer who tried to turn on him. Bold of you to assume he even noticed anything of value in the first place. He merely drove over, pulled the trigger, and returned to his usual business.
"Did you bring enough body bags-" he begins, but his voice is cut short.
This must be the first time he's actually seen you in person. You're no longer a string of sentences over the phone. He certainly didn’t expect you to be this cute.
"Uh huh, it's all here", you state casually, holding a bucket of water. You gaze at the gory scene and whistle. "It's going to be a long night", you add.
"Do you have anything to do afterwards?", he asks with an unfamiliar hesitancy, swiftly recovering himself. "Actually, it doesn't matter. Finish here, and I'll pick you up once you're done."
"What? Am I in trouble?" you ask, eyes widening in fear.
"Dumbass! I'm inviting you out. It's my treat", he huffs with indignation.
What an absurd implication. Why would he have any reason to threaten you? Surely you must know by now that as long as you behave, you've nothing to worry about.
You won't regret your obedience. He'll make sure of it.
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[Part 2] | [More yandere stories]
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lubdubology · 2 months ago
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Take My Love and Wear It
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SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 
PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader
WC: 10.8k 
WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie
A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!
You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 
One month. 
One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 
At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 
And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 
You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.
Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 
Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 
You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.
You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”
“Doing what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”
Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 
“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 
“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.
You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”
“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”
“You have no idea how hard this life is.”
A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”
Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”
You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”
He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 
Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 
You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.
+++
Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 
You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 
“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 
Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 
Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  
He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 
“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.
He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”
You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.
You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.
“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”
Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.
“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”
His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.
From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 
“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 
His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 
+++
“He likes you, you know.”
You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”
Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 
You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”
“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”
You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”
Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”
A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”
Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 
“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.
Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”
You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 
“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”
“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.
He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”
+++
“Want some help?”
You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.
It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.
You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”
Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 
“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”
“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”
Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”
You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.
“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.
“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 
Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 
It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.
You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 
“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”
Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.
“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”
You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”
“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”
Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.
As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.
“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”
Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”
But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”
You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 
Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”
“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”
Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”
“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”
The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.
Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”
You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.
From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.
You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.
“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”
Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”
“Did it hurt?”
“No.”
You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.
“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.
You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.
Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”
He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.
Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.
+++
It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 
You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 
Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 
“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 
“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 
“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.
He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 
Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.
“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 
You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”
He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 
“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 
Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”
You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 
But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.
“Just trust me,” you say. 
Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.
You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”
For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”
You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”
Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”
You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 
Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”
“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”
He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”
“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”
Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 
Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
+++
You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.
You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.
“You find this amusing?”
“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”
He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.
You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 
Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 
You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.
Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.
The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 
“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.
“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.
You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 
Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.
Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 
Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.
That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.
“What are you doing to me?” he asks.
Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.
Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.
“You took it on yourself, my pain?”
You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 
“Why?”
“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”
A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.
“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 
His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 
Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.
“Good because I don’t want you to.”
Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 
Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 
You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 
You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.
This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 
Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.
He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”
Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.
Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 
“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”
The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 
You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 
A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”
“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.
Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 
“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.
“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”
A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.
“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”
His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 
“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”
He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 
“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.
You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.
“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”
With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 
For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”
You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 
+++
The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.
You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.
The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 
Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.
“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.
Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 
You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.
“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”
“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.
He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.
Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 
“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”
Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”
Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.
The pain hits you like a freight train.
It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 
But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.
You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 
Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.
“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”
“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”
His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.
“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 
Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.
“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”
+++
There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 
Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.
You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 
His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.
“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.
A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 
His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 
Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.
“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.
He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.
“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.
I love you, dammit!
“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.
Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”
There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 
His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.
Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.
Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.
You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 
Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 
“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 
Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”
“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 
“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 
“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”
Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.
His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”
“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 
“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 
You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”
His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.
“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.
The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.
When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 
You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.
His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 
“Prove it,” you challenge.
+++
The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.
You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 
Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.
“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 
His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”
The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.
“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.
“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.
Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 
Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 
Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”
“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”
Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”
The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”
“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”
He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 
“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.
“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.
“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”
It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.
“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”
His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.
For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.
He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”
A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.
“I know.”
+++
You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.
Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.
You want to hear it again. But not now.
Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 
“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.
You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.
Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”
You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”
“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”
“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”
You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 
“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 
Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”
“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”
Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.
“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”
Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.
You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.
You’re home, too.
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rafecameronssl4t · 1 month ago
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You Broke Me First || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader
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gif by @rafeyscurtainbangs
Summary: You didn’t expect Rafe to push you aside so easily for Sofia, but it wasn’t shocking when he called you from Morocco, confessing that she had betrayed him in the worst way.
Warnings: angst angst angst (haven't written this much angst in a hot minute) Sofia slander mb, reader ate in this one if I do say so myself 😝😝
Word count: 3,378
MASTERLIST
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divider by @h-aewo
Rafe exhales sharply, tossing his cap onto the polished table with a frustrated thud. He rakes a hand through his buzzed hair, his expression caught between exasperation and regret. "C'mon, baby, don’t be like that," he pleads, his tone softer than the storm brewing between the two of you. But his attempt at pacifying you only stokes the fire raging in your chest.
You remain unmoved, your gaze fixed on the pristine, manicured lawn of the country club, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as though you’re physically holding your anger in check. The vibrant chatter of nearby patrons fades into the background, the sound nothing more than white noise to the tension crackling between you. "Like what?" you snap, voice cold and sharp, refusing to look at him.
"Like you're fucking insecure!" Rafe bites back, his words slicing through the air without thought or care. Your head whips toward him, eyes narrowing in fury. "You did not just say that to me," you seethe, the disbelief quickly morphing into a sharp-edged anger that spreads like wildfire. Rafe stares at you, jaw tight, offering no apology, no acknowledgment of the weight of what he just said.
It only fuels your rage. "You think this is about me being insecure?" you spit, stepping closer to him, your voice rising. "You let her hang all over you, Rafe. Laughing, flirting, and touching you. And you just stood there, eating it up like a goddamn idiot while I was standing right there. Right fucking there. Do you even realise how disrespectful that was?" Your words hit like rapid-fire bullets, but Rafe just shakes his head, his silence infuriating you further.
"You couldn’t even pretend to give a shit about me," you continue, your voice sharp enough to cut. "Not a glance, not a word, nothing. You just let her make a fool out of me. Do you even care how that made me look? How it made me feel?" "It wasn’t like that," Rafe mutters finally, his tone dismissive as he runs a hand through his hair again, avoiding your eyes. "Oh, fuck off," you snap, venom dripping from every syllable.
"Don’t you dare try to gaslight me, Rafe. I saw exactly what it was like. She was all over you, and you let it happen. You didn’t even have the decency to act like I was there." Your voice is rising now, no longer caring who might overhear. "You want to talk about insecurity? How about the fact that you can’t say no to someone feeding your fucking ego? God forbid you turn her down, because then what? You don’t get to be the centre of attention for five goddamn minutes?"
Rafe flinches at your words, his posture stiffening, but you’re too far gone to stop. "You’re pathetic," you hiss, stepping even closer, forcing him to look at you. "You love it, don’t you? The attention, the admiration—so much that you don’t even care what it costs me. You don’t care that it makes me look like a joke. That it makes me feel like a fucking idiot for standing by your side." "That’s not fair," Rafe says quietly, his tone defensive, but his voice is barely audible over your anger.
"Fair?" you bark out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Do you even know what that word means, Rafe? Fair is treating the person you claim to care about with an ounce of respect. Fair is not making me feel like I’m in this relationship alone while you let random girls flirt with you because it strokes your goddamn ego." Your breathing is heavy now, your chest heaving as you glare at him, your anger a living, breathing thing that refuses to be contained.
For a moment, you think Rafe might say something—anything—to defend himself, to fix this. His lips part as if words are on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitates. Instead, he just stares at you, his jaw tight, his lips pressed into a thin line, the weight of his silence hanging heavy in the air. His refusal to fight for you—to fight with you—burns hotter than anything he could have said.
"Unbelievable," you mutter, your voice dripping with bitter disbelief as you turn on your heel. You pause just long enough to deliver one final blow, the venom in your words leaving no room for ambiguity. "You know what, Rafe? When that Pogue turns on you, don’t you dare come crawling back to me. You made your choice." You don't wait for his response—if he even has one.
Your heels click sharply against the floor as you walk away, your back to him, shoulders squared. The lump in your throat threatens to choke you, but you swallow it down, your anger your shield against the pain threatening to bubble up. Behind you, Rafe doesn’t call out. He doesn’t follow. The soft scrape of his chair shifting against the floor is the only sound he makes, and it sends a pang of hurt slicing through your chest.
You don’t look back. You can’t. You leave him standing there, his cap still sitting on the table, the perfect picture of a man who’s just realised how deeply he’s fucked up. The realisation is written all over his face, but it’s too little, too late.
~
"Hello?" you answer, pressing the phone to your ear. The line crackles with a brief silence, heavy and tense, before you hear a voice—his voice. "She fucked me over," Rafe spits out, his words sharp and laced with anger. "She screwed with me and my fucking money." Your eyes widen, and instinctively, you sink into the nearest seat, your mind racing to process the flood of emotions his sudden call evokes.
His tone is frantic, his words tumbling out in a bitter, unrelenting rant. "What?" you manage, your voice tight with confusion. "What are you talking about, Rafe?" He exhales harshly, the sound of frustration practically vibrating through the receiver. "Sofia," he growls, the name dripping with venom. His words come fast, tumbling over each other in a frantic, furious rant.
