#and some changes in the crafting barn too

[vunblr]

The Price of Silence (Blue-collar Bucky #1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected sex. Dirty talk.

Summary: Porn with a little plot, what can I say.

Word Count: 9k.

notes: None. Just filth.

The world had shifted after the Blip, mutated into something unrecognizable. Bucky had learned to survive in chaos, but survival wasn’t the same as living. His government-mandated therapy sessions had been a performance. A carefully crafted facade to prove he was “reformed,” that the Winter Soldier was no longer a threat. It worked. The government gave him the pardon he’d been promised and promptly forgot about him.

Finding a job had been the first hurdle. The Blip had flooded the workforce, and employers weren’t keen on hiring a man with his history, no matter how clean his record now appeared on paper. The rejection became a pattern, confirming what he already suspected, there was no place for him here.

But the construction site didn’t care who he was. They didn’t ask questions when he showed up looking for work. His enhanced strength made him an asset. Moving steel beams, hauling concrete, cutting down hours of labor with what he could do in minutes. He worked silently, head down, invisible among the noise of drills and heavy machinery. On Fridays, he got his paycheck and a little extra for the tasks only he could do.

The city still treated him like a ghost. People stared, whispered, or crossed the street when they recognized him. He didn’t hide his arm anymore; he let the matte black vibranium gleam under the sun. Let them look, let them flinch. It didn’t matter anymore.

The tattoos had started as a cruel inner joke. The red star below his clavicle had been his first, an ironic reminder of the weight he carried. It hurt like hell, his serum-enhanced skin required tebori, the old Japanese hand-poking technique, to get the ink to stick. The pain didn’t bother him. If anything, it made him feel alive, comforting him in ways the therapy never had. Over time, more tattoos joined the collection, sprawling over his arms, chest, and back. A physical map of what he’d endured, what he wanted to forget, and what he knew he never could.

The nose piercing came on a whim. A flicker of rebellion against expectations, though no one had any for him anymore.

The monotony of construction work became his new routine. It was predictable. Safe, in a way. Until one Monday, the foreman sent him to pick up the crew’s lunch order, a task usually assigned to Stephen, who was out sick. A small errand, a minor inconvenience.

He didn’t expect it to change anything. But then again, nothing ever went as planned.

----

The bell above the door jingled softly as Bucky stepped inside. The smell hit him first: fresh bread, sugar, and butter mingling in the warm air. It was... comforting. He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimmer light of the bakery after the bright glare of the sun outside.

The place was small but welcoming, with neatly arranged baskets of bread on shelves and a glass display case showcasing pastries that looked too delicate for his rough hands. He pulled off the working gloves he’d forgotten he was still wearing, shoving them into the back pocket of his worn jeans. His vibranium fingers glinted faintly in the soft light, but he didn’t care who noticed.

Behind the counter, she looked up from where she was restocking some pastries, offering a bright smile the moment she saw him. “Hi there! What can I get for you?”

He froze for half a second. People didn’t usually smile at him like that. Don’t usually smile at him at all. Period. He cleared his throat and glanced around, suddenly unsure of how to navigate this. “I’m here for the construction crew’s order.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “Right, the sandwiches,” she said, moving behind the counter to grab the large paper bag already packed and ready. “Stephen’s usual pick-up, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“No,” he muttered, keeping his gaze on the countertop. “He’s out sick. They sent me instead.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” she said, sliding the bag onto the counter. “You’re working on that new apartment building, right?” Her tone was bright and conversational. “Big project”

He nodded, unsure of how to respond. People avoided small talk with him, and he was usually glad. His appearance purposely did much of the trick but she was treating him like a normal customer, with no hesitation, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Do you want anything for yourself?” she asked suddenly, leaning her hands on the counter. “Coffee, maybe a juice? It’s on the house for you guys, you are spiking out incomes.” She winked.

He blinked, caught off guard. “No. I’m fine.”

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it softened, like she could sense his discomfort but didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “You sure? You look like you’ve been out in the sun all day. Hydration’s important, you know.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, though he didn’t let it form. “I’m fine,” he repeated, less harsh this time.

“Alright,” she said, stepping back with a small shrug. “If you change your mind, let me know. No rush.”

That threw him even more. No rush. No expectation for him to hurry up and leave. He picked up the bag, mumbling a gruff, “Thanks,” before turning to go.

But something made him glance back before stepping outside.

Fuck it. He wanted juice, and she offered. Also, she was nice to look at. “Actually, yeah. I could drink some juice before heading back if the offer’s still on,” he half-smiled.

Her head tilted slightly, and a playful look flashed in her eyes. “Of course! What kind of juice do you like? Orange, apple, maybe something else?”

He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck with his metal hand. The hoop in his nose glinted under the bakery’s light as he shifted slightly. “Uh… orange?”

She set the bottle in front of him. “There you go.

He nodded, twisting the cap off and taking a sip. The cold, tangy juice was a welcomed sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside, and he found himself relaxing just a fraction.

“You guys must be working like crazy out there in this heat,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning casually on the counter. “I mean, you’re probably used to it, but still, it can’t be fun.”

“It’s work,” Bucky replied simply, glancing at her. He expected her to press and ask more questions, but instead, she nodded like she understood.

“Well, here’s hoping Stephen feels better soon,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “But if they send you back, I wouldn’t mind. You’re a lot less grumpy than him.”

That caught him off guard, and his lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a grin. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

Her eyes widened in mock horror, and she let out a warm, easy laugh. “Oh, no, don’t you dare! I can’t handle more of his attitude. He’s bad enough already.”

Bucky tilted his head, leaning one elbow on the counter, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his face. “Maybe you could persuade me to stay silent,” he said, dropping his voice slightly.

She froze for half a second, her brows shooting up as the teasing in her expression turned to something a bit more curious. Then she leaned forward, resting her hands on the counter, playfully. “Oh, really? And what exactly would that take?”

Shit. His brain stalled. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the way she was waiting for him to respond. His mouth opened, then closed again, his thoughts scrambling for something -anything- that wouldn’t sound like the mess of half-baked flirting swirling in his head. Finally, he muttered, “Uh… garlic bread. That might do the trick.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, and for a second, she just stared at him like she was trying to decide if he was serious. Then, she burst into laughter again, her head tilting back slightly as the sound filled the space between them. “Garlic bread, huh? That’s the bribe of choice?”

He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck as the tips of his ears burned, pretending to fuss with the juice bottle. Yeah, maybe he really did need to work on his social skills.

The thing was, he usually didn’t have problems getting laid. A bold woman with a venturous streak might approach him at a bar or whatever dimly lit hole-in-the-wall he happened to be in, probably looking for an anecdote to share later: I hooked up with the Winter Soldier. And he didn’t care. He wasn’t a monk. If a touch on the arm, a whispered suggestion, or a couple of drinks got him laid, he went with it. The bar’s bathroom, a dark alley, it didn’t matter. It was impersonal, and mechanical.

Was he a manwhore? Probably. But after everything they did to him, every time his body had been used for someone else’s agenda, he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. Sex, when it happened, was more transaction than connection. An itch scratched, and nothing more.

This was different. This wasn’t the haze of dim lights and alcohol. It wasn’t the brazen touch of someone who wanted something from him in a questionable pub. It was broad daylight, with no pretense, and she wasn’t throwing herself at him or giving him a shortcut to the finish line. She was throwing the ball back in his court, expecting him to make an effort, to do the work.

And his brain? It shut down. Completely.

He stared at her, watching the way her laughter softened into a teasing smile, and her hands rested lightly on the counter as if she didn’t realize she’d just short-circuited every social skill he thought he had left. She wasn’t avoiding his gaze or putting on a mask of bravery. If anything, she was waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to do something.

Instead, he just stood there like an idiot, gripping the juice bottle like a lifeline. Luckily -or not- the bell above the door jingled, cutting through the charged silence as another customer entered.

Her eyes flicked to the door, and her expression shifted quickly. “Duty calls,” she said lightly, tilting her head toward the counter as if to excuse herself. And just like that, she was gone, leaving him standing there like a misplaced piece of furniture near the small counter where the juice bottles were displayed.

The man who walked in looked like he belonged somewhere with air conditioning and private elevators. His tailored suit practically screamed money, and the glossy sheen of his expensive shoes didn’t have so much as a speck of dust on them. He pivoted past Bucky without sparing him a second glance, as if he didn’t even register the scruffy guy in worn jeans and a tank top standing there.

“Muffin,” the man greeted her with a tone that was just a hair too familiar.

Bucky noticed the subtle shift in her body language instantly. The confidence she’d carried moments ago was gone, replaced by stiffness in her shoulders and a forced smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Matt,” she replied, politely but devoid of warmth. “The usual?”

‘Matt’ smiled -a smarmy, self-satisfied smirk that made Bucky’s fingers tighten on the juice. “I’d add your delicious buns, but usually…”

Wait. Was this asshole actually implying-?

Her response was immediate, cutting him off before he could finish. “Yeah, as per usual, they’re not for sale,” she said, deflecting with a practiced ease. “Anything else, Matt?”

“I’ve been thinking, Muffin,” he drawled, leaning casually on the counter like he owned the place. “Maybe one of these days, you and I could share a coffee. I’m sure there’s more to you than just your delicious baking skills.” He smirked, trailing his eyes just a little too long to be anything but suggestive.

Something in Bucky snapped. Maybe it was the fact that she was uncomfortable, or perhaps because he was -horrendously- flirting with her first, maybe it was his stupid confidence, the heat, or just his crappy week. So he stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “Hey,” he said in a low tone, looking directly at the man in a suit. “You holding up the line or something?”

Matt blinked, caught off guard by the interruption. His eyes flicked to Bucky, narrowing slightly as he took in the scruffy man standing there, all broad shoulders and quiet menace. “Excuse me?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, and his gaze became cold and unwavering. “Just saying, some of us have places to be. Thought maybe you’d want to keep it moving.”

Matt scoffed, straightening his tie like it would help him regain some sense of control. “Maybe you should mind your own business, pal,”

Bucky didn’t even blink. His tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver, but the edge on it sharpened. “See, that’s the thing. You embarrassing yourself in front of the clerk here is my business since I’ve got an order to pick up, and you’re wasting my time.”

The room felt smaller somehow, the tension thickened the air as Matt stared at him, clearly debating whether or not to push his luck.

Bucky just stood there, unflinching, with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was daring him to try.

“Fine,” Matt muttered, grabbing his order from the counter with a sharp motion. He threw a glance at her, his tone clipped. “I’ll see you around, Muffin.”

“Sure thing, Matt.”

The bell jingled sharply as he stormed out, leaving the tension lingering in the air like a bad aftertaste.

Bucky turned his gaze to her, and his expression softened slightly. “Sorry if I overstepped,” he said gruffly, holding her gaze for a moment longer than he intended.

She exhaled, easing the tightness in her shoulders as she offered him a small smile. “Don’t apologize. He’s been like that for years; he is the owner’s cousin.” Then, with a hint of humor, she added, “Thank you. That was... satisfying to watch.”

“Glad to be of service,” he said, dryly but with the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Now I can brag I’ve been saved by the Winter Soldier,” she teased, playfully.

He froze, and the smirk vanished instantly as his eyes darted to hers, startled. “What?”.

She shrugged, utterly unbothered by his reaction. “It’s hard not to notice. You’re not exactly hiding it.” She said, looking towards his vibranium arm. Then she nodded toward his shoulder, where the red star tattoo was starkly visible against his skin. “Nice touch, by the way.”

He blinked, caught off guard. Well, yes, he’d never intended to hide it. Hell, he wanted people to see it. But hearing her point it out so openly about that, caught him off guard. “Thanks,” he muttered, in almost a grumble, absently brushing his hand over his foreshoulder.

He shifted the bag of sandwiches in his grip, glancing toward the door. “I should probably get back,” he commented gruffly, as the air suddenly felt too tight for him.

“Of course,” she said, stepping back to give him room. “Wouldn’t want you getting stuck saving anyone else today.”

That earned her a faint twitch of his lips, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “See you around,” he muttered, already heading for the door.

-----

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. She served the usual customers, greeted the familiar faces, and kept herself busy with the daily rush. But in the quiet moments when she was restocking shelves or wiping down the counter, her thoughts drifted to him. He was barely recognizable under the layers of tattoos, the nose piercing, and the rough, scruffy demeanor. Nothing like the man she vaguely remembered seeing on TV years ago. Yet, the arm was unmistakable.

She found herself daydreaming about their brief encounter more than once, imagining the sharp blue of his eyes focused on her, like a storm always brewing just beneath the surface.

---

By Thursday, Bucky couldn’t resist the pull. He’d spent most of his life denying himself anything remotely indulgent, always practical, always keeping his head down. But this time, he decided he could allow himself a little something, a treat from the bakery.

Well, if he was being honest, it wasn’t really about the pastries. The thought of seeing her again crossed his mind more than he cared to admit. There was something about the way she spoke to him, the way she smiled like he was just another guy standing at her counter, not a former assassin with blood on his hands. It unnerved him, but it also intrigued him.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. She was at the counter, chatting with a customer who was just leaving. When she glanced up and saw him, her expression brightened.

He felt his chest tighten slightly at the sight. Damn it, what the hell was he even doing here?

“Hi! Already coming to collect your bribe?” she teased, her tone laced with playful mischief, a brow arched as she leaned her elbows on the counter.

For a moment, Bucky just stared, caught off guard. Right. The garlic bread. His pathetic excuse at flirting. He shifted his weight while his mind scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. Manning up, he found his voice.

“Yeah,” he said in a lower, rougher tone. “Came to collect what’s mine.” He let the words hung in the air, deliberately, with unmistakable implication.

Her eyes widened slightly, but not with hesitation. No, she didn’t back down. Instead, she quirked a brow, twitching her lips like she was fighting back a smirk. “Well,” she began, “I was just about to take my break. Perhaps…” She leaned forward just slightly, resting her forearms on the counter, “we can discuss the terms of your payment in the back? You know, the bread and... whatever you have in mind to assure your cooperation.”

For a moment, he froze, caught completely off guard. There was no way he was reading this wrong. Was there?

She tilted her head, waiting, the amusement flickered in her eyes as if daring him to make the next move.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of himself and his surroundings. The way his fingers gripped the edge of the counter, how his tanktop clung to his sweated skin, the hum of the refrigerator behind him, even the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the bakery air. “That so?” he managed, trying to sound unfazed, though he wasn’t sure he pulled it off entirely.

Her half smile widened, and she straightened, grabbing a small set of keys from behind the counter. “It is,” she replied simply. “Back door’s that way.” She gestured toward the far end of the shop, where a narrow hallway led to what he assumed was the staff area.

He hesitated, trying to gauge if this was really happening or if she was just messing with him. But there was no sign of mockery, no indication she was about to laugh at his expense. Instead, she turned and walked toward the back, throwing him a glance over her shoulder that felt like a challenge.

His legs moved before his brain could catch up, following her lead. Whatever was about to happen, he figured he’d see it through.

After the door closed behind him with a soft click, Bucky became painfully aware of the contrast between them. She stood there in her neat uniform, the pale beige fabric brushing just above her knees, paired with the frilly brown apron tied snugly around her waist. Her scent hit him, something warm and sweet, like vanilla and sugar, mingling faintly with a subtle hint of floral perfume.

And then there was him. Sweaty from the day’s work, his tank top clinging in spots, jeans dusty from the site, boots worn and scuffed. His hair was slightly damp from the heat, sticking to his neck in unruly strands, and the only thing remotely clean were his hands. He always made a point of washing them before leaving work, some ingrained habit of not wanting to spread the grime of his life any more than necessary.

He stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight as she set the keys on a small table by the wall, looking entirely at ease, like this wasn’t strange at all. Meanwhile, his heart was thudding against his ribs, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t fazed by the walking disaster in front of her.

“So,” she began, leaning against the edge of a small table, crossing her arms over her chest. Her tone was light and playful. “Shall we discuss the terms of your so-called payment?”

He cleared his throat. “You sure about this?” he muttered, gesturing vaguely to himself. She tilted her head, and a spark of amusement flashed across her face. “You mean to tell me you braved the heat, the dust, and possibly your dignity to come in here, and now you’re getting shy?”

His lips twitched despite himself, and the ghost of a smirk formed on his lips. “Not shy. Just... considerate.”

Her laugh was soft but genuine. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” she teased. “But if I had a problem with the way you look, I wouldn’t have let you back here, now would I?”

That threw him for a loop, and he found himself momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing to the side as if searching for something to say. “Guess not,” he finally muttered.

“Good,” she said, pushing off the table and stepping closer. “Because I don’t mind sweaty construction workers who like garlic bread.”

He blinked, caught somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “That right?”

She nodded. “That’s right. Now, tell me. What’s the real reason you came back here?”

Her boldness disarmed him, but in a way that made him want to keep going, to see where this would lead. “Figured I’d try my luck,” he admitted, meeting her gaze.

“Well,” she said, softening her tone “seems like your luck might not be so bad after all.”

The way she looked at him then, confident, like she saw right through him and wasn’t the least bit fazed left Bucky feeling more exposed than any of his tattoos or scars ever could. He wasn’t used to this, to someone holding his gaze without hesitation, without fear or judgment. It stirred something deep in his chest, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

“Guess not,” he muttered, rougher than he intended, and he stepped closer without even realizing it. She didn’t back away.