"She—she knew. The whole time. She knew exactly what was happening to my money and just watched it happen. Worse, she didn't do a damn ting to stop it because she was a part of it." Your stomach twists as his words paint a picture of betrayal deeper than you’d imagined. "What the hell are you talking about?" you ask, your voice sharper now, though confusion still clouds your tone.
"She was involved," he says bitterly. "The deal—the fucking deal that cost me everything. She kept her mouth shut, let me take the hit, and now I’m the one left to clean up the mess. And the whole time, she stood there smiling, acting like she gave a damn about me." You exhale slowly, trying to process the weight of what he’s saying.
There’s an anger rising in you—not for Sofia, but for Rafe’s blind trust and his reckless decisions. "And what, you just figured this out now?" "No," he admits, his voice dropping to something almost pained. "I knew something was off for weeks. But I didn’t want to believe it. I fucking proposed to her, for God’s sake. Thought if I just… held on tighter, I could fix things. Fix us."
You freeze, the confession hitting you like a sucker punch. "You proposed?" "Yeah," he spits, the word dripping with self-loathing. "And you know what she did? She cried. Not because she was happy. Not because she loved me. Because she felt guilty." He laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and cold. "She couldn’t even bring herself to tell me the truth while I was down on one fucking knee."
For a moment, the line goes quiet, his words hanging heavy in the air between you. "You know, Rafe," you finally say, your voice steady but edged with anger, "this is what happens when you put your trust in someone who’s only looking out for themselves." He exhales sharply, the sound of his frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "I get it," he snaps. "I should’ve listened to you. You warned me, and I didn’t care. I thought I knew better."
"You thought you were untouchable," you counter, your words hitting him like a slap. "And now you’re calling me? For what? To say I told you so?" "No," he says, softer now, almost broken. "I don’t know why I called. Maybe because you were the only one who actually gave a damn about me. Or maybe because I needed someone to hear it—someone who’d understand what it’s like to be completely fucked over by someone you trusted."
You close your eyes, the ache in his voice tugging at something deep inside you. But you push it aside, unwilling to let his pain pull you back in. "This doesn’t change anything, Rafe," you say firmly. "You made your choices. You can’t just run to me every time they blow up in your face." "I know," he murmurs, the defeat in his tone cutting deeper than his anger ever could. "I just… I didn’t know who else to call." You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, feeling the weight of Rafe’s words sink in.
“Where are you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to make sense of everything. “Morocco,” he says, the word hanging in the air like a punch. Your heart stutters, and your eyes widen as you try to process his response. “What?” you ask, unable to keep the disbelief out of your voice. “With who?” "Sarah and her friends. Look, it’s... a long story, alright?" You scoff, shaking your head. The frustration that had been simmering inside you spills over, and you can’t keep the bitterness out of your voice.
“Yeah, I can fucking imagine. Jesus, Rafe. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” You feel your hands balling into fists, the anger bubbling up again. How did he always manage to get himself tangled in these messes? There’s a pause on the other end, the kind of silence that feels heavy with regret. Rafe’s voice comes through, softer, almost pleading. “Can you do me a favour? Please?” You hesitate, trying to weigh your options. After everything that’s happened, you weren’t sure you wanted to do him any more favours, but you couldn’t ignore the desperation in his tone.
“Depends,” you reply, keeping your guard up, knowing full well that Rafe’s requests often led to more complications than they were worth. He sighs heavily, as if the weight of what he’s about to ask is too much. “Can you go to my house and check if she’s still there?” You furrow your brow, confusion clouding your thoughts. “What’s she doing in your house?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, your suspicion rising like an unsettling tide. There’s a beat of hesitation before Rafe’s voice cracks slightly.
“I... I asked her to move in with me,” he admits, the rawness of his confession making the words sting like salt on a wound. You feel a cold laugh escape you before you can stop it. “Yeah, of course you did,” you mutter, your teeth clenching as the bitterness grows. The thought of Sofia, the same woman who had betrayed him, now living in his house—it doesn’t sit right with you. It feels like a betrayal in itself, a reminder of everything Rafe never learned. “Please, Y/n,” Rafe’s voice cuts through the tension, quieter now, softer, and the pleading tone in his words makes your chest tighten.
“I just need to know if she’s still there. I can’t trust anything right now, and I don’t know who else to ask.” You lean back against the wall, your eyes closing for a moment as you let out a long, frustrated sigh. You knew it was going to be something like this. You knew Rafe’s charm and his impulsiveness would lead him straight into another mess, but this? This felt like too much. “Fine,” you say, finally, the weight of his request heavy in your chest. “I’ll go. But you owe me one, Rafe.”
~
Pulling up to the house you were once so familiar with, you let out a deep sigh. The place looks the same, but it feels different—distant. Your hand tightens on the steering wheel for a moment before you shift into park. You take a breath and step out of the car, walking up the front stairs with a heavy sense of purpose. When you test the front door, your suspicion proves right—it’s unlocked. Slowly, you push it open, the creak of the hinges breaking the silence inside. The house feels empty, eerily quiet.
You move further in, your footsteps echoing off the hardwood floors, until a voice stops you dead in your tracks. "Rafe? Is that you?" The shakiness in her tone is unmistakable, and it irks you more than you care to admit. You scoff under your breath and follow the sound of her voice to the living room. There she is—Sofia, looking nothing like the confident, composed woman she used to be. The moment she sees you, her eyes widen in shock, and she quickly stands, hastily wiping her tears from her cheeks.
"What are you doing here?" she says, her voice a mix of disbelief and unease. You can’t hide the bitterness that creeps into your words as you respond. "Trust me, I do not want to be here," you roll your eyes, moving to sit on the single armchair across from her, the space between you two feeling as vast as the gulf that’s grown between your lives. "Why are you here, Y/n?" Her voice shakes, but you can see the cracks in her façade. She’s barely holding it together.
You lean back in the chair, crossing your arms. "I could ask the same of you. Rafe wanted you out of here." Her throat tightens, and she swallows hard, trying to maintain some control. "I'm not leaving until I talk to him again," she argues, but her resolve feels weak, as if she knows deep down that this battle is already lost. You scoff, your patience wearing thin. "Yeah, good luck with that, sweetheart. You're dead to him," you say flatly, watching as the color drains from Sofia’s face.
The fear in her eyes is almost satisfying. She’s starting to realise the weight of the mess she’s made. "I-I..." She stammers, her eyes darting around, desperately searching for an escape that isn’t coming. You lean forward slightly, letting the silence linger just long enough before you speak again, your voice cold, steady. "You know what Rafe can’t stand more than anything, Sof?" you begin, watching as she flinches at the mention of his name. "Backstabbers."
The word hangs between you, thick with meaning, and you can see the realisation slowly settle in her. There’s no turning back now. Sofia's eyes dart nervously, avoiding yours as if she’s trying to escape the gravity of your words. She opens her mouth to speak but stops herself, as though the words are caught in her throat. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, wiping her eyes again, but this time the tears don’t come.
Instead, there's just this raw vulnerability, something she rarely ever lets slip. "I didn't mean for it to happen like this," she finally mutters, her voice a broken whisper. "You don’t understand. I—" "Save it," you cut her off, your tone colder than you expected. "I’m not here for your excuses, Sofia. Whatever sob story you’ve cooked up, I don’t care. The damage is done. Rafe trusted you. He would’ve given you the world if you asked for it. And you—" You stop, swallowing the heat building in your chest.
"You took everything from him, didn’t even think twice about it." Sofia trembles, her gaze flickering to the floor as she struggles to hold back the overwhelming guilt threatening to spill out. "I didn’t want this to happen. I swear I didn’t," she whispers, her voice uneven. "I was hurt. By what he said, by the way he treated me. I—I was just trying to keep things from falling apart, and it got too messy. I couldn’t back out."
You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. "Oh, so that’s it? You were hurt, so you decided to screw him over? That’s your excuse?" Her lip quivers, and for a moment, you think she might break, but then her voice rises, desperate. "It wasn’t like that!" she insists. "You don’t get it. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I thought maybe if I just went along with it, I could fix things—" "Fix things?" you snap, standing abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"By lying to him? By betraying him? That’s what you call fixing things?" You scoff again, crossing your arms. "You didn’t care about fixing anything. You cared about yourself. You wanted to stay comfortable, no matter what it cost him." She stands too, her posture stiff, her shoulders drawn tight. "I was scared," she says, her voice trembling. "I didn’t know what to do. I thought if I stayed quiet, I could keep it together. I didn’t want to hurt him, I swear—"
You cut her off with a wave of your hand, the irritation bubbling to the surface. "Stop acting like I care, Sofia," you say flatly, your words slicing through the tension. "You think I’m here defending him? After what he put me through?” You let out a humorless laugh. "I couldn’t care less about Rafe. But you—" You step closer, your eyes narrowing.
"You think you’re special, don’t you? You think you can walk in here, cry a few tears, and fix everything? And the worst part is, you don’t even realise it." Her mouth falls open slightly, her expression faltering as she processes your words. She looks at you like she’s seeing someone else, someone she doesn’t recognise, and for a fleeting moment, you almost feel bad. Almost.
"You broke him, Sofia," you say, your voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "And now you’re standing here, trying to paint yourself as the victim. It’s disgusting." The silence that follows is deafening, a void neither of you can fill. Sofia doesn’t respond. She doesn’t move. She just stands there, her shoulders slumped, her eyes glossy but dry. For once, she has nothing left to say. "Get out," you say finally, your voice calm but firm, the weight of your words unmistakable. "You’ve done enough damage."
Sofia's lip quivers as she stands there for a moment, motionless, her breath hitching as if she wants to argue but can’t find the words. Instead, she presses her trembling lips together and nods faintly, her head hanging low. Without another word, she brushes past you, her footsteps hesitant but quickening as she heads for the door. The sound of her leaving echoes through the house—the shuffle of her shoes on the floor, the creak of the door as it opens, and the final, resounding click as it closes behind her.
For a few moments, you remain where you are, letting the silence settle over the space. The air feels heavier now, and your chest tightens with a mixture of lingering anger and exhaustion. You reach into your pocket, pulling out your phone with a deliberate slowness. Your thumb hovers over Rafe’s name in your contacts for a second longer than it should, but you shake off the hesitation and press the call button. The line rings twice before he picks up.
"What?" His voice is sharp, irritated, like he wasn’t expecting you to call—or wasn’t in the mood to deal with you if you did. "It’s done," you say simply, your tone devoid of emotion. "She’s gone. You won’t have to deal with her anymore." There’s a pause on the other end, long enough for you to hear him exhale. "Good," he mutters, his voice clipped. You don’t respond right away, letting his words hang in the air.
When you do speak, your voice is distant, detached. "Don’t call me again, Rafe. Whatever this was—whatever you needed—it’s over." "What’s that supposed to mean?" he snaps, the irritation in his voice sharpening into something defensive. "It means I’m done," you say firmly, your grip on the phone tightening. "Don’t drag me into your mess again. Clean up your own life next time." "Y/n—" You don’t wait for him to finish.
You end the call and toss your phone onto the couch, the finality of it settling over you like a weight. For a moment, you stand there, staring at the empty room, the silence pressing down on you. It’s done. Whatever mess Rafe and Sofia had created, you’d played your part in untangling it. But as you look around the house, you realise you feel no sense of victory, no relief. Just a hollow emptiness, as if something in you has finally burned out.
Without another glance, you grab your bag and head for the door. You don’t need to stay here any longer. You’ve said everything you needed to say, done everything you needed to do. And as you step outside into the fresh air, you make a silent promise to yourself: you’re walking away from this for good.
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moonstruckme · 1 month ago
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remus x his girl with sleepy girl syndrome.
at a friendly gathering and she is trying SO hard to stay awake.
love u and ur work pls take care of urself
Thank you angel!
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 516 words
Remus watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re drooping, elbow propped on the table and chin propped on your hand, watching James and Sirius tell a story through half-lidded eyes. Remus leans over to speak to you at a murmur. 
“Want to go home?” 
He immediately regrets phrasing it that way. You sit up straighter and look at him with forced attentiveness. “No,” you say, lips tilting upward for his benefit. “I’m having fun.” 
Remus doesn’t think you’re lying, but enjoyment and exhaustion aren’t mutually exclusive. Dinner has gone on longer than either of you expected, dusk turning to true darkness and streetlamps flickering on outside the pub. He thinks you’re probably barely keeping yourself awake. 
“We could go, though,” he suggests gently. “I’m starting to feel ready for bed, too.”
“Let’s stay a while longer,” you say, though you loop your arm through his, leaning against his side. “I want to hear the rest of the story.” 
That last part is said just a bit more intentionally. Remus follows your gaze down the table to James, whose attention has caught on you. He doesn’t seem to know what’s passing between you and Remus, is too far away to have heard your small conversation, but he smiles anyway at your last words. 
It’s a lucky thing that his gaze wanders from you as he gets deeper into the story again. Soon your head dips until it’s resting on Remus’ shoulder. He keeps still, only wrapping one arm around your waist to hold you tucked up against his side. Your eyelids droop and then shut. 
Remus strokes slow lines over your ribs with his thumb as James and Sirius wrap up their story. The length is somehow unaffected by how fast they tell it, voices overlapping and obscure details added between bouts of laughter, but eventually it’s done. Lily smiles into her drink, watching you. 
Cute, she mouths to Remus. 
He gives her a smile in return that says he knows. 
“Sweetheart.” He kisses your hair. “Let’s go, yeah? Let’s go home.” 
“Mm?” You come awake with a remarkable job of acting, pretending as if you’ve never been asleep at all. “No, I’m good.” 
Remus grins down at you. He reaches for your coat. “You made it to the end of the story. I think that’s enough for tonight.” 
“I did?” Your brow furrows, and Remus realizes you really hadn’t known you’d been sleeping at all. “Oh, shit. M’sorry.” 
“Nothing to be sorry for,” he laughs, standing and encouraging you along with him by your elbow. “I think we’re just ready to get some sleep. Here, dove.” 
He helps you into your coat, the both of you saying goodbye to your friends before leaving the warmth of the pub for the cool night. You attach yourself to Remus’ side instantly, arm wound through his. 
“Think you’ll be able to make the walk home?” he asks, only half teasing but wholly fond. 
Your reply is less jocular. “Yeah, I think so. Might lean on you if you don’t mind, though.”
Remus tuts, kissing your head. “I never mind.”
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op-sys-chaos · 6 months ago
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DPxDC prompt (demon twins au)
A video from your son, the email was titled. Bruce was confused. Which of his kids would send a video to his public work email??
Bruce clicked play.
On the screen was a boy who look a lot like Damian, but most certainly wasn’t him.
“This video is for the eyes of Bruce Wayne only.
Hi Dad. I’m Danny. You likely don’t know I exist, and if you’re receiving this, I’m already dead. Well, more dead than I already was. Maybe it’s cruel of me to send you a message post-mortem, but you deserve the truth, and telling you earlier would’ve put you in danger.
This email is set to automatically send if I haven’t opened my computer for 3 days. I sometimes set it longer if I’m on vacation or expecting trouble, but I’ve mostly likely been away from home for a bit over three days if you’re receiving this.
I don’t know who killed me. Obviously. I’m recording this in advance. But it was probably either the GIW or my adoptive parents, the Fentons. I half-died at 14 and became a local ghost superhero, but they never realized I was trying to help and kept talking about tearing ghost-me apart molecule by molecule, so I bet that’s what happened. There will be nothing left of me to bury. Sorry about that!
The rest of the story is this. I was raised in an assassin cult, eventually escaping at the age of 6 when they sent me on mission and I successfully faked my death.
My biggest regret is that I escaped alone. And that’s the reason I’m reaching out to you.
You’re a civilian. If you know too much about the League of Assassins you’ll be in danger. But I need you to save my twin Damian. He’s likely still there after all these years. He never wanted to escape; he took pride in being the heir to the league. He’s probably going to be stabby; he’s an assassin after all. But it’s not his fault. Ra’s - our grandfather - brainwashed him a lot more than he brainwashed me because Damian was more susceptible to it. It’s not his fault. Please. Save him. I’m begging you. My biggest regret is leaving Damian in the league. You have a chance to save him. Please, please do it.
I wish it would’ve been safe for me to get to know you. You seem like a cool dad, from what I’ve seen of you on the news with your oldest kids. I bet you’re like that with the youngest you hide from the public too. I wish you all the best. Thank you for listening.
Your long lost almost certainly dead by now son, Danny Fenton.”
Bruce took a second to process this, then picked up his phone and dialed his youngest’s number.
“Father.”
“Damian, did you have a twin named Danny?”
“…Who told you?”
Bruce hung up and sent Damian the video. He needed a minute to process this anyway.
Damian called back a few minutes later, after watching the video.
“Father. I do not care what state he is in. We must discover exactly what happened to Danny. Even if there is only a single molecule left. We must discover the truth.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Damian.”
Dealer’s choice on whether Danny is alive. The few ideas I have for this are:
- they find him mid-vivisection and rescue him
- they find what’s left of him post-vivisection and post his core being crushed
- he’s perfectly fine and just forgot to open his computer (maybe clockwork made sure he forgot?) and now he’s panicking about the fact that his family knows about him and could be in danger. He wanted them to know he existed, not make themselves a walking target for the league by finding him and trying to bring him home!
- Jazz found the automatic email and, deciding to meddle in her brother’s life and him back to his family and maybe get a good parent for herself as a bonus, sent it early
- Technus decided to start shit and sent it while haunting Danny’s computer
- Clockwork screwed with time to make sure it got sent
Lmk what yall do with this!
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affableramen · 3 months ago
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them apologising for calling you bad names
hurt/comfort, established relationships
(Pantalone, Wriothesley, Neuvillette, Tartaglia, Capitano, Alhaitham, Dottore, Dainsleif, Baizhu)
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Pantalone
You avoid him for the rest of the day but eventually in the bed time Pantalone meets you. He enters the bedroom with a grave expression in his eyes, eyeing you sit there on the bed with a book in your hands. Distracting, he thinks, she is distracting herself. 
“You know I didn't utter those words seriously”, Pantalone says, omitting the usual ‘darling’ on his lips. You roll your eyes and shake your head dismissively, showing him apparent unwillingness to chat over the issue any longer.
“Say”, Pantalone leans to the door, his fingers, at this moment of time, bare, scratching the roof edges of his antiquated mansion wall, “Are you deeply offended by my comment? It is but something… trivial.” Seeing no reaction from you Pantalone slowly makes his way to the bed and sits down, his body making an impact to the mattress, that being gently pressed on.
“I should have held my tongue.”
“Your tongue is poisonous”, you say abruptly. Upon hearing this, Pantalone reaches his hand to your hand and takes it in his. 