She tilted her head, a playful quirk to her brow. “So, does this mean we’re negotiating now? Or are you just going to keep brooding at me until I hand over the garlic bread?”

That pulled a chuckle out of him, low and brief, but genuine. “You don’t quit, do you?”

“Not when it comes to getting what I want,” she said simply.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to her mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked away, focusing on a random spot on the wall instead. “You’re bold,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Hmmm I’d say you like that,” she countered, her tone light but her eyes sharp, like she was testing him.

And she wasn’t wrong. He did like it. Maybe too much. It was the kind of boldness he wasn’t used to anymore, the kind that didn’t come with an ulterior motive or veiled fear. It was just... her, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it had him drawn in like a moth to a flame.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. She didn’t look away, didn’t fidget or try to fill the gap with empty chatter. She just waited, giving him space to make the next move.

“I’m not good at this,” he finally said.

“At what?” she asked like she could sense he wasn’t just talking about their little back-and-forth.

“Any of it,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Talking. People. This.”

Her lips curved into a small, understanding smile. “Lucky for you, I don’t need you to be good at anything. Just honest.”

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit he hadn’t quite shaken.

“Well,” she said after a beat, stepping just a little closer, “if it helps, I think you’re doing fine so far.”

Bucky's gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there a little longer than he should have. The temptation to lean in, to close the distance was maddening and he swallowed hard.

Her voice cut through his thoughts, teasing and sharp. “Deciding your price?”

His eyes snapped back to hers. For a moment, he was thrown, like she’d read his mind and decided to call him out for it. Her expression wasn’t mocking, though. “Maybe I am.” the words left his mouth before he could overthink them.

She leaned a little closer, just enough to shrink the space between them. “And? What’s the verdict?”

For a second, all he could do was stare at her, at the way the corner of her mouth tilted up, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. His brain scrambled for something to say, anything that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“You’re making it hard to think,” he admitted finally, a dry edge to his tone that made her laugh softly.

“Good,” she shot back, tilting her head. “Means I’m doing my part in this negotiation. And you still haven’t named your price,” she said, dropping her voice just a fraction.

That did something to him, something that made his chest tighten and his palms itch. She was bold, fearless, not afraid to meet him where he was. Hell, maybe even a step ahead of him.

“Maybe it’s not something I can name,” he muttered, almost testing the waters as he took a slow step closer to her.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the playful glint in them softened. She didn’t move back, didn’t shy away. Instead, she held her ground. “Oh?” she murmured, her gaze never leaving his. “Then how are we supposed to settle this… negotiation?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, “I guess that depends on what you’re willing to offer.” he said, noting neither of them was willing to break the tension first.

Her answer came in the form of a step forward, closing the remaining gap between them. She tilted her up, and her voice dropped as she said, “I think you’re the one who needs to make the offer. After all, you’re the one collecting a bribe.”

That knocked him off balance for a fraction of a second, and he just stared at her.

Her laugh was soft, almost a hum, as she leaned back slightly, one hand coming to rest on her hip. “You don’t seem like the type to play coy,” she teased.

He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, though he forced himself to hold her gaze. “I’m not.”

"So?" she asked, flicking her gaze to his lips, her tone was challenging but soft, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear him say it.

That did it. His resolve snapped like a taut wire. Slowly, deliberately, he cradled the side of her neck with his vibranium hand, firm but careful, while his other hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

"So," he murmured against her lips, his voice low and rough, "I think I'll just take the rest of my payment. And then... maybe some more."

He closed the remaining distance, capturing her lips in a kiss that was neither tentative nor tender. It was demanding and unapologetic. Everything he couldn’t say in words poured into the connection.

She let out a small gasp, and her hands instinctively found their way to his chest clutching his tanktop. He took that as permission, deepening the kiss. The faint scent of flour and sugar mixed with something distinctly hers, made him a little dizzy, a little reckless. And for once, he let himself take what he wanted.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead lightly against hers, he caught the sight of her lips, slightly swollen, and her uneven breathing as she looked up at him. He wondered if he should stop there.

Then she did it. Her hand slid upward, fingers threading through his hair before fisting it lightly, pulling him closer with a confidence that sent a spark down his spine. She pressed herself against him, soft curves meeting the unyielding hardness of his chest, and that was it, he lost it.

A low, guttural sound escaped him as he claimed her lips again, this time with less restraint. The backroom faded away. No shelves, no counter, no lingering scent of baked goods. Just her. Her body, her warmth, her lips moving against his like she was just as lost in this as he was.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, her eyes were half-lidded as she stared up at him. She wetted her bottom lip. “Not bad.” she managed to breath.

“Still think I’m underpaid,” he shot back.

"Oh, I don’t take advantage of hard workers, sir," she said, low and teasing as her lips skimmed along his stubbled cheek. Her teeth nipped at the rough skin there, sending a sharp jolt through his body that went straight to his cock.

Her hands moved to the buckle of his belt, working the leather with an almost infuriating slowness, like she was daring him to stop her, or daring him not to. “By no means are you going to be left underpaid,” she murmured with mock formality as her gaze flicked up to meet his.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest. “That so?” he rasped as he let his hands slide from her waist to her hips, gripping just tight enough to feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her uniform. “You always this generous?”

Her fingers hovered just above the waistband of his lowering jeans, brushing the bare skin with a maddening lightness. Then she smiled at him, slow and deliberate. “Only with hot sergeants who gave a lot to this country.”

Something snapped. His hand darted down, grabbing hers where they lingered teasing his skin. His fingers closed over hers. Not harsh, but firm, the rough calluses of his palm contrasting with her softness. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he growled low in her ear, rougher now, deeper, his restraint fraying with every word.

“Why not?” she whispered, with a tone laced with defiance, though her breath hitched ever so slightly as he stepped closer.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he dipped his head, trailing slow kisses on the curve of her neck. Her breath shuddered as he worked his mouth thoroughly, and his stubble scraped along her sensitive skin. His free hand slid lower, gliding over the fabric of her uniform until it reached the curve of her ass. Without hesitation, he squeezed, digging his fingers just enough to pull her flush against him.

Her hands, now pinned between her body and his waistband, flexed slightly, testing like she was still daring him to see how far he’d go.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured against her neck, as he pressed her harder against him.

She tilted her head slightly, giving him more access, curling her fingers into the hem of his tank top. “Good thing I don’t scare easy,” she replied breathlessly, and his grip on her tightened, molding his vibranium hand to the curve of her ass as he pressed her harder against him.

Without breaking their connection, he moved with fluid determination, gripping her hips and spinning her so that she faced an old counter. The sudden shift elicited a breathy laugh from her, laced with surprise and excitement.

He leaned in, brushing his chest on her back as his lips found her neck again, suckling and nipping her skin. She arched instinctively pressing herself against him, bracing her hands on the surface counter. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

His flesh hand slid down her side, curving over her hip before venturing beneath the fabric of her uniform. His fingers splayed against her bare thigh, pushing the hem up inch by inch, grazing her skin with agonizing slowness.

Her breathing hitched as his hand roamed further, the metal of his fingers creating a stark contrast against her heated skin. He squeezed her again, this time directly over her bare flesh, eliciting a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.

As his hand traveled upward from her hip along her spine, her dress bunched around her waist, exposing her to him. He relished the sensation of her bare skin beneath his fingertips, trailing higher to the small of her back. Her shiver told him everything he needed to know.

Her head tilted back, her breath coming in soft, shallow gasps. “James” she whispered, half warning, half plea.

His lips curved into a smirk as he bent closer. “Bucky” he rasped, his stubble brushing her ear. “What’s it gonna be, doll? Should I stop?”

Her answer came in the way she pushed herself back against him, reaching behind to tangle her hands on his hair. He grinned darkly against her skin, sliding his hand along her back as his lips continued their descent, tasting every inch of her exposed neck and shoulder.

Bucky’s hands continued their ascent, his fingers trailing over her heated skin until they slid under the fabric of her bra. He cupped her breasts, his palms rough and warm, squeezing with a pressure that made her gasp: firm enough to send a thrill through her body, but not enough to hurt. She arched into his touch, responding instinctively, and a soft sound escaped her lips spurring him on.

“Like that, huh?” he muttered, as he pressed himself harder against her back. Her hands gripped his hair tighter for balance as he shifted closer and his solid, muscled frame blanketed hers. Then, with deliberate intent, he slid one thick thigh between her legs, pressing it firmly against her pussy. The friction made her knees weaken, and she let out a breathy moan, rolling her hips against him instinctively.

He growled low in his throat. “You’re making it real hard to keep this...civil,” he rasped, though the way his hands kneaded her and his thigh pressed against her left little room for civility.

She turned her head slightly to meet his gaze, eyes dark with need and amusement. “You know, if you keep things civil like this, I might... stain your pants. How are you going to present yourself tomorrow to work, all messy?”

Bucky froze for half a second at her words, tightening his grip on her hips as her teasing tone penetrated his brain. His gaze darkened, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk that was anything but innocent.

“You think I care about that?” he murmured, roughly, sending shivers down her spine.

Her head tilted slightly, exposing the curve of her neck to him. “Mhm,” she hummed, her breath hitching when he shifted his stance, pressing her harder against him. “Just trying to save you the trouble of explaining… why your responsible worker pants are a mess.”

Bucky let out a low growl, dipping his head to her neck. His stubble scrapped deliciously against her skin as he nipped at her pulse point, making her gasp. "Luckily for you, muffin, it's been a long time since I give a fuck about other people's opinions, let alone explaining myself. So you can get my damn pants wet like the naughty girl you are to your pussy's content.

The brazen bluntness of his words sent a pang directly to her needy clit. “Oh,” she exhaled, with a trembling voice. “Is that so, Sergeant?”

He leaned in closer, as his vibranium hand tightened on her hip, grinding her harder against his thigh. “Damn right, it is,” he growled, and the deep rasp of his voice vibrated against her skin. “Now stop stalling and show me how messy you can get me.”

She let out a soft moan as she pressed harder against him, and her movements became more erratic, more needy. “You mister-” she gasped, her words catching in her throat as a wave of pleasure made her pussy clench deliciously, “are a fucking tease.”

“And yet,” he muttered, curving his lips into a wicked grin against her skin, “here you are, soaking my damn pants just like I told you to.”

Her laugh came out breathless and broken, “Cocky bastard,” she managed to say before nearing the precipice. "F-fuck, Sarge," she mewled, as her voice broke on a high, desperate pitch while her hands gripped at the counter for dear life. "I’m gonna-"

Bucky’s grip on her tightened, and his vibranium hand slid up to press flat against her tummy, anchoring her firmly against him. “Do it,” he growled into her ear, in a hot and ragged breath. “Let go for me, muffin. Make a mess, cream my fucking pants.”

Her body tensed, and her thighs trembled as she ground herself harder against his thigh, chasing that final push over the edge. “God, Bucky,” she whimpered, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his lips brushing against her ear as he coaxed her along, keeping her steady with his hands as she fell apart. "Good girl."

The sound she made was half a sob, half a moan as the tension inside her snapped, pleasure crashing through her in waves that left her gasping and shaking in his arms. She clung to the counter as her body jerked uncontrollably, and her breath came in short, desperate bursts.

He didn’t let go, keeping her firmly against him, grounding her body as she rode out every last second of her orgasm. When her movements slowed, and her body went slack against him, he pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to the back of her neck.

“You okay?” he murmured, with a mix of roughness and softness as his hands remained firm on her hips.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder with a dazed, dopey smile that made something inside him twist. “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed, languid and satisfied. “That was such a nice ride, Sarge.”

A soft squeeze at her hips reminded her where his hands still were, and she placed hers over them, giving them a light, playful press. Then, with an ease that made his pulse quicken, she turned around to face him.

Her fingers grasped the hem of his tank top, deliberate but unhurried as she tugged it upward. “But,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, “I still owe you the price of your silence.”

As she pulled his tank top up and over his head, her eyes immediately fell to his chest, and her gaze widened for a beat. The light from the room caught the silver gleam of the bars piercing through his nipples, hard to miss against the expanse of ink and scars that marked his skin.

Her lips parted slightly, and a playful grin broke across her face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” she murmured teasingly. She reached out without hesitation, grazing her fingers over one of the piercings. “Naughty, Sarge. Very naughty.”

He let out a short huff of laughter. “Don’t act so shocked,” he muttered. “Thought you’d figured out by now I’m not exactly by-the-book.”

She tilted her head as she thumbed over the cool metal, sending a shiver through his body that he didn’t bother to hide. “Guess I have a lot to learn about you,” she mused, tracing her fingers over the lines of his chest, pausing now and then to admire the ink and scars.

His smirk deepened, and he tugged her closer “Plenty of time for that, Muffin.” He conceded.

Her hands roamed freely now, mapping the hard planes of his chest, alternating her touch between featherlight and deliberate. She flicked the tip of one of the piercings with her thumb, earning a sharp inhale from his lips.

“Sensitive?” she teased, glancing up to meet his gaze.

His jaw tightened, and the way his hands gripped her hips told her she’d struck a nerve. “You tell me,” he rumbled, edged with a warning that didn’t quite mask the rough undertone of arousal.

She laughed softly, a low, breathy sound that made his cock twitch. “You’re full of contradictions, Sarge. All gruff and serious, but with these…” she said, lightly tugging on one bar with a wicked grin.

“Careful,” he warned, tightening his grip as his eyes darkened.

“Or what?,” she quipped, with a sultry voice, her confidence growing with every reaction she pulled from him.

His patience snapped. In one smooth motion, he shifted, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter behind her. She gasped, bracing her hands against his shoulders as he stepped between her thighs, crowding her.

The edge of the counter bit into her legs, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was the heat between them, the way his hands gripped her.

His fingers moved to the buttons of her dress, deliberate but unhurried, each undone clasp exposing more of her soft, skin. She shivered beneath his touch, and a quiet hum escaped her lips as her hands slid down his sides, tracing the lines of his ribs before settling at his hips.

The dress slipped further down her body, pooling at her waist, leaving her exposed to his piercing gaze. His eyes darkened as they swept over the rise and fall of her chest, and the slight tremble in her thighs.

"Damn," he murmured, roughly, almost reverent.

Her cheeks heated, but she held his gaze with a playful smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "What, you don't see this every day?"

"Not like this," he growled back, deftly unhooking her bra with a kind of precision that made her blink in surprise. The garment slid down her arms, and he caught it in one hand, tossing it over his shoulder without so much as a glance. It landed somewhere behind him with a soft thud, but he didn’t care. His gaze flicked down, lingering on her newly exposed skin.

He leaned down and trailed his lips through the curve of her neck, gifting heated kisses downward her skin until his lips latched one of her nipples. His tongue flicked, quick and teasing, as his hands roamed lower, slipping beneath the hem of her uniform skirt and gripping her bare thighs.

Her hands flew to his shoulders for balance before sliding up to tangle them in his hair. Her body was already pliant, sensitive from her release, but he wasn’t slowing down. His teeth scraped lightly, sending a shock through her system, and she arched instinctively against his mouth.

"Turn around," he murmured against her skin, almost a growling. His hands gripped her hips, spinning her gently but firmly until she was braced against the counter. She barely had time to catch her breath before she felt his fingers hook into the waistband of her drenched panties, tugging them down and letting them pool at her feet.

His jeans had already been shoved low enough to free his aching cock, and she could feel it, hard and insistent, pressing against her rear. “This okay?” he rasped against her ear, as his length drenching her buttocks with precum spoke volumes about his intent.

She nodded quickly, breathlessly.

Bucky didn’t waste time and his vibranium hand gripped her hip, as his flesh one guided himself inside her in one smooth, deliberate thrust. A low, guttural groan tore from his chest as her tight heat clenched around him, and her gasp of pleasure sounded like music to his ears.

“Fuck, Muffin,” he muttered, leaning over her, breathing hot against her ear. “So tight. Feels like you’re made for my cock.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the counter, instinctively pushing her body back to meet his thrusts. He set a slow, grinding pace at first, making her feel every inch of his thick cock, savoring how she trembled beneath him at every drag. One of his hands slid from her hip, trailing down her thigh before slipping between her legs.

“You’re dripping for me,” he observed roughly as his fingers found her clit. He rubbed slow, lazy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Such a greedy pussy, doll. Pulling me in like you can’t get enough.”

She let out a breathless moan, her body arching against him as his words sent a rush of heat through her system. “Bucky-”

“That’s right,” he cut her off, almost mockingly as his fingers pressed harder against her swollen clit. “Say my name. Let me hear how much you love being fucked like this.”

Her response was a broken cry, her hips bucking against his hand as he picked up his pace. He grinned, sharp and wolfish, sliding his free hand up her back to fist her hair, pulling her head back so he could press his lips to her ear.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he rasped, as his thrusts turned harder, sharper. “I can feel it. This pussy’s squeezing me so tight. You gonna come all over my cock, Muffin? You gonna soak me, cream my dick like the good girl you are?”

She could barely think, the pressure building inside her reaching a fever pitch as his filthy words and relentless touch unraveled her completely. Her moans grew louder, and her body trembled as her release washed over her, clenching her walls around his throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” he growled, as the sensation tipped him over the edge. His hand tightened on her hip, and his thrusts turned erratic as he followed her into bliss, spilling inside her with a low, drawn-out groan.