“Hear me out… Please, darling, I would never honestly speak so ill-mannered of you. It was out of stress. You are not… pathetic. Never have been.”
“Mhm. How about ‘brat’? How about ‘loving me only because I provide for the family?’” 
Pantalone closes his eyes and shakes his head. You can see how his own words inflicted upon you sting. 
“Nonsense! Not a single word I spoke then was truthful.”
“Pantalone, if I ever made you doubt my affections, please do let me know.”
You abruptly put your book on the bedside table and switch the lights off. 
Wriothesley
“Why do you keep insisting on these things? You think I don’t know them?”
“I think you’re simply less educated than me. You should understand, Y/N that in some aspects you may be less intelligent. Stupid even.”
“Less intelligent! Stupid!” 
Wriothesley covers his face and bites his own lip when he realises what unruly language he just used. 
“I didn't mean that-”
“That I’m stupid?” Your patience blows up and you decisively start strutting to the exit door of his office.
“I didn't mean to sound that harshly!” Desperately Wriothesley follows; but to no avail. You already shut your door before his nose.
A few hours after Wriothesley finds you in your two’s favourite café, of course it would be the place where you’d go to reflect on your irritation. 
“Here, your favourites”, he puts the bouquet of vivid red flowers on top of the coffee table, next to your hand, and does it with such carefulness of behaviour you would least expect from him.
You look at him, facing Wriothesley’s eyes at last and as if having your thoughts read the duke says with regret:
“And sorry.”
You take a look at the flowers, your fingers caressing the petals.
“Okay”, you respond quietly. Wriothesley receives approval from you and takes a seat, his attitude nothing but amiable, a far cry from his roughness in the morning.
Neuvillette
“I told you that some matters I unfortunately, willing or not, have to solve on my own. There is no place for you in some of my business, because you’re just one weak-” Neuvillette holds his tongue, realising how personally offensive the words he said sounded. How villainous he suddenly appeared before you.
“Human? Yeah, I know. But me being human doesn't mean I can’t think and analyse, and there’s no way I’d approve the responsibility you’re about to take on yourself. I strictly dissgree.”
“Strictly disagree?” Neuvillette does not believe his ears, for you had always been a quiet amd obedient one, quite agreeable and supportive of his opinions. Yet this time you could not stay silent, seeing how your precious husband puts himself in danger for the hundredth time.
“You are to not take on that mission, are we clear, Neuvillette? And I am not weak, neither am I dumb or uninformed.”
In awe, Neuvillette stands there, looking at you. At last he takes one careful step closer, his hand in his hair, pulling it back as he’s thinking on something with raw intensity.
“If my wife is ready to convince me so much to not do something, if she finds my impulses false, then I will do my best to refrain. Knowing how worried you might be for me, perhaps it would be wise to reject the mission first and utmost.”
You nod, your face grave, uninterested as you turn away from him and walk out of his office. Only then Neuvillette stops you, his wrist tightly on yours. 
“Please, beloved, if you could forgive me for my poor choice of words and underestimating your judgment.”
“It doesn't happen first time, Neuvillette, for being a dragon sovereign makes you incredibly stiff to perceiving others’ opinions. But I’m glad if you do truly believe me now.”
“I do. Please, don't stay furious and frustrated for long.” 
You finally smile, forgiving your dragon husband as you make haste to leave the court, otherwise dramatic Fontainian society that loves gossiping and tragedy so much, will turn your little banter into a lavish scandal.
Tartaglia
“Peanut, I just said that you can’t fight as hard as I do, I didn't mean it in a bad way.”
“Of course, Ajax. You meant it in the way ‘I’m the coolest, and you are inferior’.”
“No, no, no. It’s a misunderstanding! Hear me out, babygirl…” Tartaglia gently grips the both of your shoulders and stares intimately into your eyes.
“I just wanted… You know, I just meant…” he blushes crazily and his expression radiates sheer embarrassment as he tries to seek excuse to explain himself. “I, uhh… Consider myself a great fighter, and you are exceptionally good, too…”
“Exceptionally good?” 
“Absolutely exceptionally good, babygirl. But I am simply worried, okay? I’m scared”, he rubs your shoulders up and down, as if trying to comfort you, but in honesty it rather comforts himself. “I don’t want you hurt. So you better stay home. Training.”
“Training only, nice. I will never fight real enemies if I am constantly kept hostage in Fatui training camp.”
“You’re just… so fragile. You know what I mean?”
“Uhuh. The Eleventh considers me a weakling. Nice discovery, if you weren't my boyfriend”, you free yourself from his grasp and go about the narrow long corridor of headquarters. “I thought you would trust in me and my power a tiny bit more.”
Ajax follows you immediately, his steps agile and steady as his hand gently takes yours.
“You may come with me next time. But tomorrow, I want you safe. Okay? And please… I’d never call you weak… Never.”
“Mm…” you gently caress his gloved hand with your thumb, almost failing to see him in the dim light, but feeling his erratic breath caused by quick talking.
Capitano
“I can’t let you do this, woman. You are acting immature. You have always been a bit naïve, but this is where you should start obeying me”, Capitano says with a harsh, yet genteel aura around him.
“And my love for you, Capitano, is also naïve?”
At that moment Capitano drops his expressionless, emotionless act and looks at you with horrified glint in his eyes. He wants to comfort you, to apologise for his words but realises that was once said cannot be taken back. Oh how he wishes he would hold his tongue for a little while longer!
“I didn't mean that, woman. You know that I would never-”
He shuts his eyes for a second, a storm of overwhelming thoughts crosses his mind over and over while you are standing before him, patiently waiting for an answer and expecting your husband to provide you with a proper one.
“You are weak… no not weak; you are frail. You need protection. And I want to protect you, but I may not be able to do it in Natlan. Not when I am wounded myself.”
“Oh, believe me, Capitano, I can and will protect myself. And you know what, big guy? I don't even need your permission to come with you anymore. You will accept me, because I am your wife, and I will be by your side. Especially, when you are wounded.”
Capitano raises his hand to caress your cheek with his knuckles, light-weight.
“You are going to get yourself in trouble, love.”
“I know my limits, and I can clearly see that my husband needs me, even though he won't ever admit it.”
The raven-haired tall gracious man with impeccably sharp aura around him speaks with emotion:
“But if you get hurt, I won’t ever be able to forgive myself.”
You stand on your tiptoes and cup his cheeks.
“Oh, Capitano, I will take care of myself just to spare you the trouble.”
Dottore
“You’re a dork, I don’t even have pity for your stupidity. You got this chemical burn deserved.”
“Said who? You’re the one treating it right now, Doctor”, you respond with a tiny smug smirk, watching how carefully and gently Dottore is working on your palm. The burn is not too big, but painful enough to prevent you from completing your tasks for today.
Dottore reveals his teeth, groaning at you, his self highly dissatisfied and frustrated. He smoothly applies a herbal-smelling ointment and covers your hand with tight bandages.
“I insist you staying home tomorrow. I will speak with Pierro and describe him the accident.”
“Surely you don't have to go to such lengths for me only, Dottore. You know, I could speak with the Jester myself.”
Dottore stabs the knife with which he had been cutting the bandages, into the desk.
“NO, he won’t even speak to you. He is very uneasy to find”, he lets out a long held sigh. “Besides, brat, I think I made it clear you need to rest at home.” He glares at you with his poisonous ruby eyes. “Primarily, in your bed.”
“If the doctor says so”, you shrug, too exhausted to argue and too grateful for his help to deny him of this small favour. “I do not mind staying in my bed for a little while.”
Once the treatment has come to an end, Dottore once again checks your hand; quickly, lightly, without a single unnecessary touch or glance. 
“Sorry for calling you a dork. I didn't mean it wholeheartedly”, he clears throat. “Though I still think your ass is highly careless.”
“I will work on it, hopefully my curiosity doesn't lead me to any other injuries”, you wave to him upon leaving the lab. “Can’t have my doctor worry too much.”
“Remember to look closer what you touch in my lab next time, silly creature.”
Dainsleif
“I think you’re forgetting how difficult it is to fight Abyss alone. I can’t believe you disobeyed me again and went seeking for abyssal hounds. This is infuriating, Y/N. I have never seen a woman act so stupidly and rashly before”, Dainsleif says roughly, through gritted teeth. His expression is grave and ominous.
“I feel strong desire to take your Vision away and lock you home until you learn to respect my rules.”
“Your ‘rules’?” You raise your eyebrow, looking at Dainsleif no less infuriated and frustrated than he is currently. “You think if you’re older than me, I have to act like your little puppet on strings who does everything that is ordered? Hell no, Dainsleif. We won’t have it this way.”
“FOOL!” He yells, his arm grabbing you tightly and pressing you against a wall. “You could have gotten yourself killed! You could have been hurt! You don’t know the thoughts running through my mind when I imagine you hurt; I want to burn the whole world for you.”
“Let me go, Dain. Please, this is uncalled for, you know that, right?” As you gently ask him Dainsleif slowly, but hesitantly releases your arm and takes a step back, closing his hands behind his back.
“I ask you once again to refrain from getting yourself harmed by the hand of Abyss.”
“Did you just call me a fool? I thought you were better than that.”
“For that ruthless language, I apologise. However I need your obedience when it comes to survival matters.”
Slowly, you walk over to look into Dainsleif’s eyes.
“I understand your tragedy wholeheartedly and I sincerely respect your wish to protect me, but you need to understand that my fighting skills are not low anymore, I can be efficient and agile.”