He stayed buried inside her for a moment, resting his forehead against her shoulder as they both caught their breath. His fingers gave her clit one last, gentle stroke, making her shudder before he finally pulled back, steadying her with his hands as her legs wobbled.

“You okay?” he asked, rough but laced with an unmistakable note of satisfaction.

She nodded, glancing at him over her shoulder with a blissed-out smile. “More than okay.”

He smirked, brushing his hand over her lower back as he stepped away. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not done yet, little Muffin.”

She turned slightly, lifting her brows in surprise as a sly grin curled her lips. “Not done yet?” she asked, breathless but laced with intrigue.

Bucky’s smirk deepened as he took her hand, gently turning her around to face him. His eyes roamed over her glistening skin, mussed hair, and the marks his lips and teeth had left trailing down her neck. He loved how wrecked she looked, and knowing it was all because of him, sent a thrill coursing through his veins.

“Not even close,” he murmured, sliding his hands to her thighs and effortlessly lifting her onto the counter.

She gasped as the cold surface met her bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by a soft moan when he stepped between her legs, spreading them wide. His cock, still hard and wet, pressed against her slick heat, teasing her entrance.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he muttered, leaning in to brush his lips against hers. “But I think you’ve got one more in you, Muffin. Don’t you?”

Her breath hitched, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him, desperate for more. “You really think I can take it?” she asked, playfully.

Bucky chuckled darkly, ghosting his lips over her jawline as he pressed the head of his cock against her pussy, not pushing in just yet. “Oh, you’ll take it,” he purred, gripping her hips firmly to hold her in place. “And you’re gonna love every second of it.”

He surged forward without waiting for a reply, parting her inner wallsin one deep thrust. Her back arched, and a loud moan spilled from her lips as he set a brutal pace right from the start, holding nothing back this time.

His hands roamed over her body, one sliding up to knead a breast while the other dipped down to find her clit again. “Feel that, doll?” he growled, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Feel how perfectly you take me?”

She nodded frantically, digging her nails into his shoulders as her body rocked against him, the counter beneath her creaking slightly with the force of his movements. “F-fuck, Sarge, I-”

“You gonna come for me again?” he interrupted as he worked her clit with expert precision. “Gonna soak me like the naughty little thing you are?”

Her answer came in the form of a choked cry as her body tensed, her third climax hitting her harder than the previous ones. She tightened around him, pulling him deeper, and deeper, and he groaned low in his throat, thrusting erratically as he chased his own release.

“Goddamn, you feel so fucking good,” he growled, gripping the back of her thighs and spreading them wider as he buried himself one last time to the root, erupting in long spurts of hot cum that filled her up and overflowed between them, pooling on the floor.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their ragged breaths being the only sound in the room. Slowly, he pulled back, steadying on her hips as he helped her sit upright, locking his eyes on the mess between her legs. His jaw tensed as he drank in the sight of her pussy, utterly wrecked and glistening from everything they’d done. He reached out, parting her swollen, slick folds with his thumbs with a deliberate, almost reverent care.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, thick with desire. “Look at you.”

Her cheeks heated, and the burn rose fast as she felt his gaze fixed on her. Her instinct was to press her thighs together, but his firm grip on her leg stopped her before she could move.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, brushing his vibranium thumb against her inner thigh as his other hand traced the outline of her puffy, sensitive lips. “Let me see you.”

She whimpered softly, gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself as his fingers continued to explore, brushing over her clit just enough to make her hips jerk.

“Fuck, this pretty little pussy of yours, completely ruined… because of me.”

She inhaled deeply, with embarrassment and lingering arousal. “Bucky,” she managed, her voice was barely above a whisper, a plea wrapped in his name.

He glanced up at her, quirking his lips into a cocky smirk. “What? Embarrassed?” His thumbs teased her again, pressing lightly on either side of her clit, enough to make her tremble. “Don’t be. You’re perfect. And you’re mine to mess up like this.”

His? Her thighs shook at his words, the low growl in his voice sparking something deep inside her chest.

Bucky leaned in, and his stubble grazed her inner thigh as he pressed a kiss there, lingering his lips as he muttered, “Maybe I should take a picture, so you know how fucking incredible you look right now.”

Her head fell back with a strangled, embarrassed moan. “Don’t you dare,” She protested, without much conviction.

He chuckled, finally easing up on her overstimulated nerves. Then, he pulled back, standing tall as he licked his bottom lip. “Good thing I’ve got a photographic memory. I’ll be thinking about how fucking incredible you look dripping my cum on the floor when I’m at home later, getting all needy.”

The heat on her cheeks spread down her neck and chest. “My god, Sarge, you say your prayers with that mouth?” she asked, her tone trembling with exhaustion and disbelief.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest as he pulled back to meet her gaze. “It’s been a long time since I stopped doing that,” he admitted, carrying an edge of cynicism that matched the wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

He couldn’t help but admire the sight before his eyes. Her disheveled state, the pristine uniform now wrinkled, pushed up and open, her lips swollen and glossy from everything they’d just done. For almost a second, a pang of guilt flared in his chest. Almost.

The notion of her going back to work in this state, dripping with his cum while she smiled and served customers, stirred something deliciously darker in him. The guilt was quickly overtaken by the way his cock twitched again, the lingering pull of need frustrating him as much as it excited him. He muttered a low curse under his breath.

“Here,” he said after a moment, offering his hand for her to stand up. “Let me help you look all pretty so you can carry on with your day.”

He grabbed her crumpled uniform and smoothed it down over her thighs, brushing his fingers on the soft skin under it as he worked to put her back together. When he reached her collar, he buttoned the top slowly, deliberately taking his time.

“You’re gonna walk out there,” he said, adjusting her apron with a hum of satisfaction, “looking just like you did before I got my hands on you.”

Her lips parted as if to respond, but the words didn’t come out. He leaned close, brushing his pierced nose against hers, mingling his minty breath with hers, before stepping back with a low chuckle. “So much better than the garlic bread.”

He stepped back, bending to retrieve his tank top from the floor. Without hesitation, he slipped the shirt over his head, dragging it down on the hard lines of his inked chest. When the fabric caught over his pierced nipples, he hissed through his teeth. He adjusted it with a slight tug, smoothing it over his abs, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t in any rush to leave the moment behind.

His gaze flicked to her form and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. His tone dropped into something deeper, more dangerous, as he added, “If anyone gives you trouble...”

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger between them. “You know where to find me.” It wasn’t just a statement; it was a subtle reminder of where he worked, down at the construction site.

Before she could gather herself enough to respond, he turned on his heel and made his way to the door. As his hand rested on the handle, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, his blue eyes filled with a hint of satisfaction.

“Enjoy the rest of your shift, Muffin,” he drawled, before disappearing out the door leaving her breathless and utterly wrecked.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[reasonsforhope]

Legit though, we should start turning ecosystem restoration and work to make our world more tolerant to the effects of climate change into annual holidays and festivals

Like how just about every culture used to have festivals to celebrate the beginning of the harvest or its end, or the beginning of planting, or how whole communities used to host barn raisings and quilting bees - everyone coming together at once to turn the work of months or years into the work of a few days

Humble suggestions for festival types:

Goat festival

Besides controlled burns (which you can't do if there's too much dead brush), the fastest, most effective, and most cost-efficient way to clear brush before fire season - esp really heavy dead brush - is to just. Put a bunch of goats on your land for a few days!

Remember that Shark Tank competitor who wanted to start a goat rental company, and everyone was like wtf? There was even a whole John Oliver bit making fun of the idea? Well THAT JUST PROVES THEY'RE FROM NICE WET PLACES, because goat rental companies are totally a thing, and they're great.

So like. Why don't we have a weekend where everyone with goats just takes those goats to the nearest land that needs a ton of clearing? Public officials could put up maps of where on public lands grazing is needed, and where it definitely shouldn't happen. Farmers and people/groups with a lot of acres that need clearing can post Goat Requests.

Little kids can make goat-themed crafts and give the goats lots of pets or treats at the end of the day for doing such a good job. Volunteers can help wrangle things so goats don't get where they're not supposed to (and everyone fences off land nowadays anyway, mostly). And the goats, of course, would be in fucking banquet paradise.

Planting Festival and Harvest Festival

Why mess with success??? Bring these back where they've disappeared!!! Time to swarm the community gardens and help everyone near you with a farm make sure that all of their seeds are sown and none of the food goes to waste in the fields, decaying and unpicked.

And then set up distribution parts of the festival so all the extra food gets where it needs to be! Boxes of free lemons in front of your house because you have 80 goddamned lemons are great, but you know what else would be great? An organized effort to take that shit to food pantries (which SUPER rarely get fresh produce, because they can't hold anything perishable for long at all) and community/farmer's markets

Rain Capture Festival

The "water year" - how we track annual rainfall and precipitation - is offset from the regular calendar year because, like, that's just when water cycles through the ecosystems (e.g. meltwater). At least in the US, the water year is October 1st through September 30th of the next year, because October 1st is around when all the snowmelt from last year is gone, and a new cycle is starting as rain begins to fall again in earnest.

So why don't we all have a big barn raising equivalent every September to build rain capture infrastructure?

Team up with some neighbors to turn one of those little grass strips on the sidewalk into a rain-garden with fall-planting plants. Go down to your local church and help them install some gutters and rain barrels. Help deculvert rivers so they run through the dirt again, and make sure all the storm drains in your neighborhood are nice and clear.

Even better, all of this - ESPECIALLY the rain gardens - will also help a ton with flood control!

I'm so serious about how cool this could be, yall.

And people who can't or don't want to do physical stuff for any of these festivals could volunteer to watch children or cook food for the festival or whatever else might need to be done!

Parties afterward to celebrate all the good work done! Community building and direct local improvements to help protect ourselves from climate change!

The possibilities are literally endless, so not to sound like an influencer or some shit, but please DO comment or reply or put it in the notes if you have thoughts, esp on other things we could hold festivals like this for.

Canning festivals. "Dig your elderly neighbors out of the snow" festivals. Endangered species nesting count festival. Plant fruit trees on public land and parks festival. All of the things that I don't know anywhere near enough to think of. Especially in more niche or extreme ecosystems, there are so many possibilities that could do a lot of good

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Zuckerberg in the dock

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in PITTSBURGH on May 15 at WHITE WHALE BOOKS, and in PDX on Jun 20 at BARNES AND NOBLE. More tour dates here.

It's been more than a decade in the making, but Facebook – or, if you prefer, Meta – is going on trial for antitrust violations, with the highest possible stakes and the worst possible evidence (for Facebook).

The Big Tech On Trial blog was started to follow the Google antitrust case, the biggest antitrust case of the century, which was barely noticed by most of the press. Partly that was down to the 40 year period in which antitrust was not enforced, a prolonged induced coma that caused the press's antitrust muscles to waste away. Partly, it was because Judge Amit Mehta was comically deferential to Google's demands for secrecy about the trial and its exhibits, which added complexity and obscurity to the proceedings. Despite this, the DoJ prevailed, and Mehta ruled that "Google is a monopolist, and it has acted as one to maintain its monopoly." Now, Google faces break-up, and Trump's DoJ has confirmed that it will seek nothing less:

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/03/07/technology/trump-google-search-antitrust.html

The Biden administration may have been run by a president who'd spent his career kowtowing to giant, predatory corporations, but the left of the Democratic coalition forced him to install the most skilled and aggressive antitrust enforcers in generations:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/10/solidarity-forever-2/#oligarchism

They racked up an impressive series of wins, but too many of their cases were unfinished when the Democrats lost the election through a series of unforced errors that have left the country – and the world – teetering on the brink of a whole Bronze Age prophesy's worth of omnishambolic polycrises. There are so many important and good things imperiled by the Mad King presidency, and the DOJ and FTC's groundbreaking antitrust cases are certainly among them.

In some ways, this is normal. Vicious, criminal corporate bosses have long employed a delay/deny/defer strategy to draw out the antitrust cases against them, betting that a change in government will let them off the hook. This worked for Amway, which drew out its FTC prosecution for being a pyramid scheme until Richard Nixon resigned and was replaced by Gerry Ford, who had been the congressman to Amway founders Jay Van Andel and Rich DeVos. Ford ordered the FTC to let Amway off, so the FTC crafted the "Amway rule," which defines a list of of ruinously exploitative and dishonest tactics that are nevertheless legal. Every pyramid scheme since has been designed to fit within the confines of this rule. Whenever you hear from an old classmate hoping to sell you "leadership coaching," essential oils, tights, or any other gewgaw, know that they are the progeny of Gerry Ford and the Amway rule.

This delaying tactic also works for antitrust. When the DoJ sued IBM for its monopoly tactics, the company spent billions procuring delays. The case lasted for 12 years, from 1970-1982, and in each of those 12 years, the IBM spent more on outside counsel to fight the US government than the DoJ spent on all the lawyers fighting all the antitrust cases in the country. They called it "antitrust's Vietnam," and (unlike the actual Vietnam war) it paid off. After Reagan was elected, he ordered the DoJ to let IBM off the hook, and the company lived to monopolize another day.

Microsoft pulled off this gambit too, drawing out the proceedings and appeals after it was convicted of illegal monopolization. They delayed the process until GW Bush was elected, and then Dubya ordered his enforcers to drop their opposition to Microsoft's appeal, and the company got off scot free.

So the big question now is, "Will Trump let Facebook walk?" There's not really any question that Facebook is guilty as hell, but Trump is practitioner of "boss politics." He's made it clear that, guilty or not, he is willing to protect you if you suck up to him. He's created several channels that corporations and individuals can bribe him: there's the Trump memecoin, a virtual tipjar for the Oval Office. There's his bizarre gambit of suing companies he wishes to demand fealty from (like Disney), inviting the companies settle the suits for tens of millions of dollars more than is reasonable, as a way to legally shuffle eight-figure bribes into the president's personal bank account.

Appropriately enough, Trump inaugurated his bribery program with his inauguration, soliciting million dollar "donations" to the inauguration fund from corporate leaders seeking favors from his government. Big Tech bosses – including Zuck – broke all land-speed records in the race for their checkbooks. But Trump isn't an "honest politician" (in the Heinlein sense of "he stays bought"). Last week, Trump lopped $733 billion off Apple's market cap, which was a hell of a way to thank CEO Tim Cook for his $1m "donation."

Zuck's got other ways to bribe Trump, of course. His pivot-to-culture-war-bullshit announcement – in which he declared an end to Meta's "feminine" use of fact checkers and moderation policies – was a naked gift to Trump, a guarantee that Trump and his henchmen could lie about anything from Haitians eating dogs to gay barbers being members of fearsome international terrorist gangs without threat of moderation or correction on Meta's platforms. For a compulsive liar like Trump, any relaxation of fact checking is a naked bribe:

https://www.lemonde.fr/en/economy/article/2025/01/12/mark-zuckerberg-wants-more-masculine-energy-and-less-diversity-policy_6736961_19.html

So, will Trump's FTC take Facebook down? It's hard to say. On the one hand, Trump claims to have fired the two Democratic FTC commissioners, Alvaro Bedoya and Rebecca Slaughter. A unanimous Supreme Court ruling makes it clear that the president doesn't have the legal authority to fire FTC commissioners without cause, and Bedoya and Slaughter still consider themselves to be on the job, though they've been locked out of the building and their email:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humphrey%27s_Executor_v._United_States

The weak GOP rump on the Commission are far from the best America has to offer. On his first day, Trump FTC Chair Andrew Ferguson killed a swathe of investigations and enforcement actions, walking away from the FTC's fights on things like "surveillance pricing" and "predatory pricing." In their place, Ferguson instituted a snitch-line where FTC employees could rat each other out for "wokeness":

https://prospect.org/politics/2025-01-24-executive-action-reaction-day-4/

But despite this, Ferguson has also indicated that he will selectively carry on the unprecedented work of Biden's FTC. For example, he affirmed that his FTC would continue to use the Biden era merger guidelines, which put far stricter limits on corporate mergers than we've seen since the 1980s. And he's publicly declared that he will fight Meta to the bitter end, praising the FTC lawyers on the case as "some of the best" in the agency:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2025-03-17/ftc-has-the-resources-to-take-on-big-tech-chairman-says

Writing for Big Tech on Trial, antitrust litigator Brendan Benedict lays out the stakes and odds in the case:

https://www.bigtechontrial.com/p/zuckerberg-on-the-stand-the-trial

One thing is clear from Benedict's excellent, comprehensive piece: there is a lot of extremely damning evidence against Meta. Some of this evidence comes from company insiders, like the whistleblower Sarah Wynn-Williams, whose tell-all memoir of her decade running Facebook's foreign policy team is filled with stomach churning revelations about top management's deliberate, ugly, vicious disregard for its users and the world:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250391230/carelesspeople/

Meta did Wynn-Williams a huge favor by forcing her into arbitration and securing a legally binding order requiring her to cease publicly commenting on her book, a move that triggered massive, worldwide interest in her book (it's why I picked it up!). This, in turn, led to Wynn-Williams being invited to testify before Congress, where her revelations about Zuckerberg's shameless, endless sucking up to the Chinese government and Xi Jinping caught the interest of Trumpland stalwarts like Josh Hawley and Chuck Grassley:

https://www.techpolicy.press/transcript-former-exec-sarah-wynnwilliams-testifies-on-facebooks-courtship-of-china/

Assuming this political will persists, Trump's FTC will have to prove that Meta deliberately set out to create and maintain a monopoly. In this regard, they will be greatly aided by the best possible witness for the prosecution: Mark Zuckerberg and his giant, flapping fucking mouth. Zuckerberg has repeatedly, explicitly confessed, in writing, in economic and legal terms, to pursuing a growth strategy based on blatantly illegal anticompetitive actions. As Careless People makes clear, Zuck is an arrogant, out-of-touch crank who cannot stop tripping over his own dick.

The first hurdle the FTC will have to clear is the "relevant market" question. For a company to be a monopolist, it has to dominate a given sector. So what's Meta's sector? In its courtroom filings, Meta claims that it competes with the entire internet and on that basis, it is a minor player indeed. Market definition is a thorny problem in Big Tech antitrust cases, because the companies are such sprawling conglomerates that they can claim that they compete with just about everyone:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/10/borked/#zucked

But those claims are greatly undermined when the company itself contradicts them, in writing. Back in 2011, Facebook told advertisers that it was "now 95% of all social media in the US."

Zuckerberg – the company's founder and CEO, who controls a majority of its voting stock – then proceeded to pen a series of memos affirming the company's deliberate monopolization strategy. For example, in justifying his decision to purchase Instagram – a company with 12 employees – for $1 billion, Zuckerberg described how "network effects" would keep Facebook from competing with Insta, so he planned on buying the company to capture those network effects and create a market where competitors' "new products won’t get much traction."

Other memos describe the company's deliberate plans to create high "switching costs" to make customers' departure as painful as possible, ensuring that companies with better products will struggle to attract users:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/28/talking-hard-work-blues/#hostage-takers

As if that wasn't enough, Zuck sent another memo contrasting Google+ with Instagram, writing, "One thing about startups though is you can often acquire them. I think that is a good outcome for everyone." This was just a restatement of Zuck's longstanding – and again, written – rule of business, "It is better to buy than to compete."

Things are not looking good for Meta. Having failed in a series of increasingly desperate maneuvers to get the case dismissed, the company has fallen back on gambits like writing Trump a check for a million bucks – and hiring Mark Hansen, the trial judge's former clerk, as its courtroom counsel.

Meta is a repeat offender. In 2019, Facebook paid the largest-ever corporate penalty of any kind, $5 billion, for lying about its users' privacy. The reason that settlement was so large? The company had already admitted to lying about user privacy and had made a legally binding promise not to do it again (they did it again) (and again) (and again).

Wynn-Williams called her book "Careless People," but there's plenty of evidence that Zuckerberg's offenses are deliberate, not carelessness. That evidence comes straight from Zuck's own keyboard, in memos where (for example) he discusses "using M&A to build a competitive moat around us on mobile and ads…[let's] spend $1-2 billion over the next couple of years on acquisitions."

Early in Facebook's history, Zuckerberg gave a speech explaining that he didn't want to sell Facebook because "Having media corporations owned by conglomerates is just not an attractive idea to me." Apparently it got more attractive after Zuck started to buy companies by the bushel.

This coincided with Meta increasing both the "ad-load" and the "unconnected posts" (boosted content from accounts you don't follow) in its products. Meta doesn't charge its users money, it charges them attention (which it then sells to advertisers and publishers) The (attentional) price of using Meta products has skyrocketed, at the expense of quality – a textbook proof of monopolization.

The timing of the release of Careless People and the trial couldn't be better (for us – not Meta!). I'm in the middle of Careless People right now (look for my review soon), and I agree with the Trashfuture panel who talked about how validating it was to have my longstanding suspicions that Facebook's many catastrophic blunders had to be the result of a deliberate decision to trade its users', customers' and society's wellbeing for its own profits:

https://www.podbean.com/ep/pb-3c2y8-1879998

Much has been made of Facebook's role in multiple genocides, starting with the Rohinga genocide in Myanmar. The company's maneuvers since then are a mix of Wynn-Williams's "carelessness" and actual malice. Facebook's traumatized moderators call themselves the company's "tonsils" – a sacrificial organ whose role is to absorb pathogens and protect the body corporate:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/19/tonsilitis/#mod-traum

Meanwhile, the company touts its laughably bad "genocide filters":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/23/false-genocide-negative/#metacrap

Even as it bullies and threatens watchdogs that monitor its moderation systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/20/sovkitsch/#adobserver

Facebook is a company that spent most of its history in a race to become too big to jail, seeking to shape regulations to keep smaller companies from growing to be competitive threats. This is why Zuckerberg has been such a vocal critic of Section 230, a law that people mistakenly view as a gift to Big Tech:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/25/facebook-has-a-facebook-problem/#played-for-zuckers

The company has curried favor with the world's dictators, creating a wave of "Facebook politicians" primarily drawn from the far right, including the brutal dictator of Cambodia:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/25/nationalize-moderna/#hun-sen

But in becoming too big to jail, the company also became too big to care (convenient for a firm whose executive ranks are filled with people who are manifestly lacking in any empathy). Thus the world's dominant social media platform has become a place where anyone who talks publicly about their cancer diagnosis will be bombarded with ads for snake-oil fake cancer cures that will drain their wallets and keep them from seeking life-saving therapy:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/13/youre-still-the-product/#targeting

Thus we have a company where insiders routinely use Meta's extensive commercial surveillance apparatus to casually stalk their romantic interests and anyone else they want to know more about:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/14/who-watches-the-zuckmen/#pecksniffs

Thus we have a company that systematically defrauded the entire media industry with its "pivot to video," creating a wave of bankruptcies in news organizations around the world, a mass extinction event we're still reeling from today (and then the company tried to do it again, with the disastrous "pivot to metaverse"):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/18/metaverse-means-pivot-to-video/

Thus we have a company that threatened to walk away from the EU before it would obey the trading bloc's privacy laws:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/22/uncivvl/#fb-v-eu

(Ironically, the company insists upon the utmost secrecy when it negotiates with regulators, because nothing is more important than (Meta's) privacy):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/27/viral-colonialism/#ico-schtum

Meta's own employees are clearly keenly aware of its toxic nature. It's not just Sarah Wynn-Williams: departing Facebookers' "badge posts" – where they publicly take stock of their careers at Facebook – are a litany of recriminations and regrets:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#badge-posts

How will this case go? Well, it's hard to say. The judge – James Boasberg – just rejected a bid by Meta to keep its exhibits secret from the press and the public, seemingly having learned a lesson from Mehta's mistakes in the Google case.

And Meta has undergone spasms of antitrust fervor, like when Apple cut off third-party commercial surveillance by mobile apps, even as Apple spied on its own customers to fuel targeted ads. This prompted Zuckerberg to go on the warpath, telling anyone who'd listen that Apple was a dangerous tech monopoly and that the government really ought to do something about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/29/chickenized-home-to-roost/#chickenizers-come-home-to-roost

Yup.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/04/11/it-is-better-to-buy/#than-to-compete

[shadyfestivalperfection]

softvibraniumdaydreams ~Oneshot

Summery: Bucky accidentally stumbles onto your secret Tumblr—filled with fanfiction about him.From soft tropes to unholy smut, he dives headfirst into the world of fics, fluff, and feelings.Now you’re writing stories together… and maybe living one, too.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

||Main Masterlist|| ||Oneshot Masterlist||

This is a part 2 of “That’s not me….is it?”

||Part 1: “That’s not me….is it?”||

The descent began innocently enough.

Bucky had already posted two short fics—quiet, emotional little pieces that you swore were soft punches to the heart. His followers had grown steadily. You weren’t shocked. The man could craft longing like it was a battlefield.

But then he asked you a question.

A dangerous, chaotic, no-turning-back question:

“How do you write… y’know. The spicy stuff?”

You blinked at him from across the couch.

“You mean smut?”

His face turned the exact shade of pomegranate.

He nodded, once, as if it took all his courage.

You took a slow sip of your tea. “Why?”

Bucky stared at his hands. “I wrote something. It… kind of turned into that. By accident.”

Your heart jumped.

“You wrote smut.”

“I tried,” he mumbled. “It’s harder than it looks.”

(You almost said “That’s what she said” but you were trying to be supportive.)

“Can I read it?”

He hesitated, then nodded—pulling out his phone with visible pain and air-dropping the doc to you.

It was titled:

“Untitled draft 4.5 - do not open - death.docx”

You opened it.

And read.

And immediately, violently choked on your tea.

“Her breath hitched as he approached, all coiled tension and leather and something darker beneath his skin. ‘You feel that?’ he murmured, guiding her hand down—’”

“—he groaned like gravel on pavement, low and dangerous, but respectful—”

“—his metal hand cupped her boob like it was a fragile piece of art. She gasped.”

You looked up, trembling. “You… cupped a boob like it was art?”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die. “I panicked, okay?!”

You offered—very kindly—to beta read.

Which was how you ended up on his bed at 1:47 a.m., laptop open between you, deep into editing what was now being called “The Heat of Vibranium.”

Bucky sat beside you, watching your every keystroke like a hawk.

“This part,” you said, highlighting a paragraph, “where you say she ‘gasped as he removed her socks,’—”

“What? That’s intimate!”

“Yeah, but not sexy. Unless you’re writing for foot Tumblr.”

He groaned and collapsed back onto the pillows. “This was a mistake.”

You laughed and nudged his arm. “No, it’s actually good. It’s just… you write like someone who’s never read smut before.”

“I haven’t!” he said, scandalized.

“Oh my god.” You grinned. “I need to show you some references.”

He gave you a long, quiet look.

You paused. Realized what you’d said. Heat crept into your cheeks.

“I meant like… reading. Just reading.”

“Right. Reading,” he murmured, clearly amused. “For science.”

By 2:30 a.m., things had gotten dangerously flirty.

You were laughing too hard at one of his “dirty” lines—he used the word “delicately” six times—and he threw a pillow at you, which ended up launching your laptop across the bed.

You both reached for it.

Your hand landed on his thigh.

Silence.

He looked down.

You pulled back instantly, face blazing. “Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said, voice a little lower than before.

You cleared your throat. “Okay. Uh. Back to the vibranium heat wave.”

But you didn’t look at him.

Not for a while.

At 3:12 a.m., as fate would cruelly dictate, Steve Rogers walked into Bucky’s room carrying a stack of old mission files.

And froze.

You and Bucky were seated side-by-side on the bed, still hunched over the laptop.

The screen? Glowing brightly with the sentence:

“He thrust once—twice—growling, ‘You feel that, sweetheart? That’s all me.’”

Steve blinked.

Bucky noticed too late. “It’s not—”

“We’re editing!” you said, panicked.

Steve stared.

Then—slowly backed out of the room.

He never spoke of it again.

Bucky changed his Tumblr password to ‘capslockcockblocker1’.

A week passed.

You wrote together almost every night now.

Sometimes fluff. Sometimes angst. Occasionally soft smut (you were easing him in).

But one night, something changed.

You were writing a fic where your characters were on the run. Hunted. Hiding in a safehouse. The classic canon-divergent rewrite of a mission gone wrong.

You played the scene out in dialogue—typing in tandem from opposite sides of the couch.

Your line:

“You don’t have to protect me.”

His:

“I can’t help it. You’re everything I never let myself want.”

You froze.

The cursor blinked.

He typed again.

“Every time I look at you, it hurts. Because I know I’ll never deserve you.”

You stared at the screen.

Bucky didn’t look at you.

You typed, slowly:

“Then let it hurt. I’d rather bleed with you than heal alone.”

The silence between you was thick. Fragile.

Your fingers hovered.

His hand inched closer—until your pinkies brushed.

Later, after the fic was posted, after it had blown up with 5,000 notes and tags like #emotional devastation club and #softly screaming into my pillow, you found Bucky in the kitchen.

He was making tea.

You stood there for a moment, watching him. The same man who once couldn’t say “panties” in a sentence now had strangers thirsting over his poetic softdom edits.

“Hey,” you said gently.

He looked up.

“About the fic…” you started. “Those lines. Were they… fiction?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he set the kettle down.

And crossed to you.

“I don’t want to say it in a fic,” he said, voice low, real, raw. “I want to say it here.”

You swallowed.

“Okay.”

“I’m in love with you,” he said simply.

Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just… true.

You stepped closer.

“And I’m in love with the man who reads smut at 3 a.m. and makes me laugh until I cry,” you whispered.

He grinned.

You kissed.

Not like the fics.

Better.

Two months later, your shared blog had 75k followers.

You wrote stories together. Posted drabbles. Answered asks.

Your blog bio read:

“Two idiots in love. She edits. He panics. Come for the fluff, stay for the chaos.”

Sam refused to follow you.

Steve blocked you after The Sock Removal Scene trended.

But you were happy.

And Bucky?

He posted your favorite fic to date.

“He Read It Out Loud.”

Title: He Read It Out Loud

By: softvibraniumdaydreams & the-one-who-hides-the-smut

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Rating: Explicit (NSFW at the end — soft smut, loving, vulnerable)

Tags: established relationship, mutual pining resolved, fluff leading to smut, emotional confessions, reading fanfiction, soft Bucky, praise kink (gentle), slow undressing, tender intimacy, it’s basically a love letter

Summary: She wrote a fanfic about him. He found it. Then he read it out loud—every line, every feeling, every secret she never thought she’d say. And she let him.

Author’s note: It’s based on the way we fell for each other — quietly, all at once.

It started with an open tab and a full heart.

Bucky hadn’t meant to linger.

He’d only stopped by her apartment because she’d fallen asleep mid-call—murmuring something soft before the screen went dark, the line cutting off with the hush of her breathing. When he arrived, the front door was unlocked. She always forgot to check the latch when she was tired.

Inside, the lights were low, casting amber-gold shadows across the hardwood floor. A candle still burned on the coffee table, wax pooled around the base like it had been going for hours. And there she was, curled up on the couch like a cat—barefoot, hoodie sleeves bunched around her elbows, hair spilling across the cushion. Her laptop was perched precariously on the armrest, screen half-shut but still glowing with faint light.

Bucky’s first instinct was gentle. He stepped closer on quiet feet, reaching for the throw blanket slung over the back of the couch. She always got cold when she fell asleep like this. It had become something of a ritual: her falling asleep mid-sentence, and him covering her like a ghost no one saw.

He leaned over to drape the blanket.

But then he saw it.

Tumblr.

A fic.

His name.

And hers.

Not in the tags. Not a passing mention.

In the title.

Where He Finally Stays — Bucky x Y/n

Bucky froze.

His first breath caught halfway through his lungs, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. His name. Her. Together. In writing.

It wasn’t just some random blog either. The username on the top corner matched hers—her blog. Her account. Her words.

She had written it.

The silence between them stretched like glass. Carefully, almost guiltily, he glanced down at her. She was still sleeping, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lashes fluttering slightly in a dream. The slow rise and fall of her breath told him he had time.

So he sat.

And clicked.

He didn’t knock. Just opened the door like he’d done it a hundred times before.

She looked up from her book, startled—but not afraid.

He never scared her.

Even when he was all shadow and scars and silence, she saw the soft in him.

“You came back,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just crossed the room, knelt in front of her, and touched her hand like he’d never held anything sacred before.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he said. “I just didn’t think I deserved to stay.”

Her smile was small. But it was there.

“You always deserve to stay.”

Bucky’s hand hovered over the trackpad. He blinked once. Then again.

There was something… tight in his chest. Like someone had reached into his ribcage and wrapped warm fingers around his heart.

He leaned back, breathing out slow. The words glowed soft on the screen. Honest. Raw.

He glanced at her sleeping face again. Peaceful. Unaware.

And then—almost reverently—he began to read the rest.

Out loud.

At first, his voice was quiet. A low rumble, gravel and uncertainty. Like if he said the words too loudly, they’d shatter.

But the more he read, the more he fell into it. The more it stopped being fiction.

Because she saw him.

She really saw him.

The way he always made two mugs of tea but only drank one, leaving the other to cool untouched, just in case.

The way he lingered in doorways—not quite coming in, not quite leaving—haunted by the question of whether he was welcome.

The way he stood close enough to be near, but never close enough to hope.

He swallowed hard.

She wrote the things he tried to bury. Things he thought no one ever noticed.

But she noticed.

And she didn’t just see the scars or the silences or the ghosts. She saw the softness in him. The part of him even he wasn’t sure was real.

She wrote him like his hands were capable of gentleness. Like his voice held the power to soothe, not harm. Like he belonged somewhere.

Like he belonged with her.

A small sound stirred the silence.

She blinked awake, groggy and blinking against the soft light of the room. Her eyes found him slowly—first his silhouette, then his face, then the unmistakable glow of her laptop in front of him.

“…Bucky?” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t stop reading.

Her confusion turned to alarm. “Wait—are you—?”

But his voice cut gently through her panic. Low. Measured. Full of something that made her breath catch.

“He touched her like she was the thing he never thought he’d get back.”

“Like a man returning to a memory he didn’t dare rewrite.”

“She said his name, soft, like it was permission.”

“And when he kissed her, he knew.”

“He could stay.”

“He could be hers.”

“He already was.”

The silence that followed was dense. Breathless.

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around herself like armor, heart hammering.

He looked at her.

Eyes soft.

Expression unreadable. But not closed off. Not this time.

“You wrote this?” he asked.