Dainsleif’s head hangs down, you see that he is contemplating something in the depth of his heart.
“I see”, his hand reaches out to you, even though he is not looking in your direction. Dainself intertwines his fingers with yours and speaks, much quieter and softer words:
“I’m sorry for calling you a fool. That was uncalled for”, his hand gives you a light but worried squeeze. “Just… be careful, Y/N.”
Alhaitham 
“You’re acting like a child. Your opinions are too dreamy, irrational and irrelevant”, Alhaitham speaks briefly as he opens his book and hides his sharp gaze somewhere in the middle of the paragraphs.
Having acknowledged his disregard to you with pain in your heart you throw your arms around and ask him with bright feeling which is contradicting his own manner of speaking.
“Speak about irrelevance! You are the embodiment of irrationality yourself, for guilting me into thinking that you actually care for me.”
Alhaitham stays still for a moment but a tense squeeze he gives the book in his fingers raises even more contradictory emotions between you. 
“I knew you are a difficult person to get intimately acquainted with, but your actions proved that you had at least a bit of attraction towards me. If not, then your choice of words and manner of speaking to personally me was too extreme. If not, and you are dreaded by the mere thought of me being intimately honest with you, spit it out. I don’t want you to play the romance where it no really belongs. I don’t want you to like me out of pity.”
“But I don’t”, Alhaitham finally closes the book and removes from his seat. “Your opinions and decisions make me question whether or not we are compatible enough.”
“That is because you are thinking too rationally.”
“And you are thinking too irrationally.”
“You were the one to touch my hand and hug me in a very personal way. And if I am not mistaken, you are the man who never touches anyone and is dreaded by a mere thought of being pulled out from your serenity.”
Alhaitham then shivers slightly, his body mannerisms betraying distress and frustration that is not by a long shot defined in his eyes. 
“I’m sorry for calling you these words. These are bad words, I should not be disrespecting you so”, he looks away, giving his lip a strong bite whereas finally giving you a relief: “I always thought and I still think that you are a perfect companion for me, but our opinions are very unlike.”
“So you think two people cannot get accustomed to living with each other if they have different choice of words or thinking! Alhaitham, this is laughable.”
“The only laughable thing right now is that I desperately want to hug you”, without further hesitation he pulls you into his arms, an embrace filled with warmth and dedication, while his fingers gently stroke your back. “I apologise, my love.”
Baizhu
“You are being too nosy and impatient, sweetheart. I asked you to not ask me specifics of my contracts and yet here you are - interrogating me like some sort of criminal. I am feeling pressured and most frustrated!” He throws his arms around. “Darling, if you could give me some space, I would finish what I started with no further delay.”
“Am I violating your space by simply caring for your well-being? Baizhu, your contract has gone way too far; your help to people robs you of your own happiness, can you not see it?”
“I will be most contented if you simply leave me to finish my work. I would be happy if you simply encouraged me, but I’d be even more grateful if you stopped asking me so many questions.”
You know perfectly well what it’s like to sacrifice yourself for other people’s sake however you could not any longer bear seeing your love life being disrupted by Baizhu constantly feeling sick and suffering. You want nothing more than him to feel safe, secure and well, but instead this curious pharmacist only risks more and more his life in exchange of knowledge and improvement.
Though, Baizhu did recognise your words as a simple statement of care, he only admitted it in a few days. While you were helping him sort his things out in the pharmacy, Baizhu dropped his formal act and gently touched your hand.
“Darling?”
You stopped sorting at once when you heard what he declared:
“I’m sorry, I was so rude to you speaking about my health.”
You turn to face him and notice the sincerest apology in his snake eyes.
“I just wish you’d understand that my worry for you is not intended to make you uncomfortable or distressed.”
“I do understand it now. I will try my best to not bring you suffering from seeing me suffer. I cannot reject what I had started, but I will seek ways to heal both me and you from this torture.”
The gentle confession ends with Baizhu rubbing his thumb against the top of your hand. 
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pucksandpower · 6 months ago
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Insomniac
Toto Wolff x wife!Reader
Summary: you’re tired of falling asleep in an empty bed due to your workaholic husband’s sleepless nights
Based on this request
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You rub your eyes and blink a few times, adjusting to the soft glow of the lamp on the end table as you lift your head from the couch cushion.
2:17 AM.
Again.
This makes the fifth night in a row that you’ve fallen asleep alone on the living room sofa, having given up on the hope of Toto joining you in your shared bed upstairs. The cashmere blanket wrapped around your legs does little to ward off the chill of the night, and you suppress a shiver as you sit up.
With a sigh, you slide out from under the afghan, the plush carpet soft under your bare feet as you quietly make your way out of the living room and down the hall. The sliver of light peeking out from underneath the closed door of the study confirms your suspicions — Toto is still awake, still working at this ungodly hour.
Ever since the news broke that Lewis would be leaving Mercedes for Ferrari at the end of the season, Toto has been unable to relax. He barely sleeps, poring over stats and projections deep into the night as he tries in vain to figure out how to move forward.
You know he feels responsible — for building the team into what it is, for leading it to seven constructors’ titles, for creating an environment where Lewis could thrive. Letting him go feels like a monumental failure in Toto’s eyes, even though rationally there was nothing else to be done. Lewis’ mind was made up.
But knowing how reasonable a decision it was does nothing to quiet the ceaseless chatter of Toto’s anxious thoughts. He second guesses himself constantly, running through hypotheticals and what-ifs over and over.
What if he had offered more money? More freedom? What if he had anticipated Lewis’ wandering eyes and somehow convinced him to stay? But you know better than anyone that his hands were tied — Mercedes’ board of directors simply would not cooperate with his suggestions.
You understand Toto’s anguish, but his sleepless agonizing is starting to take a toll. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, and the weight of his responsibilities hangs heavily from his slumped shoulders. His embraces are no longer as warm, his kisses no longer as tender. He retreats into his own head, consumed by doubts and regrets, and you feel him slipping away day by day.
Enough is enough, you decide. If Toto won’t take care of himself, then you will have to take matters into your own hands.
You tiptoe to the kitchen and quietly replace Toto’s usual late-night dark roast with decaf. It won’t stop him from working, but at least it won’t add fuel to the fire of his racing thoughts.
After preparing for bed yourself, you head down the hall, suppressing a shiver as your bare feet meet the cool wood floors. Pausing outside the study door, you turn the thermostat down just a couple degrees. It’s a subtle change, but you know Toto will notice, and it just might make him long for the warmth of your shared bed.
Taking a breath, you gently rap your knuckles against the door and let yourself in. Toto is exactly where you expected, hunched over his desk with his brows furrowed, staring fixedly at his laptop screen.
“Hey,” you say softly so as not to startle him. “It’s getting pretty late, I’m going to head to bed.”
“Mmhmm,” he murmurs absently, barely glancing up.
You stifle a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. “Are you coming?” You ask hopefully.
“In a bit,” Toto mumbles. “I just need to finish this analysis.”
You sigh, walking over to him and sliding your arms around his shoulders. “Toto, please,” you plead, nuzzling into his neck. “Come to bed. You need to rest.”
He reaches up to give your hand a quick, distracted pat. “Soon, liebling. I promise.”
Accepting that you won’t sway him now, you kiss his stubbly cheek and head for the door. “Don’t stay up too much longer,” you implore, then make your way back down the hall.
Once in your bedroom, you go through your regular bedtime routine, brushing your teeth and washing your face. But instead of climbing into your big empty bed, you find yourself wandering further down the hall to the nursery.
Pushing open the door, you pause to gaze at your sleeping infant daughter in her crib, her little chest rising and falling with soft even breaths. The corner of the room holds a cozy cushioned rocking chair, and you sink down into it with a yawn, the lateness of the hour finally catching up to you. Your eyes drift closed as you let the gentle motion lull you towards sleep.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when you feel strong arms sliding under your knees and behind your back, lifting you from the chair. You let out a soft murmur, still more asleep than awake, as Toto carries you from the nursery. Resting your head against his chest, you breathe in his familiar scent as he brings you down the hall to your bedroom.
Gently, he lays you down on your bed, brushing a wisp of hair back from your face as he pulls the covers up around you. Through bleary eyes, you see him cross to the dresser and begin shedding his clothes, swapping his button-down and slacks for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Finally, he climbs in beside you with a weary sigh, and you immediately nestle against him, seeking his warmth.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead as his arms encircle you.
You lift your head to meet his tired blue eyes. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I know this has been hard for you.”
He shakes his head slightly. “That’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have to deal with my restlessness.”
You reach up to cup his cheek. “We’re in this together, remember?” You remind him gently. “For better or worse.”
The corners of his mouth twitch in a hint of a smile. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Hmm, I don’t know if it’s come up,” you tease.
He gives you a playful little squeeze. “Well I do. So much.” His voice grows more serious then. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m thankful for you every day.”
You grin and snuggle impossibly closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Wolff.”
His low chuckle rumbles pleasantly against your cheek. “I mean it though. You’re my rock. My safe place. With everything going on ...” He trails off with a heavy exhale.
Reaching for his hand, you lace your fingers through his and give a supportive squeeze. “I know. But it’s going to be okay. Mercedes will find their way again, with you leading the charge. You’re the heart and soul of this team, Toto. You brought them this far, and you’ll bring them even further.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” he admits softly. “I just hope I can live up to it.”
“You will,” you say without hesitation. “You’re the most driven, passionate person I know. Your commitment is unmatched. If anyone can navigate these changes, it’s you.”