Her voice barely made it past her lips. “I… yeah. I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Did you mean it?” he asked, cutting gently through her fluster.

She hesitated. Swallowed.

“Yeah.”

That one word—bare and honest—was all it took.

He rose.

Walked toward her.

And then, just like in her story, he knelt in front of her. Slowly. Deliberately. One hand braced on his knee, the other reaching up to brush hair from her cheek.

“Good,” he said.

“Because I want to stay.”

The kiss was quiet.

No fanfare. No sudden music or drama.

Just breath. Skin. Soft mouths meeting like a question answered.

He kissed her like he was learning how.

One hand at her waist, the other cradling her cheek. Like she was fragile and real and his, all at once.

She gasped when his mouth found the curve of her neck, breath warm.

“Bucky…”

He chuckled against her skin, teasing.

“You write smut in there too?”

Her face went crimson. “That’s—! Not the point!”

“Maybe not,” he murmured, lips brushing hers. “But I’d like to know what it’d sound like if you said it out loud.”

She kissed him again.

Slower. Deeper.

This time, she meant to burn.

They didn’t rush.

Clothing came off in stages—careful, reverent. A hoodie here. A shirt there. A brush of fingers over scars neither of them flinched from.

She traced the metal of his shoulder, slow and unafraid.

He let her.

She asked softly, “Are you sure?”

He leaned down, lips grazing hers.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And then—

Bodies, breath, and aching tenderness.

She gasped when his hands settled on her hips, anchoring her like a prayer. Groaned his name when he entered her slow and deep, like something returning home.

There were no fireworks.

No battles.

Just the quiet.

The kind that only came when you knew—really knew—you were safe.

That you were wanted.

That you could stay.

Later, they lay tangled in sheets and moonlight. Skin against skin. Her head rose and fell with the rhythm of his chest, and he played with her hair in gentle circles.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Then—

“You know,” Bucky murmured, voice rough with sleep and something warmer, “I think I’m gonna write the next one.”

She laughed, soft and drowsy. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” He kissed her temple.

“A sequel,” he added.

She smiled against his skin. “What’s it called?”

He exhaled, long and slow. Pulled her closer.

“The One Where I Never Leave.”

-the end

[scoutofmymind]

With Me — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: SFW, angst, pining, unrequited love, guilt, mentions of death, five years in the future in this one, a lowkey cliffhanger ending again, I’m an asshole

Wc: 7,681

Notes: five years later and at times continents apart, you’ve finally come to realize that some currents are impossible to resist — no matter how far you’ve travelled to escape them.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

This is a sequel to Without Me

Five years carve themselves differently into different things.

Into the barn's weathered planks, they've etched deeper grooves, splitting paint and warping wood.

Into the fields beyond, they've cycled twenty harvests that blur together like a kaleidoscope.

Into your hands, they've written their own history — small calluses from surgical instruments instead of hay bales, faint chemical burns from disinfectants replacing the mud stains of your youth.

You time your visits home with the care of someone defusing a bomb.

Three days when the Mangiones are in Milan.

A weekend while Luigi attends a business conference in Chicago.

Christmas morning but never Christmas Eve, Easter dinner but never the egg hunt that follows.

Your mother stopped asking why around year three, just confirms your arrival with "They'll be gone by then" or "He's in New York until Tuesday," a subtle acknowledgment of the careful romp you've arranged around his absence.

The farmhouse you once called home’s kitchen smells the same — cinnamon and coffee grounds, the lingering ghost of last night's dinner, all undercut by the sweet decay of fruit ripening too fast in the bowl by the window. Still, your mother isn’t used to the two pairs of hands not around anymore to raid the kitchen after a day in the sun.

She moves around you, pulling down plates that haven't changed since childhood, her hands marked by new spots but following the same patterns they always have.

Time is both frozen and racing here.

You think back to all the times the elders told you to appreciate your youth whilst you have it — you’re not dead, nor have you gotten old, but life feels a little heavier than it ever did.

"Your old room's all made up," she slides eggs onto a plate, the yolks perfect half-moons of sunrise yellow. "Though I swear those sheets are going to disintegrate soon. You should take some of your things this visit, we're not a storage unit." There's no bite to her words, just the same gentle nudging she's been attempting for years — trying to make you confront the boxes of memories you've left to gather dust in her attic.

You nod, knowing you'll leave without opening a single one.

It’s true that wounds scab over if you're careful enough, developing a protection that holds as long as you don't pick at the edges.

And you’ve become an expert at not picking.

Five years ago, you left with a suitcase of practical things — clothes, books, the silver pendant your grandmother left you — and abandoned the artifacts that might have hurt too much to carry; the shoebox of river stones collected each summer, photographs chronicling two lives so intertwined they seemed impossible to separate, evidence of a friendship that had grown into something you couldn't name without destroying it.

Your life now spans three continents, filled with colleagues who know nothing of sunrise swims or teenage promises whispered under star-scattered skies. You've crafted yourself into someone defined by action rather than attachment — the veterinarian who stays just long enough to heal before moving on, whose apartment holds furniture selected for function rather than memory.

You tell yourself it's freedom.

Most days, you almost believe it.

But the guilt comes in waves — during transatlantic flights when there's nothing to do but think, or in the moments before sleep. You replay that last night by the water, his hands cradling your face, the desperation in his voice as he offered you everything while you offered only a goodbye.

Sometimes you draft text messages you never send, explanations that sound hollow even in your own mind.

I needed to find myself.

I was scared of disappearing into us.

I didn't know how to love you without losing me.

What you never say, even to yourself, is that you miss him with an ache that hasn't dulled with distance or time — a phantom limb pain for something vital you chose to amputate.

"Did you hear about Marco?" your father asks, settling at the table with a grunt, his knees creaking like the porch steps. "Cancer's spread. Doctors gave him six months, but Sofia says he's fading faster."

You nod, focusing intently on buttering toast that doesn't need such concentration. You've heard, of course — gleaned from conversations with your mother that never directly mention Luigi, though his absence in these updates sits like a ghost at the table.

You wonder who's running the company now, if the pressure has etched new lines around his eyes, if he still laughs with his whole body the way he did before you left.

"That poor boy been handling everything," your mother adds, as if reading your thoughts. "The business, the medical decisions. Sofia's not coping well." She pauses, watching you with eyes that see too much. "Lu asks about you, you know. When he calls to check if your father needs help with the south field."

The knife stills against bread gone suddenly tasteless in your mouth. "He shouldn't," you manage, the words scraping your throat raw.

"And yet he does," your father’s weathered hand covers yours briefly before returning to his coffee mug. "Some things don't change just because we wish they would."

Today's miscalculation feels like fate's sick joke.

Your father's birthday celebration was supposed to be safe — Sofia had mentioned to your mother her plans of taking Marco to specialists in Boston, a last-ditch consultation for treatments that weren't working. You'd verified twice, casual questions that weren't casual at all: "Will it just be us?" "And a less subtle “The Mangiones around?" Your mother's responses had been reassuring — at least that’s how you’d felt in the moment.

“Just family this time," and "Sofia's with Marco at that hospital."

What she failed to mention was that Luigi had flown back alone.

You realize this as headlights sweep across the kitchen window, illuminating family photographs, a contrast to where you've been carefully cropped out of your mother's social media posts — another protection measure in your elaborate system of avoidance.

The car engine cuts, and the silence that follows feels longer than the five years you've spent running.

Your mother gives you a look that hovers between apology and guilt. "He brings us wine every year now,” she looks toward the hallway leading to the door. "Some Italian red your father loves. I didn't have the heart to tell him not to come."

Your hands grip the edge of the countertop, knuckles white against butcher block worn smooth by generations of anxious grips just like yours. There's nowhere to run now — no flight to catch, no work emergency to fabricate.

Just the sound of footsteps on the porch steps, the familiar rhythm of someone who knows exactly which boards creak and how to distribute his weight to minimize the sound.

And then the knock comes — three gentle taps, the same signal from childhood that meant come out and play, I've found something amazing — and your separate life collapses like a house of cards.

For a breath-stealing moment, your body forgets how to move. Muscles locked in the ancient instinct of prey caught in open terrain, and your mother glances between you and the door again, a silent question in her raised eyebrows.

When you remain frozen, she sighs and moves toward the entrance, her footsteps deliberate as if giving you time to flee. But where would you go? The bathroom window is too small, the back door leads to a yard with no cover, and dignity — what little remains — prevents you from hiding under the kitchen table like a child.

The door opens, and your mother's voice carries that special warmth she's always reserved for Luigi — the tone that once made you wonder if she secretly wished he was her child instead. "There he is! Right on time as always."

Right on time?

Suddenly, you realize you’ve been set up.

And so has Luigi.

Their shadows stretch across the entryway floor, elongated by the porch light behind them. You can see the wine bottle passing between their silhouettes, hear the soft murmur of his response though the words themselves are lost beneath the thunder of your pulse in your ears.

"She's in the kitchen," your mother tells him, louder now, unmistakably meant for you to hear — a final warning before the inevitable.

And then he's there, standing in the doorway between worlds — yours and his — a presence so familiar yet altered that your mind struggles to reconcile memory with reality.

He's filled out, his shoulders carrying a tension they never did before, hair longer than you've ever seen it, but cut in a way that seems so New York City. The playfulness that once animated his features has been replaced by something more contained, more deliberate.

He wears the responsibility like one of his tailored Brunello Cucinelli dinner suits, both perfectly fitted and slightly constraining.

And for a moment, neither of you speaks.

What could possibly follow five years of silence?

What greeting spans a canyon of that width?

"Hey, stranger," his voice is deeper than you remember, the casual words belied by the way he keeps his distance, like approaching a wild animal that might bolt at just the sound of his voice. The phrase — your phrase, the one you always used when he returned from summer trips to Italy — feels like a key unlocking a door you've kept bolted shut, afraid of what lives behind it.

"Luigi,” you manage, your own voice sounding foreign in your ears. Not quite steady, not quite yours.

His eyes move over you, cataloging changes with the precision of someone checking a beloved book for damage after lending it out too long, and you feel suddenly conscious of everything — the faint scar along your forearm from a leopard cub with more fear than sense, the way you hold yourself now, a little straighter, a little more guarded than the girl he knew.

"You look-“ he starts, then stops, recalibrates. "It's been a while."

The understatement of it breaks something in the air between you, and you find yourself exhaling a laugh that's not quite humor but not quite pain, either. "Five years, three months, two weeks." The precision of your count betrays your nonchalance, and you see the recognition flash across his face — you've been keeping track.

He looks down at the phone in his hand, staring at the date for a moment before finding your gaze again.

"And four days," he adds quietly, confirming what you both already know; neither of you have forgotten a single moment of the separation you've enforced.

Your father saves you from whatever might come next, bustling in from the living room with forced cheer that doesn't match the knowing look he exchanges with your mother. "There's the wine man!” Your father’s smile is infectious, but even so, you can tell Luigi’s is forced. “Sofia still in Boston?"

Luigi's attention shifts, that professional mask sliding back into place. A boy forced to be a man far too soon. "Yes, she's — the doctors there are trying something new." He doesn't elaborate, but the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth says everything you need to know. "She said to wish you happy birthday, though. She's sorry she couldn't be here."

"How is he?" Your father asks, the question gentle but direct, a farmer's practicality cutting through polite fiction.

"Not good." Luigi's answer is equally unvarnished. "Maybe weeks now, not months like we thought originally."

Your chest tightens, unexpected sympathy washing through you. Marco, with his booming laugh and endless supply of stories of his childhood in post war Palermo, who taught you both to drive in his vintage Alfa Romeo despite Sofia's horror, who called you piccola leonessa — little lioness — for standing up to him when no one else would.

You hadn't allowed yourself to imagine him diminished, hadn't wanted to picture Luigi facing that loss alone.

"I should check on dinner," your mother announces to no one in particular, a transparent excuse to leave that your father immediately supports.

"I'll help," he adds, though he's never voluntarily assisted with meal preparation in forty years of marriage; it was never for lack of trying.

Cooking just had never been his strong suit.

Their retreat leaves a vacuum of sound, filled only by the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the hallway, counting seconds that stretch like taffy. Luigi shifts his weight, hands sliding into his pockets in a gesture so achingly familiar it makes your throat close. "I can go," he offers, misreading your silence as discomfort. "I didn't know you'd be here. Your Ma just said-“

"No," you interrupt, surprising yourself with the speed of your response. "No, it's your tradition too. The wine." You gesture vaguely toward the bottle now sitting on the counter, trying to ignore how domestic this feels, how easily you could slip back into old patterns if you allowed yourself. "How's the company?"

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Demanding. Expanding. The same." He leans against the doorframe, maintaining the careful distance between you. "I heard you were in Kenya. Then Malaysia. They keep me updated, though I think your Ma edits the dangerous parts."

Of course she does. Of course he asks.

While you've been deliberately avoiding any information about him, he's been collecting fragments of your life like precious artifacts.

"Just finished a rehabilitation project for elephants affected by poaching," you say, falling back on the professional details that feel safer than personal truths like I’m lonely there and I work so much I’ve had no time to make human friends, only the mammal kind. “Starting a new position next month with a conservation group in Borneo."

"Always moving," he observes, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You found what you were looking for?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with meaning that stretches far beyond your career trajectory.

Have you found yourself, separate from him?

Have you discovered who you are without the counterbalance he always provided?

Has the freedom been worth the cost?

"I found... parts," you admit, the closest to honesty you can manage with him standing there, looking both like a stranger and exactly like the boy who knew every single secret you ever had. "What about you? Did you-“ You can't quite bring yourself to ask if he's happy, if he's built a life that satisfies him, if there's someone else who knows him the way you once did.

"I found parts too," he echoes, understanding your unfinished question as he always did. "Some fit better than others."

The clock in the hall chimes seven, and Luigi straightens, seeming to remember himself. "I should let you have your family dinner. I just came to drop off the wine.”

And just like that, he's gone, moving toward his car with the fluid grace that always made him seem like he belonged to some other world — one with fewer sharp edges and hard landings than yours.

Your mother waits in the kitchen doorway once she hears the front door close, "He never stopped checking on us, you know," she says as you pass her, avoiding eye contact. "After every storm, during your father's surgery last year. Even helped reroof the chicken coop in January — thirty-degree weather and he's up there hammering like he was born to do it."

The guilt twists sharper in your chest. "Mom, please-“

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, honey." Her hand catches yours, squeezing gently. "Just thought you should know what kind of man he's become while you were finding yourself.” There’s another silence, her voice quieter when she finally says, “He needs you more than ever.”

Sleep eludes you that night, your childhood bedroom both comfort and cage.

Through the window, you can just make out the distant lights of the Mangione estate — fewer than there used to be, concentrated now in what you know is the west wing where Marco's medical equipment has transformed a sunroom into a temporary hospital suite.

You wonder if Luigi is awake, too.

Morning arrives in layers of gold and rose, dawn mist clinging to the fields like reluctant ghosts.

You dress quietly, slipping from the house while your parents still sleep, drawn by some magnetic pull toward the water that featured in so many of your dreams during those nights in Kenya, in Malaysia, in sterile, lonesome apartments across the world.

The path feels both foreign and achingly familiar beneath your feet — wider in some places, narrower in others, the subtle changes of five years' growth and erosion. Dew-heavy grass soaks your sneakers as you follow the trail through wildflowers nodding drowsily in the early breeze.

The reservoir appears suddenly as you crest the final rise — a mirror of silver-blue stretched beneath the awakening sky, foggy mist rising from its surface in delicate tendrils.

The sight stops you mid-stride, a physical ache blooming beneath your ribs.

How many mornings did you watch this same phenomenon with Luigi beside you, his voice quiet in the dawn as he explained the science behind it, your shoulder pressed against his as the rising sun painted you both in gold?

You make your way down to the shore, to the flat rock that has served as your sitting place since childhood.

It's still there, unchanged except for new patches of lichen decorating its edges like natural embroidery.

You settle on its cool surface, drawing your knees to your chest, allowing yourself to really be present in this place that shaped so much of who you are as the water laps gently against the stone shore, its rhythm unchanging despite seasons and years.

Dragonflies skim the surface near the reeds, their iridescent wings catching light in blue-green flashes.

A heron stands motionless in the shallows, its reflection perfect in the still water — patient, watchful, belonging in a way you once did.

You lose track of time, lulled by the gentle sounds of morning gradually asserting itself over night's quiet, and as the sun climbs higher, warming the rock beneath you, and you close your eyes, face tilted toward its heat.

For the first time in longer than you can remember, the constant hum of anxiety that's become your companion fades to background noise; here, you are neither the accomplished veterinarian with international credentials, nor the farm girl desperate to escape her roots.

You are simply yourself, existing in a moment that asks nothing of you but presence.

But the deliberate scuff of shoe against stone breaks the spell.

You don't need to turn to know who stands there; your body recognizes his presence before your mind can catch up, an awareness embedded too deeply to be erased by time or distance.

You open your eyes but don't turn, watching his reflection appear in the water beside yours — distorted slightly by the gentle ripples, but unmistakably Luigi. He stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of jeans that look expensive but well-worn, his posture hesitant in a way that the boy you knew never was.

"I didn't expect to see you here," the slight uptick at the end makes it almost a question.

Now you do turn, shielding your eyes against the strengthening sunlight that silhouettes him against the sky with your hand. "Liar," you reply, the word lacking any heat. "You hoped I'd be here just as much as I hoped you wouldn't be."

The honesty startles a laugh from him — just a breath of sound, but genuine. "Still calling me on my bullshit." He shifts his weight, uncertainty written in the tight line of his shoulders. "Mind if I join you?"

Simple words that carry the weight of all the space you've deliberately placed between you for five years.

You could say yes, maintain the careful distance that's become your habit.

Or you could make room on the rock that's always been big enough for two.

"Since when do you ask permission?" You shift slightly to the left, the invitation clear even as you wrap the words in the familiar barbs of your old banter.

Luigi hesitates for a moment longer before crossing the remaining distance, settling beside you with a careful space between your bodies that never used to exist. His presence brings with it the same scent from last night — expensive cologne layered over familiar soap — and something else you can't quite name.

Hospital antiseptic, maybe, or just the peculiar scent of prolonged worry.

"You're up early," you observe, keeping your gaze on the water. Speaking is easier when you're not looking at him directly, when you can pretend this is just another morning from before you left.

"Haven't really been sleeping much," he admits, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his fingers — a nervous habit you'd forgotten until this moment. "Papa gets confused at night, thinks he's back in Palermo, starts speaking only Italian." There's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound much older than his twenty-five years. "The nurses call when they can't calm him down."

The simple honesty of it catches you off guard — no pretense, no careful social masks, just the raw truth of what he's facing. "I'm sorry about Marco," you say, and mean it. "He was always so kind to me."

Luigi's smile is crooked, tinged with sadness. "He asks about you, you know. On his good days. Wants to know if the leonessa is still roaring at the world."

The nickname — born after you'd stood up to him during a heated debate about local agriculture when you were sixteen — brings an unexpected lump to your throat. "And what do you tell him?"

"That you're saving exotic animals across the world. Living the adventure we used to talk about." His voice drops slightly. "He's proud of you."

The words shouldn't hurt — they're generous, kind, even — but they land like bullet holes against your chest. How can he be proud when you left without looking back, when you've spent five years deliberately avoiding every connection to this place?

"I'm not sure I deserve that," you admit, the pitiful confession slipping out before you can catch it.

Luigi is quiet for a long moment, his gaze following the path of a kingfisher as it dives into the water and emerges with a small fish clutched in its beak. "Maybe not," he says finally, the honesty both startling and refreshing after last night's careful dance of politeness. "But pride isn't always about deserving. Sometimes it's just about loving someone enough to celebrate their happiness, even when it comes at your expense."

The words hang between you, too honest to ignore, but too painful to acknowledge directly.

You stare at the water, watching ripples spread from the kingfisher's dive, circles expanding outward just like the consequences of choices made five years ago.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," you say finally, the words inadequate but necessary. "I just needed-“

"Space. Freedom. A life that wasn't defined by this place." Luigi finishes for you, no bitterness in his tone, just tired acceptance. "I know. I always knew that about you. You always told me as much." He turns the stone over in his hand one more time before skipping it across the water's surface — one, two, three, four bounces before it disappears beneath the surface. "What I never understood was why it had to be all or nothing. Why there wasn't room for both of us."

You watch another stone skip across the water, five bounces this time.

"I was afraid," you admit finally, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of water against shore. "Afraid that if I let you come with me, I'd never know if I could stand on my own. Afraid that one day you'd resent giving up everything here for me. Afraid that-“ You stop, the final fear too raw to voice.

Afraid that you'd realize I wasn't enough, that you'd leave anyway, and I wouldn't survive it.

Luigi's shoulder brushes against yours as he shifts, "Fear is a shitty compass," he says quietly. "Keeps you running from things."

"Says the man who never left home.”

"I didn't stay because I was afraid to leave." His voice takes on an edge you've never heard before. "I stayed because someone had to. Because Mama fell apart when the diagnosis came, because the business employs forty-three families who depend on it, and because Papa asked me to." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "Not all of us have the luxury of just walking away."

The words land like a slap, all the more painful for their truth. You have walked away — not just from him but from every responsibility, every connection that might have anchored you when your dreams proved more complicated than expected.

"That's not fair to you, Lu.”

"No, it's not." His smile is sad but not unkind. "Life rarely is."

Another silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable but heavy with all the words still unspoken, and the sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of morning mist from the water's surface.

A little family of ducks paddle along the far shore, ducklings following their mother in perfect formation.

"He's dying," Luigi says suddenly, the words stark in the morning quiet. "Maybe weeks. Probably days. The cancer's in his brain now, that's why he gets confused." His voice remains steady, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the tight line of his jaw. "I wasn't ready to be the man of the family yet. Not like this."

Without thinking, you reach for his hand — the first time you've initiated contact in five years. His skin is warmer than you remember, his fingers thinner, but they close around yours with the same instinctive certainty they always did, like two pieces designed to fit together.

"No one ever is.”

Luigi looks down at your joined hands, "Why did you come back now? After all this time?"

The question is deceptively simple but layered with meaning. The easy answer — your father's birthday, a planned visit — feels like a deflection too cowardly to offer. The truth is more complicated, harder to shape into words when you've spent so long avoiding examining it too closely.

"I think maybe I needed to see if this place still fit," you say finally, your eyes on the water rather than his face. "If I still fit here.” Your thumb grazes his knuckle, “I come usually for only a couple days, this time I just-“ you shrug, “Had a feeling I’d need to stay longer, I guess.”

"And do you?" His voice is carefully neutral, but his thumb traces small circles against your skin — an unconscious gesture of comfort or connection that he might not even realize he's doing, returning the same gesture as you. “Fit?”

You look around at the reservoir, at the fields beyond, at the distant silhouette of the barn where you both learned to climb, to kiss (maybe once or twice), to dream. Then at the man beside you, familiar and strange all at once, carrying burdens you can only begin to imagine.

"I don't know yet," you answer honestly. "But it feels possible. In a way it didn't before."

Luigi nods, accepting this partial truth without pushing for more as his gaze drifts back to the water, to the gentle ripples that distort your reflections into wavering approximations of yourselves. "Our spot is still here," he smiles. "Some things don't change, even when the people do."

It’s not quite reconciliation, not quite forgiveness, but perhaps the beginning of understanding.

You sit in shared silence as the morning deepens around you, two people finding their way back to familiar ground, uncertain what will grow there but willing, at least, to see.

The reservoir glitters in the strengthening light — impossibly clear, every stone and fallen branch visible beneath the surface just as you remember. In summer heat, this crystalline clarity was always your sanctuary, the secret paradise only the two of you knew about, hidden from tourists and transients.

Luigi releases your hand and stands suddenly, his movement decisive in a way that catches you off guard.

For a moment, you think he's leaving, that this reconnection has reached its limit; Instead, he stares out at the water, something shifting in his expression — the weight of responsibility and grief giving way to something lighter, finally more familiar.

"You know what your problem always was?" he asks, turning to look down at you, a spark igniting in eyes that had seemed so tired just moments before.

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," you reply, wary of this sudden change but unable to resist the pull of old patterns.

"You think too much." He kicks off his shoes with practiced ease, then reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Always did."

Your pulse quickens as his fingers work downward, exposing the lean planes of a chest both familiar and new — slightly broader than you remember, more defined, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His smile gleams — the first genuine one you've seen since your return, a glimpse of the boy who once convinced you to skip school to drive to the coast in his father's borrowed convertible. He drops his shirt onto the rock beside you, hands moving to his belt buckle, "I'm going swimming."

"Luigi, it's barely seventy degrees — the water's freezing," you protest, even as something long dormant stirs inside you, a recognition of this ritual played out hundreds of times through childhood and adolescence and beyond.

He laughs, stepping out of his jeans to reveal black boxer briefs that cling to powerful thighs. "Since when did that ever stop us?" His eyes hold a challenge as he backs toward the water's edge. "Or have you really forgotten how to play this time?"

The words — so similar to ones from long ago, from the last summer before everything changed — hit their mark. You've built a life of careful control, of prompted responses, of calculated risks assessed through the lens of professional detachment.

When was the last time you did something simply for the joy of it?

Before you can answer, he turns and dives — a clean arc that barely disturbs the surface before his body disappears beneath it. The water welcomes him like an old friend, his form visible through the blue as he glides beneath the surface with the same effortless grace he's always had.

He resurfaces with a triumphant gasp, dark curls slicked back, water streaming down his face. "Holy shit, it's colder than I remembered!" His laugh echoes across the reservoir, bouncing back from the rocks on the far shore. "Always worth it."

He floats onto his back, face turned toward the sky, the morning sun gilding the water droplets on his skin. "Come in," he calls, not looking at you, somehow knowing the direct challenge would make you retreat. "Unless Kenya made you soft."

The taunt is gentle, playful in a way that tugs at memories you've kept carefully boxed away. How many summer mornings did you spend like this? Racing to the reservoir at dawn, competing to see who could stay underwater longest, floating on your backs while discussing constellations and college applications and all the places you'd someday go?

"Malaysia," you correct, standing despite yourself. "Most recently, anyway."

"Malaysia, Kenya, Timbuktu — doesn't really matter." He flips over, treading water as he watches you, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "Water's the same everywhere. Either you're brave enough to jump in, or you're not."

The double meaning isn't lost on you.

This isn't just about swimming — never was, with the two of you. Water was always your shared language, this place your confessional, your playground, your private world away from expectation and obligation.

"I didn't bring a suit," you stall, though your fingers have already reached for the hem of your sweater.

Luigi's smile widens, a touch of the old mischief lighting his eyes. "When has that ever stopped you? Besides-“ his gaze sweeps over you, “it's seriously nothing I haven't seen before."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you find yourself pulling the sweater over your head anyway, some long-dormant part of you responding to this familiar challenge. The practical cotton bra you're wearing is a far cry from the colorful bikinis of your teens, but Luigi's appreciative glance makes you feel seventeen again, fearless and seen in a way no one else has ever managed.

You step out of your shorts, hesitating for just a moment before diving in — a clean, practiced dive that contradicts the years since you last swam here. The cold is a shock, stealing your breath as you plunge beneath the surface, but your body remembers this, muscles responding automatically to the embrace of water that tastes like childhood and possibility and home.

You surface with a gasp, pushing wet hair from your face to find Luigi closer than expected, his smile softer now. "See? Some things you don't forget."

Water droplets cling to his eyelashes, to the slight stubble along his jaw that wasn't there five years ago. This close, you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension he carries in his shoulders even now. But his smile — that's the same, the crooked lift at the left corner that always made your heart stutter in your chest.

"Some things," you agree, treading water, conscious of the narrowing space between you.

Luigi dips lower, only his eyes and nose above the surface like a crocodile watching its prey, and he suddenly disappears, a swirl of bubbles the only evidence of his descent. You have just enough time to take a breath before hands grasp your ankles, pulling you under in a move he's been perfecting since you were twelve.

You kick free easily — you've always been the stronger swimmer — and chase him through the clear water, both of you visible to each other in the underwater clarity that makes the reservoir so magical.

For a few precious moments, you're not adults weighted by choices and consequences, not strangers rebuilt from the fragments of who you once were to each other. You're just two bodies moving through blue, chasing and evading in a dance as old as your friendship.

When you both surface, you're laughing — really laughing, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.

"There she is," Luigi says softly, treading water just an arm's length away. "I was beginning to think she was gone for good."

"Who?" you ask, though something in you already knows.

"The girl I’ve always known. Didn’t forget how to play.” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the open air around you. "The one who wasn't afraid to jump."

The words should feel like an accusation, but instead they land like recognition — like being seen for the first time in years by the only person who ever really could. You float in silence for a moment, letting the water hold you, conscious of how your bodies have drawn closer without either of you seeming to move.

"I didn't forget," you admit finally. "I just packed it away. Like everything else I left behind."

Luigi's hand finds yours beneath the surface, fingers intertwining with the same perfect fit they always had. "Not everything fits in boxes," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as water laps gently around your shoulders. "Some things just wait."

The distance between you shrinks further, your bodies drifting together as naturally as the current pulling toward the reservoir's center. His free hand rises to brush wet strands of hair from your face, the touch so familiar that your eyes close briefly against the surge of feeling it evokes.

"I've missed you," he whispers, the words barely audible above the gentle splash of water against shore. "Not just having you here, but seeing you. The real you.”

When you open your eyes, he's close enough that you can see the flecks of amber in his brown irises, count each individual eyelash jeweled with water droplets. His body radiates heat despite the cool water, a beacon calling you home after years adrift.

"I've missed me too," you confess, the truth of it surprising even you. "I've missed us."

His smile then is everything — recognition and forgiveness and possibility all tangled together in the crooked lift of his lips. His hand slides to cup your cheek, water cool against your skin where it drips from his fingers.

There's no hesitation when your bodies finally meet, drawn together by currents stronger than time or distance or walls. His arms encircle your waist, your legs tangling together as you both tread water, keeping each other afloat as you always did.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the small space between your mouths.

"Well,” his nose nudges yours, “welcome home.”

You’re not sure if he means your spot, the farm, or the circle of his arms.

Perhaps they're all the same thing — all the pieces of belonging you've been searching for across continents and careers. Here in the blue that witnessed your first secrets, your first promises, the puzzle of who you are slots back together — not erasing the person you've become in the years away, but completing her, filling the spaces you could never quite reach no matter how far you traveled.

When his lips finally meet yours, it feels inevitable — like gravity, like sunrise, like coming home to a place you never should have left.

The kiss tastes of water and morning sunshine and five years of longing distilled into a single point of contact. His body against yours is both familiar and new — the same shoulders your hands have memorized, but leaner now; the same chest, but bearing new scars and stories your fingers itch to learn.

You float together in the clear blue that's always been your sanctuary, your bodies finding their remembered rhythm, closer than you've been to anyone in the five years since you left. The water cradles you both, witness to this reunion as it's been witness to all the moments that shaped your shared history — every laugh, every race, every whispered dream, every touch that built the foundation of something you tried to leave behind but never truly could.

In the water, with Luigi's arms around you and the sun warming your upturned faces, you finally understand what you've been running from all these years — not him, not this place.

But the terrifying perfection of belonging somewhere so completely that losing it would unmake you.

The fear that loving like this — totally, without reservation — meant there would be nothing left if it ended.

"Stop thinking so much," Luigi murmurs against your lips, reading you as easily as he always has. "Just be here. With me.”

For once, you listen.

Tomorrow will bring complications — his dying father, your job in Borneo, five years of separate lives that can't simply be erased. But here, now, in the water that's always been your truest home, you surrender to the current pulling you back to where you've always belonged.

[cicadadust]

Secondary Cuphead oc done. Enough peeps thought I was referring to Porkrind in this post here that I had to give him an eyepatch haha.

🦡

Introducing Barnaby,

Barnaby might seem like a pretty unassuming badger at first glance, but truly he's an artist whose favorite canvas happens to be the body. After spending many years at sea, Barnaby eventually landed in the Inkwell Isles, where he set up what he proudly calls a "body shop for all." Situated in the sea side of the city, his shop usually sees the more object oriented folk. Barnaby specializes in paint jobs (often crafting his own paints), detailing, restoration, and touch-ups. He can handle minor fixes as well, but for the love of God, he is NOT a doctor. For those with hair, fur, or skin, Barnaby offers stylings and trimmings, always preferring more experimental designs. Despite the era, he’s also developed significant experience in tattooing and dyeing. He loves his work, taking pride in the small ways he helps others, even if it’s just a touch-up or a fresh coat of paint.

Background blip of you want to read:

Barnaby's background:

Barnaby wasn’t always the kind, grounded person he is today. As a child, he was a selfish, lazy, and cowardly bully. He regularly skimped out on his responsibilities on his family's farm, and his younger brother often bore the brunt of his attitude. While they didn’t hate each other and had the occasional good moment, Barnaby’s behavior often left much to be desired, something he would regret for the rest of his life as an older brother. One night, Barnaby tried to make up for his behavior to his brother. He helped him sneak out to the barn roof to watch a meteor shower, knowing how much the stars meant to him. Wanting to make the moment even better, Barnaby left and headed to the orchard to grab some fruit for then to share. But not wanting to be caught outside, he left the lantern by the ladder inside the barn. When he returned, the barn was ablaze. Paralyzed by fear, Barnaby hesitated. By the time he finally had the courage to act, it was too late, and he was dragged back to safety. Though others reassured him it was an accident, Barnaby couldn’t shake the guilt. To him, it was a reflection of his character, his carelessness, his cowardice, his selfishness. He saw the event as the culmination of his worst traits and loathed himself for it. He got a good look at who he was, and despised it. He spent years on the farm feeling trapped by who he was. By the time he was 17, staring into the mirror at a face he couldn’t stand any longer, Barnaby realized something had to change. In a moment of impulsive clarity, he began to shear off his fur, stripping it all away. When he saw his reflection afterward, it was as if he were looking at someone new, a blank slate, a chance to start over. It was a freeing moment that pushed him forwards. He knew he could never undo the past, but he believed it was better late than never to change. Transforming himself into someone better felt like the only way he could truly honor his brother’s memory. He left the farm behind, taking nothing with him, eventually finding work on a ship. Life at sea took him from port to port, introducing him to countless people and experiences that slowly reshaped his perspective. Over the years, he began to forgive himself and rediscover his sense of self. As he healed, he allowed his fur to grow back to its original length, he found love for himself. Always an artist at heart, Barnaby entertained his shipmates with his creative projects as they allowed him to experiment, honing the skills that would later become his career. After around 30 years at sea, he decided it was time to settle down and retun to land. He arrived in Inkwell City and opened his shop. He still stayed close to the sea, embracing fishing as a regular hobby. Afterall, he has a particular loyal client from the ports who is very keen on a certain type of paint that predates modern metal flake paint, made with fish scales.