Toto is quiet for a moment, his thumb gently caressing your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says finally. “Just … thank you. For believing in me. For supporting me. For loving me, even when I’m being a stubborn arschloch.”
You grin. “Well, you’re my stubborn arschloch. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”
He laughs then, the sound warm and rich, and you feel some of the tension leave his body.
“No more working until sunrise though, okay?” You implore, threading your fingers through his hair. “You need to take care of yourself too.”
He nods, eyes shining with affection. “Okay. I promise.”
Satisfied, you nestle against his chest once more, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His lips find the top of your head in a tender kiss.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So very much.”
You smile softly, already drifting towards sleep in the safety of his arms.
“I love you too,” you whisper. And with a contented sigh, you surrender to the pull of peaceful slumber, the two of you wrapped up in each other as you should be.
No more empty beds or sleepless nights. Just the comforting nearness of the man you love.
Your partner.
Your home.
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cryptidcasanova · 8 months ago
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Lover Boy
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Mob!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Summary: It's the Bridgerton carriage scene, but make it mob!Bucky.
Warnings: Angst, light Smut, Language, Possessive Bucky.
3.5k
The poll results are in, and I couldn't help but think this might be a good way to remedy both sides.
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You were mortified.
One hand fisted against quivering lips, and the other gripped at your clutch. As if anything else could go wrong tonight. Shaky steps guided you down the carpeted stairs.
There was another gala, another meeting of the power players in town. And it was another night wasted at the hands of James Barnes.
You hated how much you cared for him. You still cared for him even after all the stunts he pulled to pull you away from the Maximoff heir. Always had.
Ever since you were kids, you remembered having that love-sick look in your eyes. You grew up with inner-circle families and were friends with Rebecca, Sarah, and their brothers. And Bucky? Well, shit, he was always there with his dark hair and curious eyes. It was hard not to fall for him.
Even as you grew up, numbing yourself to the reality of the business and the choices that came with it, you couldn't ignore him forever. You knew that Bucky was raised to be powerful, honorable, and frightening. You knew the stories – of all the beautiful women who couldn't tie him down longer than a night or two. You knew how he flaunted some new girl at every event. It was hard not to overhear them whispering among the men.
'What about her?' and the laugh on his hips saying, 'She's just a family friend. Don't worry about her; I'd never be with her like that.'
You knew he would break your heart, and still. You loved him.
Again, mortified.
He was your first kiss on some lonely night when you couldn't help but ask him. But that had been ages ago. He was grown now, the head of the family and the king of his empire.
But there was something different about tonight, something predestined that started long before you stepped outside your door. It started out as Sam's idea weeks before, in the same bar where you ended up every weekend.
He wanted to try and get you to mingle among the local 'rabble-rousers' as if he pretended not to be one of them. Your laugh at his suggestion pulled Steve and Bucky's attention from across the bar.
"You want me to do what, exactly?" You teased. "Throw myself in the way of wealthy investors and scout out the competition? That's much more up Nat's alley; there's a reason why they call her the Black Widow, you know –"
"No, nothing like that," he shook his head, that charming grin on his lips. Once Sam got an idea, it took a lot of work to dissuade him. "Look, there's more to this life than watching shipments and making small talk with the hens in town." He paused, knowing all the time you spent logging backorders and saving face with the mercs' wives. "I want you to be happy. We all do."
You leaned against the bar, pressing your palms against the hardwood.
"So you think it's time for me to settle down?" You challenged with a smirk. "Get married to some silver-spoon jerk upstate?" Sam's smile turned close-lipped as he noticed the other's approach.
"We could help you find a good one." At least he sounded hopeful.
"In this town?" Steve overheard, tapping his beer on the hardtop. "You're gonna need all the help you can get."
Your sneaking suspicion grew as they hounded like vultures. You looked from Sam to Steve with weary eyes. The only one with less enthusiasm was Bucky. Bucky, who usually was primmed with pressed shirts, was tired. His hair fell into his face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie long discarded at one of the tables.
"You want to help me find a man?"
Bucky looked to his friends with a hooded expression, letting his hand reach out before him. With the click of his tongue, he softly smirked.
"We'll help you find a man. Have we got a deal, doll?"
It was a business handshake, one full of promise. And as soon as you grasped Bucky's hand, one you'd come to regret.
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You didn't expect their advice to work so well…or so quickly.  
At the gala, Bucky strolled over with that sly walk and pressed navy suit, conveniently carrying your favorite drink in hand after Pietro ordered you both dirty martinis. You never cared for the drink, but you weren't about to tell him that. But trouble started when Bucky slid between you with that close-lipped smirk.
"They must have made a mistake at the bar," He explained with a shrug. "I remember you liked these. Here, doll." Bucky said, swapping out the drink in your hand before sliding away. No one could fault you for your eyes lingering on him as he walked back to Sam and Steve.
Later in the night, when you were dancing along and finally falling into a rhythm with Pietro, Bucky interrupted again. It was the turn of the tides, the slow pace of the music building, until it felt like one of the underground clubs.
All the weeks spent flirting and learning more about the Maximoff family were crumbling before you. You were a fool to think it would last.
The music built to the familiar strum of old songs you used to listen to, and before you knew it, Sam, Natasha, and half the crew surrounded you on the dancefloor, pulling you away from your date. And it was all orchestrated by Bucky, leading them like a pack of wolves. You knew that look, the suave pull of his hand through slicked-back hair. And then, before you knew it, you were dragged away from the dancefloor.
"Hey," Pietro called over the music, pulling you to the side. "I like you. I do, but this isn't working."
"Wait –" You tried, reaching for his arm. But he was quick to deflect, and embarrassment warmed your cheeks.
"Whatever you're looking for," his eyes moved from Bucky and dropped when you noticed. He looked down with a sad smile. "Whoever you're looking for, I hope you find it."
It felt like a knife twisting in your chest.
"Please don't go."
But it was too late. Your plea was lost as he pushed himself away. Everyone saw it. All your friends' efforts and your attempts to find the one were wasted. Your feet carried you away too fast to notice the somber look Steve gave Bucky.
"You're running out of time, punk."
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The city lights passed in a blur as a taxi drove you farther from the gala. The searing ache in your chest left you confused.
For years, you dreamed of Bucky Barnes, hope a dangerous feeling companion of yours. But you knew how he felt. You were nothing more than a friend; he had made that abundantly clear. But you couldn't cut the tether, even while someone else caught your interest. Pietro Maximoff was handsome and kind and loved his sister more than the world. But with Bucky's interruptions, it was no wonder why he didn't want to get involved.
But it still hurt.
A sob was swallowed back, but you couldn't stop the tears from rising. You were pitiful. It was the last time you'd ever ask the guys for help.
But the thought was gone with the sudden screeching of brakes. It made you hold on to the headrest in front of you. Trying to peer around at the commotion, you didn't expect to be cut off by two black SUVs. A moment later, a ringed hand banged on the taxi's hood.
"Get out of the car."
You knew that voice. And as you looked through the windshield, you could see Bucky Barnes peering back.
He was as poised as he was at the party, and the sharp look had you bracing the seat. The bitter spark of rejection caught the light, burning into brutal frustration. You didn't want to talk to him. You didn't want to see him. Not now.
"No."
He tilted his head to the side at the challenge.
"Get out of the fucking car." Bucky gritted. "I need to talk to you."
His voice was teetering dangerously into territory you had only heard about. It was his back rooms, no nonsense voice that snapped you back into the moment. Like hell it would work on you. So it was to be a standoff, one that that you weren't ready to back down from.
Once Bucky realized your position, he took a new approach. You could hear his intentional steps against the pavement as he reached the driver. He didn't say anything but dug into his pants pocket, his fingers flicking through his wallet smoothly.
"Unlock the car," Bucky ordered, pressing cash bills against the window.
The immediate click of the locks didn't help your bellyache, nor did the split second of peace you had before Bucky forced the door open and pulled you out of the cab.
"Are you crazy?" You barked, forcing him to release you as the cab sped off in the other direction.
But you were left in the middle of the road in Barnes territory, the sweep of their dark SUVs cutting off any chance to get out of this conversation.
"What's gotten into you?"
"I didn't want you to leave the party." He explained, his words softer now. "Not like that."
You couldn't believe him. You followed their advice to try and bag a good guy, but to what end?
"What?" You dared to challenge. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not in the mood, James."
The curl of his name lingered, making your intentions clear. You never called him by his first name. And Bucky didn't like it one bit.
"Let me take you home."
As if you had a choice.
You choked on a frustrated snarl, wanting to hide and cry away your worries and wanting to claw at him like a villain. You hated it. You hated the pressure of his eyes, blue and dark against the night, to get in the car.
So you lifted your head high, took a steeling breath, and walked ahead of him. You were separated from the rest of the world in the backseat of his company car. The divider was a saving grace. You didn't want one of the drivers to see you like this.
But Bucky followed behind so quickly, getting in and closing the door before you could protest for space. You chose to stare out the window instead of looking back at him. The car lurched forward, and you took a moment to find balance.
"You're unhappy."
"No shit."
"Please," He started, turning his shoulders in toward you. Even out of the corner of your eye, you knew he wouldn't let this go. "Please talk to me. Don't close me out. I hated seeing you leave like that. Whatever Maximoff did, I'll fix it."