[cherry-cola-on-ice]

Can you write a story that has Thomas Hewitt getting jealous at a guy flirting with his S/O please love your work🙏🙏🙏🙏

Jealousy Jealousy

It shouldn't bug him so much. Especially after all this time.

It wasn't your fault after all. Anyone with eyes could see how beautiful you were. Everything about you was crafted by some higher being, sculpted from the stars and the skies. And you were so sweet, so kind. You brought a smile to even Uncle Monty's face.

And most of all, he knew you loved him. He repeatedly told himself, saying it over and over again in his head like his own personal mantra. As long as you loved him, he didn't need anything else.

Thomas's eyebrows furrowed as you laughed at the joke. He couldn't tell you jokes. But this stranger could. This handsome, younger man with perfect teeth and perfect hair. He looked like one of those men on the front of the harlequin novels Hoyt steals out of suitcases.

You laughed again, head thrown back. God, you were perfect. Too perfect for him. This stranger was the type of man you deserved.

From the back room of the gas station, Thomas shifted his weight nervously. He knew he should have left you at the house. It was a bad idea, just like Hoyt said. You brought to much attention to yourself. Unknowingly and unwittingly, of course. Never your intention.

But you had a magnetic power around you, drawing people in.

Your soft eyes were what made him fall in love with you. When his family first found you, hiding out in their barn, crying your eyes out, he felt a pang in his heart that was new to him. You looked scared and you were alone. Everyone else had left you, all meeting their ends by his chainsaw.

He asked you why you didn't struggle and you always shrugged "I guess they were never really my friends to begin with. They tried to leave me for dead. "

And he didn't question it at first. After all, it all brought you to him. You were his now.

But-

You should hate him. You should fight him. You shouldn't be able to stand the sight of him. You were better off with this man, this stranger who could give you the life you deserved. The overwhelming feeling of despair hit him like a shot to the stomach.

But then you turned to him. And smiled. That sweet smile, the one that lit up a room and light up his life. And it was directed at him. It was his smile.

And for a moment, all was right in the world. You chose him.

But then-

"So, I gotta wonder... What's a sweet thing like you doing in a shit hole like this?"

From afar, Thomas could see you bristle, your demeanor change from jovial to defense "What's that supposed to mean? There's nothing wrong with here."

The stranger laughed "Yeah, it's cute in tetanus shot kinda way. But nowhere such a hot piece of ass such as you should be. "

Thomas ought to punt this creep straight into a grinder. His fist balled up and he began stalking towards him-

Except you beat him to the punch. Quite literally.

The stranger fell to the floor, holding his bloody nose. Whimpering. Thomas was surprised, he didn't think this guy would go down that easily. The man wasn't as tall as him, but he was still a sizable man. And you floored him.

Looking back to you, he watched as you shook your hand out, cursing under your breath "Fucking hell, dude! Your face made out of concrete?!?"

"YOU BROKE MY NOSE, YOU BITCH!"

"Yeah, and I'll do it again if you don't get your ass outta here!"

The man, holding his bleeding nose, lifted himself off the ground, shooting daggers at you. Instinctively, Thomas placed his body between the two of you, glaring back at him.

The stranger, though looking absolutely terrified, feigned confidence and scoffed as he walked by. You grabbed Thomas's arm, shouting as the stranger left the store "Yeah! Get out here, you-"

Thomas spun you around, grabbing your face in his hands. He looked you over, looking for any signs of harms. You scrunched your nose "I'm fine, Thomas!"

Thomas huffed, pulling you close to him. You laughed in his arms, standing up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his mask. Thomas looked down at you, taking in the lovestruck look in your eyes.

Yeah, he had nothing to worry about.

[anika-ann]

made-up fic title: ever so softly

Hello dear 🥰 Thank you so much for participating in the game 😍

Since my brain does refuse to acknolwdge the concept so far, you too get a little drabble-ish thing 🥹 This time only with 600 words, Bucky, and a flavour of angst with hurt/comfort 😇

ever so softly

warnings: mentions of blood and violence, anxiety, sensory issues and hypersensitivity and PTSD A/N: divider by @firefly-graphics

Sometimes, your hands shake.

You’ve got a tender heart, people would say; a codename for those who get overwhelmed with the world, with people, with the noise and smells and strange textures and tastes, with emotions; with anxiety.

Your own body, your own damn brain was often your worst enemy. You were your worst enemy and you hated it with passion, especially on days when you somehow had no energy left but for that and spiralling down the void of terror made of your own synapses.

On days like these, like on every other, Bucky holds you, whispering soft words of solace and encouragement into your hair, tender lips and gentle voice, creating a protective bubble of silence and peace, tucked safe and far away from the world.

On days like these, he embraces you closely – unless you cannot bear his love for the moment, despising yourself for it all the more – and helps you put together the pieces of your tender soul you feel have imploded inside of you and suffocate you with every attempt of breath.

He sooths you and promises – begs, in truth – to keep you. Loving you,

ever so softly,

reminding you that you can choose and do the same and until you do, he will. For both of you.

And on some days, you do too.

Sometimes, Bucky’s hands shake.

It is a funny little glitch, he supposes, once he has the capacity to be sardonic with himself, which is always; his metal hand, science perfected, precious chunk of vibranium crafted to faultless functionality on engineerism, and it trembles as much as his flesh hand.

Bucky Barnes is an old man; a reborn man, haunted by an army of ghosts and undead. Doctors in his old days called it shellshock; the fancy modern name for it is PTSD.

Some days, images of blood, violence and death run on the silver screen of his mind like the most messed-up horror flick, following him through day and seeping into his nights, sleepless; or worst, consumed by nightmares than never end, because they are memories of his own actions.

His soul weighs too much to bear, drenched with blood and guilt that no penance can wash away.

Sometimes, you help with the cleanse despite it.

You take his shaking hands – sometimes his very own, sometimes the glorified invention attached to his body – and lead him to the living room where on the shelves stand his little treasures; one supposedly beautiful thing next to another, small wooden statues he had carved himself, rough around the edges but otherwise delicate, a reflection of his gentle torn soul. You do not speak a word, you do no point, letting him see what you see. To make him see that what he only perceives as a pair of hands soaked in blood and wrongdoings, had made good and beautiful too.

And even in the dead of night, you walk him to the most special room of the house, of your home, his steps hesitant, but his heart too weak to resist. Helpless and already yearning, he can never say no.

In those no longer trembling hands, you gently place the most precious thing he has had a generous hand in creating, with utmost love.

Tears burning in his eyes, he cradles your baby, his baby, to his chest with one arm, his other curling around you, pressing you to his side, lips attached to your temple. You linger in your embrace until his tears of grief and guilt turn into ones of acceptance and happiness.

Because he loves and he is loved,

ever so softly

and every beat of his heart, your heart and his child’s, promise him that despite all the pain, everything will be okay.

I hope you enjoyed the little angst but with a sweet note in the end for a change🥰

Thank you for reading and @murdock-and-the-sea for sending 💕

[somerabbitholes]

Hey there! I'm curious—what were some of the best books you read in 2024? I need some recommendations...

Have a good day!! 💝 (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

this took a while, because it's been a weird year for me. but here you are:

The Bee Sting by Paul Murray: I love family novels, and this was the best of the year. It’s about the Barnes family, who are doing badly economically, and sort of unravelling generally. The characters were beautifully crafted and I loved the sense of freefall in the novel

Orbital by Samantha Harvey: loved, loved, loved the way it thought about the earth and tried to articulate what the planet means. My phone is full of photos of pages and paragraphs I liked

India's Near East by Avinash Paliwal: this is about how India’s domestic and foreign policy along its border with Myanmar and Bangladesh basically influence each other. I learnt a lot here and it was generally interesting to see how the border region is governed and policed

The Social Construction of the Ocean by Philip Steinberg: this changed my brain. Steinberg is a geographer, and this book is about how the ocean means different things to different cultures and the meaning comes from specific political and economic histories of these cultures. It tries to trace the origins of current systems of ocean governance and it was so so interesting to be able to think about space this way

Employees by Olga Ravn (trans. Martin Aitken): same territory as Orbital in that it’s about what it means to be people. This is narrated as witness statements from people and humanoids working on a spaceship, but the book doesn’t tell you which is which, so it’s like an exercise in investigating what makes humanity unique

India trilogy by V. S. Naipaul: he wrote these three books over a thirty year period of visiting India, and I loved them for the amount of detail in them and for how they always managed to say something more complex and simply more interesting than a lot of other journalistic accounts on India. And I’ve always enjoyed that Naipaul goes to the logical end of his arguments, so that was great too.

Dominion by Tom Holland: this was my fun history read of the year. He traces the influence and persistence of Christian thought in wider European thinking and imagination now, and since this is not something I know a lot about, it was great to learn

Finally, I’m not yet done with Caledonian Road by Andrew O’Hagan, but it’s shaping up to be another favourite.

Have a nice day!

[itsanerdlife]

Wicked Intentions 22

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader // (Seriously close) Steve Rogers x Reader // Clint Barton x Reader // T’Challa x Reader.

Warning: Violence. Language. Bullying. Girl Fights. Name Calling. Degrading Comments. Angst. Degrade of Woman (to a point). Criminal Life. Illegal Shit. Fights. Alpha Males. Stalking.

A/N: This is a Bully Romance. High School setting. Mafia Family Life. Woman are on a lower level than males in their world. Just a heads up. This is the third installment of the series. Bad Intentions, Cruel Intentions, and Wicked Intentions.

Credit: Huge shout out to @ml7010 for all the help, pushing, hyping up, putting up with my changes midway through. If it wasn't for this peach, y'all never would have gotten this series or nearly as far as I am now.

“It’s last minute, I didn’t have a lot to pick from.” My mother holds up a garment bag. “But your brothers even agreed it’s exactly you.” She hangs it up on the door, unzipping the bag.

“Mom,” I grin.

“Later, let’s finish your hair and makeup.” She smiles, hurrying over to help.

Settling back in the chair. Gwen curling my hair, Becca is working on my makeup.

-------

Smoothing a hand down my dress, taking a deep breath. Peter and Howie are joining me. A bouquet of flowers in hand for me.

“Thank you.” Taking them.

“You’re the best-looking bride there could be.” Peter hugs me. I laugh, hugging him back.

“Too good for Buck.” Howie hugs me next.

“Maybe so, but there will never be anyone else for me in this life.” I admit pulling back slowly.

Both my brother’s nod. “We knew that long before you did, Smalls.” Peter laughs, kissing my cheek.

“We knew when you rolled your eyes, at his name.” Howie chuckles, kissing my other cheek.

“I think I knew the first time he touched me. I told him I’d break his sternum and watch him suffocate.” I smile softly.

“He survived touching you, that was a huge sign.” Peter smirks.

“Dad’s coming, you ready?” Howie asks, holding my free hand for a moment.

Nodding, I suck in a breath again.

“We’re going to get seated.” Peter places his hand on top of mine and Howie’s they both squeeze, leaving me there.

“Chaos,” Clint and Steve step up next to me, making me laugh.

“Boys.” I grin at them.

“Satan did some serious work when he crafted you for your wedding day.” Steve grins, leaning into kiss my cheek.

“Why thank you.” I blush, shrugging a shoulder.

“You’ll kill the guy before you get to, I do, dressed like that.” Clint hugs me.

“Think I’ll get his life insurance?” I giggle as we pull apart.

“It’s her wedding day and she’s dressed like a widow.” Steve smirks.

“She’s Satan, Steve.” Clint winks at me.

“We’ll see you at the end of the aisle.” Steve assures me, before they too leave.

It’s a moment alone before my father steps up. Putting his elbow out for me.

“Ready little miss?” He gives me a soft, sad smile.

“I’m ready, daddy.” Gripping his elbow with my free hand. Music starts, and my father takes the first step, I follow.

No chairs, my brothers, sisters, mom and TC are standing on one side.

Bucky waits with Frankie at the end.

Clint, Steve, Becca, Winni and George stand on the other side.

Everyone dressed in black. Just like the first day we arrived at Saints, I walk towards James Buchanan Barnes, standing there watching me.

---------

Appearing on the arm of her father. Dressed in a black gown, fitting for the chaos she is.

Her top, sheer, lace and long sleeve, with a black bra. Her middle bare, the skirt sits high up on her waist. Long silk, black in matching, the material folds together creating a slit up the side. Her hair in pinned up curly bun.

Speechless as she walks towards him, something the same and yet so different from the first day at Saints. When she reaches him, she pauses to throw her arms around her father’s neck. He squeezes her back. When she pulls back, she turns to face him. Putting his hand out for hers, she slips hers into his and steps closer.

“I was told they wanted to have their own vows.” Frank announces softly. “James,” he nods.

“I knew that day, when you stumbled upon us while out running. I knew you were going to ruin my whole life. The way your eyes never held fear, never flinched, but lit up, filled with thrill at my warning. Watching you leave, I knew that you were going to wreck everything in me. Then you threatened me, in my car.” He chuckles, she laughs, their guest do too. “You’d ruin me for anyone else and slipped out. You took my soul with you when you left that night. I was yours and nothing else.”

She grins at him.

“I’m nothing without you, Y/N Barnes. Nothing. If it’s your life or mine, I’ll give you mine to make sure you see tomorrow. Nothing in this life will ever keep me away from you, I will crawl back to you no matter how I have too.” He lets go of her hands, cupping her cheeks.

“I’ll never be good enough for you, not close to it, but I’ll kill anyone who thinks they could have you. Cold and dead nothing will stop me because I’ll still be yours.”

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Even in death, everything I am, all that I have is yours. Death has nothing on loving you.”

“Damn.” Frank whispers, watching them. “Y/N,” Frank looks to her. He takes her hands once again.

“James Barnes, I love you, but I don’t want your life, if it’s yours or mine. Without you, there is no life worth living. If it comes to your life, hell better bring its biggest army, because nothing will stand in my way of keeping you all to myself.” She shakes with a small laugh, eyes glassy with unshed tears. He chuckles.

“I knew the day you touched me on my first day at Saints, I was wrecked, ruined, completely and utterly yours.” She breaths. “You threatened me, and I knew I had a new love language.” Everyone chuckles. “When you told me ‘You better pray to whatever God you believe in; you didn’t lie to me’ in class, I was head over heels, completely in love with you.” He laughs quietly.

“Nothing in this life or after will keep me from you, James Barnes. Not a person. Not even death. And when the demons come for a pound of flesh, hell better fear me, cause if they come for you, I’ll take everyone and anyone, this whole fucking town down with me.”

“Finding you, meeting you, being chased by you, making a bet with you.” She smiles. “Was all the best things that could happen to me. But you need to know something,” she grins wickedly.

“I don’t give a fuck what happened before me. But during me, even after me. I’ll kill a bitch.” They both repeat together, but so do Clint and Steve. Making everyone laugh.

“Craziest vows I’ve ever heard.” Frank shakes his head. “Moving on to rings.” He chuckles softly.

He and Y/N grin at one another.

Rings, and a few more words spoken.

“I pronounce you husband and wife. The Barnes.” Frank announces.

He pulls Y/N in, dropping his mouth to hers. Just like a few months ago he claimed her at a party, only now claiming her as his wife.

“Wife.” He pulls back whispering to her.

“Better never forget it Boss man.” She winks at him. He laughs, leaning down to kiss her again.

------------ Everything Peaches 9/21/24 @mo320 @ml7010 @babizza @kmc1989 @coley0823 @aiva-gwen-aers @royal-sunflower @camelliasblossom @shinycupcakebaker @purpleeclipseeggsland @daughterofthenight117 @hisredheadedgoddess28

Bucky 'Fuck Me Up' Barnes: @jbbarnesgirl @kaylaphantomhive @starryeyes-sadmind

Series tags: @sebastians-love @otterlycanadian

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter 42: Epilogue This is the final chapter! Summary: Where you have been, where you are now, and where you are going. Warnings: Mature themes, language, spice, MDNI Word Count: ~5,800 Read to the end for the Author's note! Listen to the lullaby Kit sings to her baby here.

Spi, Antek, spi,

dám ti jabka tři.

Jedno bude červené

a to druhé zelené,

spi, Antek, spi,

očička zamži.

Spi, Antek, spi,

dám ti jabka tři.

Jedno bude červené

a to druhé zelené,

a to třetí modré,

spi Antek dobré.

You let the words of the song sweep over your little boy as you run a forefinger down his forehead and along the bridge of his little nose. His hunger has slowed to little aborted swallows, and his eyes grow heavy as he rests in your arms. As soon as his eyes finally close and his jaw relaxes, you pry your breast from his mouth, pull your shirt back onto your shoulder, and button it back up with your free hand.