"You can't fix it!" You finally said, turning to him and gripping his shoulder in frustration. "You say you want me to be happy, to find someone, and then manage to scare off anyone that has the potential to do it." As your voice raised, heat radiated from your cheeks down your neck. His eyes were wide, listening to your grief. "He left because of you. It's not like you have feelings for me. What's the matter with you?"
You couldn't stand to look at him, not when he was so close. His cologne burned your nose, and you desperately needed him to get out of your system.
"Doll," Bucky breathed. He inched his way closer, not letting the anger of your words settle over him. "What if I did have feelings for you?" You would almost call his stare desperate. And then you confirmed it as his shoulders dropped, turning toward you. "It's all that I've wanted to tell you. And I can't see you with him." He admitted.
He moved with purpose all night, not intending to ruin your time with Pietro but to show you that he was the one who needed you. He should have been the one to hold you between dances and order you fine drinks. He should have picked you up so that you would never dare to get in a yellow cab.
But you weren't some wilting flower. You knew the risks of your following words.
"We're friends, Buck."
You held yourself together. You were strong and brave and gripping your heartstrings.
"Yes," He agreed. "But we…"
And for once, he was at a loss of words. The years wasted pining after him would finally be out in the open. You could finally be free of his torment. His eye contact was overwhelming; if he looked away, you would disappear.
"Look, We've been friends for a long time." And with an ounce more of bravery, you sighed. "But I'd like to be more than friends." You admitted. "I want to be so much more than that."
You were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Bucky leaned closer in earnest, over the seat and bringing his face close. There was no teasing, no torment in his expression.
And with the tip of his chin, you were lost, pulled tight into a kiss and letting it blossom as cold metal snaked around your waist. You dreamed of his touch, and it burned down your throat like honey whiskey.
When you opened your eyes, Bucky had moved. He was no longer in the seat, now chest to chest with you. He was kneeling in the cramped space, the divider shielding you from the driver and the outside world.
"Do you know why Sam offered to help in the first place?" His words were slow as he pulled away, loud enough to hear. "Do you know why Steve jumped on board and corralled us to join? It's because he is tired of me dragging my fucking feet."  
"Bucky-"
But he closed the space for another set of slow kisses, deep and intentional.
"I've been an idiot." He admitted. "The guys know how I feel about you. I think they've always known." Another kiss as you pulled back, gripping the shoulders of his jacket. Expensive fabric under your fingertips, hot breath against yours. You were dizzy.
"And you agreed to help with this idea." You noted.
It wasn't a question, no challenge in your words. He agreed to help find you a man. Bucky took a hefty exhale.
"You know the business. It's not safe –" but you raised your hand with a groan, not buying his excuse.
Your fingers brushed over the curve of his chin, the sharp line of his beard a welcome sensation. God, you only ever dreamed of this. You savored the feel of him, your hand moving up his ear and combing your fingers through his air. Buck's eyes were darker than you've ever seen, his open mouth curving up in awe.
"'s not safe." He whispered. "I'm not gonna put you through that."
It was a weak defense. You knew the coterie of mercs, the warehouses, the shipments. You knew all of it and were aware of the danger. But it wasn't like you could cut ties and leave your life behind. You weren't sure you even wanted to.
"You wanted me to find someone else?" You dared to ask. The whisper died as he shook his head.
"All this deal did was make me jealous." He affirmed. "And tonight," His eyes raked down your frame. He never did finish his thought as lust washed over him. A breath passed between you two. "I never meant for you to hurt over it."
The limited space lets you mimic his actions, noting his heaving chest, blue eyes, and the pout of his kissed lips. How he kneeled down in front of you, crowding your space, made you dizzy. While your mouth curved up into a wanton grin, you couldn't help but chase another kiss.
Each touch melted the last of your anguish. The night was long forgotten as soon as he pressed forward, flattening you against the back of the seat. While you pulled up for air, his other hand moved to cup your chin. And then, with your eyes locked on his, he tilted your chin, eyes staring into the roof of the sedan as you felt lips against your jaw.
Hot, languid kisses burned against your pulse. The scrape of his teeth and burn of his beard drove you wild. And as he pulled back, his hand released your chin, following a mesmerized pattern down your skin.
The palm of his hand cupped your neck, down your shoulder, pulling down the thin strap of your dress. Your soft skin was on display, and Bucky's expression was wonderous. But his hand continued mapping, cupping the curve of your breast. A tactful squeeze left your head falling against the seat, a soft gasp on your lips, and your hand blindly reaching up to cover his. With a sharp breath, you found his eyes again. His pink lips were parted, eyes pleading with you.
You knew Bucky was a man of action, but this was uncharted territory. Your nod and an affectionate squeeze of his hand pulled him from his reverie.
He needed more, craving your skin. And as his hand fell from your chest to a solid grip on your ankle, you craved his exploration.
Shallow breaths were traded for deep, hungry kisses. Years of longing, of yearning for his touch and affection, finally were coming to a head. The brush of his tongue left your mind reeling, and regardless of the heat, a trail of goosebumps followed the path of his hand. Under your dress, he lingered over the smooth skin of your calf, over your knee, up your thigh, and to the meat of your hip. Rough, dexterous fingers carved prints into your skin hot enough to burn.
You refuse to miss a moment, eyes fixed on Bucky's as his palm covers the top of your thigh, the intention sitting heavy in your stomach. A live wire of nerves, you can feel him from the heat of your cheeks buzzing down to your toes.
And then, palming where you needed him most, your mouth dropped open with the softest of moans.
Bucky's eyes are wide, but it doesn't last as he finally lets himself get lost. As his eyes close, you admire the curve of his nose and his soft, dark eyelashes. But Buck is greedy, and as he peels his way under the cloth of your panties, you, too, close your eyes. Fingers are nimble, caressing your dripping seam under the dress.
You're a vision.
Convulsing under his touch, rogue pulls off his fingers drip honey down your thighs. Your breath is heaving, and your chest is dangerously close to falling out of the dress. Bucky finds refuge by rubbing slow, devastating circles against your clit. Every hitch of your breath and moan spur him on until you are staring at him with such reverence he thinks he'll collapse.
There's a magnetism, the long-lasting chemistry drawing you nearer to him. He swallows your moan as he slides a finger inside. You're in a desperate frenzy, pulling him close and arching into his body. He spurs on a need you've never had, demanding his smoldering kiss as you shake in his arms.
He's all you've ever wanted. You're crazy to think it could have ever been anyone else.
And then the car jerked to a stop.
There's a breathless laugh as he pulls away, Bucky's forehead resting on yours. You kept a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing his chin. Maybe, if you just ignored it, the outside world would go away.
That is, until you see a porch light turn on from your periphery. You try not to let embarrassment flood your system as you realize your situation, with one of your closest friends knuckle deep in the back seat.
Bucky doesn't share your distress.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek, finally pulling his head back. Bucky smiled. His fingers lingered longer before pulling away, leaving you empty and wanting.
You must have looked as desperate as him, finally looking down at the brutal strain in his pants. But you had no time to overthink as his fingers carefully plucked at your dress strap. He was putting you back together, smoothing out the burn of his touch as he sat up.
If you begged, you were sure that he'd ravage you right there in the seat. But you tilted your head to look outside. You needed a distraction, anything to regain your good sense.
As you focused on the brownstone, you knew where he took you. You were in front of his house – the Barnes family house. He said he was taking you home.
"This isn't my place."
His smirk reached his eyes, and as he pulled open the door and jumped out, his gaze was fixed on you.
"For fucks sake, doll," Bucky's eyes were soft, still blown out. He held a hand out. "We've known each other our whole lives. I'm crazy about you. Are you gonna come up with me or not?"
And with an ardent stare, as if he hung the stars himself, you reached for his hand.
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asummersday · 2 years ago
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changed up my entire color palette at 2:09am for no reason other than the fact that i changed my profile picture and it didn't Match™ the old aesthetic
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theonottsbxtch · 3 months ago
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THE OTHER GUY PT.4 | FC43
part one | part two | part three |
an: only a couple more to go out! lmk if there is anything in particular you'd like to see and if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)
ynpiastri
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city boy summer, can't keep the hoes away
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logansargeant: you are not a city boy
ynpiastri: or am i?
oscarpiastri: i, for the record am happily taken and will not engage in this tomfoolery
ynpiastri: @/lilyznimer i will pay you double what he's paying you to date him if you break up with him
userone: girl we all know franco is there too.
When you’d woken up this morning, the last thing you’d expected was a pounding at your door. It couldn’t have been housekeeping because you had it scheduled for 3 p.m., and it couldn’t have been a crazy fan because you made sure never to post near your door, ever. So when you opened it and were attacked by a flurry of blonde hair, your heart dropped. As per usual, whenever you saw the blonde mess, you knew your sheepish brother wasn’t far behind.
It was a welcome surprise, though. While you were enjoying the peace of the resort, it had been a while since you’d seen Logan or Oscar.
After catching up over breakfast and hearing their latest stories from home, you all had agreed to spend the day at the beach. The morning had been light and easy, filled with laughter and jokes, mocking how Oscar couldn’t tan and how Logan always managed to find an American flag, no matter what country he was in.
“You’ve been quieter than usual,” Logan said, nudging you with his elbow. He grinned, a knowing look in his eyes as he adjusted his sunglasses. “What’s on your mind?”
You shake your head, trying to brush it off. “Nothing, just thinking.”
Oscar, who was stretched out beside you with his arms behind his head, let out a chuckle. “Thinking about what?” Tilting his head to the side, he gave you a teasing glance. “You’ve been acting weird since you got here last week.”
There was no escaping it now. Of course it was going to be noticeable that you’d been quieter, but that was because the thoughts swirling around in your head weren't exactly ones you were ready to share. Still, you couldn’t ignore the topic forever.
“I don’t know,” you started, the words slow and careful. “I guess… I’ve stopped looking at him with so much hatred.” The words were out before you could even clarify who he was.
It felt strange admitting it out loud. You’d spent so long disliking him—publicly, even. But now? After spending more time here, after getting to know him in ways you hadn’t expected… things had changed.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Wait. Are we talking about who I think we’re talking about?” He leaned in, clearly intrigued.
Glancing out at the ocean, you avoided eye contact with either man. “Yeah.”
Logan stayed quiet for a moment, and you almost regretted your words. Staying quiet for a beat longer, he sighed. “You know, he never did anything wrong.”
Turning around to face him, surprised, you lifted your sunglasses to look at him properly.
“He fought his way into the sport the same way I did,” Logan continued, his tone firm but not harsh. “You can’t hate him for something he can’t control.”
You felt your chest tighten. He was right. Deep down, you’d always known that. Franco didn’t choose to replace Logan—it wasn’t personal. He was just doing what any of them would do. Fighting for a place in a sport where nothing is guaranteed.
“I know,” you admitted softly. “It’s just… hard. I wanted to blame someone.”
Oscar sighed, giving you a sympathetic look. “We get it. But honestly, you’ve got to let it go. Holding on to that anger—it’s not going to do you any good.”
For a second, you wanted to laugh because you couldn’t recall the last time in your life Oscar and Logan had agreed on something.
Just as you were about to say something else, you noticed movement in the distance. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him— Franco —walking along the shore. His head turned in your direction, and when his eyes met yours, he lifted his hand in a casual wave.
At first you thought he may be waving to Oscar, but when a shy smile graced his lips your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t not doing it for show, not trying to get under your skin. It was just a wave. Simple, friendly.
Before you could think too much about it, you waved back. And then, almost without realising it, a small smile tugs at your lips.
Both Oscar and Logan caught the interaction and raised an eyebrow, though Oscar didn’t say a word. Logan nudged you again, his voice teasing. “Well, look at that.”
You rolled your eyes at him but can’t help feeling a little lighter. Maybe you really were wrong about him. Maybe there’s more to him than the guy who replaced Logan.
You were still thinking about that smile when Logan gave you a sly nudge. “So… are you going to talk to him?”
Your head whipped around to his eyes wide. “What? No! Absolutely not.”
Oscar laughed, clearly enjoying your sudden panic. “Why not? You’ve already smiled at him, waved and everything. Just go over there and talk to the guy. It’s not like he’s some stranger.”
You shook your head, feeling your face heat up. “It’s not that easy! I can’t just walk up to him like it’s nothing.”
“Oh, come on,” Logan said,  rolling his eyes playfully. “You’ve been trash-talking him for months, and now you’re scared to ask him out for a drink? Seriously?”
Opening your mouth to protest, your face flushed as no words came out. You were flustered, and they both knew it.
Oscar sat up, shrugging nonchalantly. “What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? So what. But I don’t think he will.”
You glanced back towards where Franco was standing, now leaning against the railing, gazing out at the ocean. He looked relaxed, completely unaware of the internal chaos you were going through just a few feet away.
Your heart was pounding, and you felt a nervous knot in your stomach. “I can’t just… I mean, what would I even say?”
Logan gave you an encouraging smile. “Just be yourself. Ask him if he wants to grab a drink tonight. You’ve already softened up to him, right? This is your chance.”
You hesitated, glancing between Oscar and Logan, who both gave you looks that said go on, you’ve got this.
Finally, you exhale, standing up and wiping the sand off your legs. “Fine. I’ll do it. But if this goes horribly wrong, it’s your fault.”
Oscar grinned at you. “We’ll take full responsibility. Now go.”
With your heart still racing, you took a deep breath and started walking across the sand toward him. Each step feeling heavier than the last, your mind racing with all the things you could say—or worse, all the ways this could go wrong. But you were already halfway there, and there was no turning back now.
When you were just a few feet away, he noticed you approaching and turned around, his expression shifting from casual surprise to something more… interested. You could see it in his eyes, the way they lit up as you stopped in front of him.
“Hey,” you managed to say, hoping you didn’t sound as nervous as you felt.
“Hola,” he replied, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I wasn’t expecting you to come over.”
You bit your lip, suddenly feeling shy. Why did this feel so much harder than anything else you’d ever done? “Yeah, well… Oscar and Logan kind of persuaded me. They said I should talk to you.”
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What about?”
Your mind went blank for a second, “I was, uh… wondering if you’d want to grab a drink with me tonight.”
The words came out in a rush, and you immediately felt your cheeks flush, but you managed to hold his gaze. You couldn’t believe you just said that. Your heart was thumping so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
Franco didn’t answer right away, but the smile on his face grew wider. “You’re asking me out?”
You nodded, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah. If you’re free, I mean. It’s fine if you’re not, I understand.”
His eyes softened, and for a moment, the cocky driver you’d seen in interviews was gone. In its place was  just a guy—surprised, maybe even flattered.
“I’d love to,” he said, his voice steady. “How about I pick you up around 8?”
Blinking, you took a minute to comprehend what he’d just said, relief and excitement flooding you all at once. “Really? Yeah, that works.”
“Great.” His smile was warm, and suddenly, the tension you were feeling melted away. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
You nodded, still trying to process that you’d actually gone through with it—and that he had said yes.
“See you tonight,” you echo, then turn to walk back to Oscar and Logan before remembering he didn’t have your room number. “Uh, room 438.”
Franco nodded in your direction, “Room 438.”
ynpiastri
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fit check, kind of nervous guys (📸 @logansargeant)
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userone: FRANCO IN THE LIKES 🤭
usertwo: oh my god i want her
oscarpiastri: scared for what? i thought you were city boy summering rn
ynpiastri: @/lilyznimer PLEASE BREAK UP WITH THIS NERD
userthree: just seen franco in the hall of the same resort, looks quite dapper if you ask me
logansargeant: this isn't very city boy summer of you
ynpiastri: eat dirt 😍😍
userfour: franyn?
the end.
taglist: @iimplicitt @isaadore @iamred-iamyellow @justheretoreadthxxs @obxstiles @how-what-why-huh @raizelchrysanderoctavius @sainzzreputaticn @xxx-betty @dukeofjjune @dejavuontrack @littlegrapejuice @mxdi0
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unluckilyimnot · 8 months ago
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reader hugging them for the first time
Characters : mikey, chifuyu, kazutora, koko, rindou, sanzu, wakasa
asked by : @ejtheoneandonly
m.list | rules
note: i hope it's what you expected ! it's been a while since i write for them, it makes me nostalgic
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Mikey isn’t really surprised when your arms wrapped around him for the first time. His eyes widened a little at the comforting feeling but soon, a huge smile flashed on his face before he turned to look at you slightly.
Something is warming up in his heart and he can’t put his finger on it. All he knows is that he wants to feel it again.
Chifuyu felt like he was in a manga. You grabbed his waist, pushed your cheek on his and snapped a picture with your phone. All of this happened so fast he didn’t get to process the moment but as your hand lasted a little around his back, his cheeks were already burning.
But he has to play it cool, leaning in as you showed him the picture. “We’re cute ! Send it to me later !”
future!roommate!Kazutora’s tears were falling down his face for a while now and when he heard the front door he kinda regretted staying there. You passed the door silently at first before hearing him sniff on the sofa. Taking a few steps after leaving your shoes at the entrance, you gasped slightly when you saw him.
He was pushing his tears away, trying to cover it up, he didn’t have any right to impose that on you. Yet, you didn’t think about it twice and your arms wrapped around his shaking shoulders, pulling him into your chest. “It's okay, it happens.”
Koko felt your body fall on his back while he was still studying at the library. Your arms kindly wrapping themselves around his neck as you took a look above his shoulders. “Are you done soon, Hajime ?”
He can feel his heart beating faster at the surprise, yet loving the way you warmed him up in a few seconds. He thought about it a bit longer than necessary and now, it took him too long to answer without sounding weird. But it’s fine. He could easily get used to you hugging him.
“Rindou I’m scared I can't jump from there ?!” you screamed from the low wall the Haitani brothers just passed by as if it was nothing. Rindou sighed a little before pulling his arms in the air, ready to catch you.
“Come on.” He could feel his ears burn when you smiled at him. He was shocked to see you jump with so much confidence when you were whining a second ago. You fell into his arms, holding onto him longer than you should’ve and he couldn’t help but not let go. He didn’t want to, this felt too good.
Future!Sanzu was shocked, like he never felt something so reassuring in his entière life the first time your hands pulled his head into your shoulder.
“It's alright.” Your fingers lightly brushing through his hair made him close his eyes, enjoying the moment the fullest. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe this wasn't even real. But the warmth engulfing him felt so real that he wanted to keep it for himself only.
Wakasa knew you weren’t the one open with physical touch, but he never intended to ask anything about it or even mention it. He just acknowledged it a long time ago. So when you came to his place that night, crying, face bruised, he felt all his old anger coming back to him, wanting to know what happened. Who did that to you.
But before he could even open his mouth, your arms were wrapped around his waist and you started ugly crying in his chest, wetting his shirt. He froze for a second, processing the whole citation before hugging you closer, feeling proud that you thought of him in this vulnerable situation.
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Let me know if you liked it !
Reblog are appreciated ♡
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