This moment, so tender and intimate, feels like a piece of stolen time—a fleeting sanctuary from the great, big world outside your small, warmly lit room. You shift gently, adjusting Antek in your arms and carefully rise from your rocking chair. Walking across the room quietly, you lower your arms gently and place your son in his cradle, which Arthur had crafted with his own hands out of old barn wood. It creaks softly under the weight of your baby, who will soon outgrow it before too long. He’s grown so fast, the eleven months since his birth have just flown by. Soon, he will be moving onto solids completely, walking, and saying more than just “máma” and “dada” and “ne.”

You aren’t ready, but you know that, while time goes on, these memories will stay with you for as long as you live. 

With hesitant steps, you slowly back away from your sleeping son, your eyes never leaving his peaceful face. Your hand reaches behind you and grasps the cool metal doorknob. With bated breath, you carefully turn the knob and slip out of the room, gently closing the door behind you. The soft click echoes in the quiet hallway as you silently walk away from the door, careful still not to make any noise. You’ve learned that the first ten minutes are crucial, for he can wake up at any time.

The house is small, but you don’t mind. You lived in a small caravan wagon before being accustomed to living in a tent or sleeping under the vast open sky. Arthur built it with his own two hands, and was gracious enough to let you help some, even as your baby grew larger and larger inside you and when you carried him on your back. It meant something to be able to do it. To build with your husband a place that you and your children, and their children’s children, would appreciate years to come. This is where it will all start. This is where it all began.

You find your way to the kitchen, where Hosea calmly reads a book at the table.

“Antek is asleep now,” you say.

Hosea looks up from his book, smiling. “That’s good. A little rest never hurt anyone.”

You chuckle and you make your way to the kitchen window. “Speaking from experience?” You look out into the golden light of the afternoon, your eyes looking out expectantly.

You hear Hosea laugh softly. “I most certainly am.”

You smile and take a deep breath as the heat from the window warms your skin. The season is changing once again, the autumn wind carries the end of another summer and you can now enjoy the cooler nights and rainy days. 

This also means trapping season, and traders will need to hire someone to help guard their shipments as they travel across the northwest and into Canada. 

This is when your husband leaves for days at a time.

He and Sadie work as hired guns, protecting traders and homesteaders as the need arises. It makes good money. Not too much where you’re living like kings and queens, but to where you can live comfortably. And it doesn’t hurt that your deliveries of tinctures and herbal balms to the local stores sell like they’re God’s gift to mankind. 

You’ll be happy to be busy while Arthur’s gone. In between raising your son, tending the garden, canning, taking care of your horses and livestock, you still find time at the end of it all. 

You do sometimes worry when he has to leave for longer than a few days. There have been one or two close calls, when you both first got here, finding new threats in wannabe thieves and robbers, but all Arthur returned with was a few cuts and bruises, which you promptly tended to. But all he could worry about was you. 

And as though your thoughts were spoken out loud, you recognize the figure who approaches the homestead on horseback. 

You quickly, but calmly, walk towards the door, and talking your shawl and wrapping it about your shoulders, you head out the door. “I’ll be out for a little bit, Hosea.”

He doesn’t look up from his book this time, but lifts a hand to wave you off. “Antek and I will be just fine.”

You close the door and raise a hand to block the bright light from the sun as it hits your eyes, letting you catch a glimpse of the oncoming rider. 

Your husband stops just in front of you, tipping his black leather gambler hat. “Well, howdy, ma’am. Your husband at home?”

You grin playfully, resisting the urge to pull him off of Zraněná Dáma and remind him to whom he belongs. “He’s around here somewhere, you best move along if you know what’s good for you.”

His eyes gleam with a mischievous sparkle, and his grin makes your heart flutter like when you were a teenager. “Seems to me he should stay close to home, leavin’ a pretty little thing like yourself all alone in these woods.”

You rest a hand on your hip, jutting it out to the side, and you watch his eyes flicker downward towards your curves before meeting your face again. “I manage just fine, and my husband would be home more often if he didn’t act like such a workhorse.”

He leans forward on the mare, resting his forearms on the saddle horn. He lifts his brow as he gazes down on you through half-lidded eyes and speaks in deep, husky tones. “Well, I thought you kinda liked that, Mrs. Morgan.”

You react on instinct, scoffing while walking up to his left side. You reach up and grab him by the arm, instantly pulling him down. “Oh, get off your high horse, Mr. Morgan, and kiss me already.”

He laughs as he lets himself be pulled off Zraněná Dáma, swinging his right leg over with ease. You step backward and Arthur finds his footing beside you and once he stands erect, his strong arms wrap around you. He bends you in an elegant dip and leans down to kiss you ever so pleasantly on the mouth. 

He tastes of mint and strawberries, no doubt in preparation for this reunion. You hum into his mouth, letting your hands find his pectoral muscles. 

He parts as he brings you back up, chuckling softly. He finds your eyes again and lifting a hand, he brushes loose hair away from your face. “Where’s my boah?” he asks softly. 

“Inside,” you answer, the mind for words slowly leaving. Your hands find his and you begin to take steps backward toward the dirt path he just came in on. “Come walk with me.”

He looks back toward the house, his pinched brow betraying his charismatic air and confidence. “I wanna see my son.”

You step back towards him and kiss his chin. “He’s asleep, Arthur. I just put him down after nursing him for almost half an hour.” You gently pull back on his arm again. “Don’t undo the work I’ve just done.”

“Did you sing to him?” he asks with an air of adoration. “He really likes that.”

And you know he does, too. He’s told you time an time again that he likes to hear you sing, now that you find yourself able to do so. You have a reason to, a reason to let yourself be and let go of the past hurts and aches in exchange for something beautiful. Your beautiful baby that you and Arthur made together. 

You sigh, not for the fact that he asked you such a trick question, but for the frustration that it was unsuccessful. “Yes, but it only worked after the long thirty minutes.” You let go of his arm and turn to walk up to the dirt path. From the corner of your eye, you see Oldiv walk to the edge of her paddock, with her yearling Star-Crossed, given the circumstances to which he came to the world. You smile at them both and eye that shiny cremello coat that he inherited from his sire. When Antek is big enough, and the colt old enough, he will have a horse of his own to ride. 

Arthur shakes his head. “A meal and a song?” He looks at you with a gleam in his eye. “That boah don’t know how good he has it.” And he eyes your figure up and down. “I’d give my shootin’ hand to be nuzzlin’ up to you all day.”

You quickly whip around, your face flushed, and biting your lip. “You would.”

“Hell yeah, I would. Shoah beats sittin’ on a horse listenin’ to trappers talk for hours about tannin’ hides.”

You look away and continue on, not responding to him. 

He doesn’t start after you and a silence fills the distance that increases between you. You keep walking and keep your back to him so he doesn’t see the cheeky grin on your face. He will go after you. He can’t be apart from you as long as you’re in his sights. 

And so, it is after a few moments, you start to hear his heavy footfalls behind you, his boots crunching over the first fallen leaves. 

At this point, you expect he figures to catch up to you, but you won’t let him conquer you so easily. You quicken your pace. 

You hear a barely audible groan emit from his throat and you suppress a chuckle. He moves faster, his steps assured and purposeful. 

So, you walk faster, your hips swaying more and causing your embroidered skirt to dance. 

“Kitka…” he rumbles. “Come here.”

You look at him over your shoulder. You see the heated determination in his eyes, making the desire in your belly rise. 

You giggle and without another pause, you break into a run. 

“Woman…!” He takes off after you. “I’m gettin’ too old for this,” he grumbles, but the movements in his body say otherwise. You look over your shoulder again, and see the smile that betrays his frustration. 

“You’re only as old as you feel…!” you call after him. “Aren’t I an easier target than those bounties you used to catch?” You spot a fallen log just ahead and leap over it with ease, your bare feet landing on the cool earth on the other side. 

“Shoah,” he grunts as he leaps over it behind you. “But at least they can’t get out of the ropes I tie ‘em in.”

You reach a grove of trees and begin to weave in between them. You hear Arthur’s exclamations as he grunts and pants behind you as you lead him through the arborous labyrinth. “Ropes! Well, that’s a threat if I ever did hear one…!”

He doesn’t reply but you keep running, sticking out your tongue as you find yourself enjoying this playful game of cat and mouse. You know that once you pass through the trees, the cliff is just beyond them, with the view of the ocean down below. 

“You’re not as fast as I thought you were, Mr. Morgan!” You turn to look over your shoulder again, but to your surprise, he isn’t there!

Confusion floods your mind. You could have sworn that he was right behind you. 

And just as you are about to slow down, you look back ahead and ram right into him with unexpected force. "Ah-hah!" he exclaims with a mix of surprise and victory, catching you in his arms as you both tumble to the ground. "Thought you could outrun me?" His voice is playful and teasing, but his grip on you is strong and reassuring. You catch your breath and take in the details of his face—the mischievous glint in his eyes, the slight stubble on his chin, and the warmth of his touch against your skin. Despite the chaos of the moment, you can't help but feel a sense of comfort in his embrace. “Right when I need you so badly?” his voice shifts to a low timbre and as you lay on top of him he strokes your cheek with his forefinger.

“I needed you yesterday,” you sigh, and feeling the moment swell, you take his face in your hands and kiss him deeply. The kiss lingers long enough for the world to go still, the rustling leaves and distant calls of wildlife fading into a backdrop for this intimate tableau. Arthur's hands move to cradle your back, his touch grounding yet gentle, as if he’s handling something precious, something he thought he had lost forever. You feel him guide you to roll over on your back and he hovers above you, his arms strong and steady as he supports himself. You feel the exhale through his nostrils and just as you open your eyes he parts from your mouth and looks down at you lovingly.

“Every day,” he exhales, his pupils dark with only a thin ring of blue in his irises. “Every day, my only regret is that I can’t ask you to be my wife again.”

His words sink deep, etching a path of both joy and sorrow across your heart. You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the roughness of his stubble. "You don't need to ask again, Arthur. I never stopped being your wife." You feel your heart thrum in your chest as he lets his fingers slip between the gaps in your button-up shirt. “Even when I didn’t know it.”

His fingers are warm against your skin and they gently graze your left breast. “I know.” And a smile grows on his face. “You’ve been a good woman. The best wife. A wonderful mother.”

Your chest rises and falls as you breathe in the country air, and you catch the scent of him in your nostrils. “I sometimes feel that I fail Antek,” you confess. “When I can’t console him.”

His brow pinches slightly and his eyes study you with concern. “You can’t blame yourself, Kitten. Babies cry. Even I know that.”

“Yes, but, he cries the most when you’re gone.” You watch his smile fade and you instantly realize how your comment would have affected him. “It’s only because he loves you. He knows he has a good daddy.”

This seems to soften his expression a little bit and his hand begins to caress your skin again.

His gentle touch, though absentmindedly driven, begins to drive you to the precipice of desire. It isn’t difficult to do, but since having a son to care for and a husband to wait at home for, moments like these aren’t as readily available.

A fluttering feeling fills inside your chest and a plan begins to form in your mind. “You know, Antek would be less lonely if he had a sibling…” Arthur’s fingers cease to caress your skin and you watch as his eyes look at you. You bring your hand up and rest it on top of his hand, watching him with seductive eyes. “How soon can we give him one?”

You see the gears turning in his head and see the vein pulsing in his neck. That thin ring of blue in his eyes remains and he licks his lips slowly. You know he thinks about it. You remember every look he gave you when you carried your son, the desire clearly readable in his expression. He’s always been shy to admit it, but that man liked what he did to you, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. 

You watch as his lips form into a smile. “How soon can we get back to the house?”

“Have you forgotten we aren’t alone back there?” You arch your back, pressing your body into his as he remains over you. “Who says it has to be in the house? That didn’t stop us before…”

A flush of excitement colors his cheeks, and you see the spark of adventure light up Arthur's eyes—a familiar glint that always promises more than just mischief. The leaves around you rustle softly with the breeze, carrying the scent of cinnamon, pine, and the distant hum of a babbling creek not far off. The sense of being alive, truly alive, surges through you as Arthur leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. The world seems to pause, holding its breath as the moment stretches out between the two of you.

"You're right," he whispers, his voice a husky drawl that sends shivers down your spine. "But you don’t know what you’re askin’.” Even with his open-ended comment, he’s already undoing the buttons in your shirt.

“I wasn’t really asking, was I?”

He chuckles, warm and inviting, a contrast to the cool breeze that crosses your now exposed skin. “I guess you wasn’t.”

And it is all action after that. As soon as his mouth returns to yours, your hands work deftly to remove him from the confines of his clothes. You hear his breath hitch once his shirt is cast aside. “Hell, it’s cold…!”

You giggle against his mouth as your hands run down his pectorals, your nails grazing his chest hair. “You’ll get warm,” you mewl and your shirt is finally pulled off of you and cast aside. “I promise.”

Once your fingers return to reach his lower abdomen, he moves to hover over you, his legs gently straddling over you and his hands working your skirt and camisole upward. He leans down, his body heat radiating off of him, as he hungrily kisses you again, catching your moans in his mouth. 

His movements are almost frantic, as though he can’t decide where to begin. His hands leave your thighs and go to your breasts, kneading them with enough pain and pleasure to get a rise out of you. You moan longingly, your back arching toward him as the chill of the air contrasts starkly with the heat of his touch. Arthur’s mouth leaves you as he pulls back to watch your reaction. His eyes linger on your body, deep pools of intensity that draw you further into the moment. The forest around you blurs into a canopy of green and gold, setting a natural stage for this raw, unbridled connection.

Your hands, that were working to remove his pants, halt as his fingers travel down your abdomen, to your pelvis, and to your inner thigh.

“What’re you…?” you pant and your voice is halted as he works to pleasure you, his hands skilled in its art.

“I’m gonna promise you somethin’,” he says thunderously as he brings his face close to yours, his mouth against your ear. “You’re gonna enjoy every bit of this.” Your body trembles and you gasp as his fingers work their magic. “You’re gonna remember this.”

“Yes,” you mewl. “Every second.”

And suddenly, he takes you by the waist and encourages you to turn over. Once your belly is to the earth, he pulls you up gently by the hips and you rest on your bent knees, palms into the soft dirt below as you hold yourself up on your arms. With a gentle nudge of his legs, as he kneels behind you, you separate your thighs to a comfortable distance. 

“And I ain’t gonna stop,” He kisses your back and then you hear the rustling of his pants as they join the pile of clothing. Your heart races with the anticipation of what comes next. “until it takes.” 

“That’s a lot…mmm…a lot of promises…” your ability to speak is becoming increasingly compromised as his hand comes around your waist and travels down the front of your pelvis to your heat. His movements grow more intense, each touch sending waves of anticipation through your body. He silences your incomplete thoughts and plants another kiss on your spine, this one more urgent than the last.

"No need for words now," he murmurs against your skin, and you feel the truth in his statement as he sinks into you. “Your body tells me enough.”

And oh, is he not wrong.

***

“Hosea better not ask…” Arthur snorts as he holds a branch back for you to walk through. “That man is too clever for his own good.”

You giggle mischievously as you walk past and you turn to watch Arthur jaunt up to you. You hold out your hand and he takes it as you walk back to the house together. Leaves continue to fall almost like snow or rain. 

“You’re walkin’ pretty good…” he says. “Maybe I went too easy on you.” You quickly pull out your hand from his and shove him. He laughs, moving in the direction of your force and looks back at you. “I’m jokin’! I’m jokin’!”

“You better be,” you say lowly, your smirk belying your feigned annoyance. “Or I might start questioning your stamina.”

Arthur's laugh, deep and resonant in the quiet forest, feels like a balm to the years of uncertainty and hardship. “Hey, now…”

As the two of you leave the dense cover of the trees and approach the modest homestead that Arthur and you built together, you can't help but let memories soak in and the promise of new ones to be made. “Arthur…”

He stops just ahead of you. And when he turns around, his eyes reflect the love and devotion that you’ve felt from him all these years. All this time. “What, Darlin’?”

You bite your bottom lip and catch up to him. When the distance is closed between you, you slip your arms around his waist and press your body up against his. 

He tucks his chin as he looks down at you. “Well, if you wanna go at it again, fine, but I’m pretty shoah it took.”

You scoff, but remain pressed against him. “Excuses, excuses. But that is not what I was going to ask at all.”

He raises his brow. “Oh?”

You shake your head. “No.” You pause as you get caught up in his gaze, all hypnotized and in awe of who he is. “I want you to dance with me.”

He blinks, his lips curling into a cheeky grin. “What?”

“You’ve been holding out on me, you know. You told me you didn’t dance when I had asked you back at Horseshoe Overlook.”

He lifts his chin and rolls his eyes. “I don’t dance. Not in front of other folks.”

You slip your arms back out from him and swat his chest. “That isn’t a good enough reason. You lied to me!”

He cackles, unaffected by your chastisement. “Darlin’, if I started dancin’ like you taught me, you would’ve thought I was crazy!”

You pout and place your hands at your hips. “It might’ve helped to speed things along, you know. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so inclined to throw myself into dangerous situations.” You watch as that smug look in his face fades. “Mmhm…Ever think about that, ‘darlin’’?”

He tilts his head and furrows his brow, actually considering your words. You stand there smug now, watching him with a confident gaze. He rests his hands on his gun belt, his pelvis tilted in such an attractive way. “Well, hell, Kitten…” His marine eyes look into your earthen irises and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t think about that.”

You hum affirmatively. “And now, with John and Abigail’s wedding only weeks away, we need to show up all of those party guests.”

He shakes his head, taking a step towards you. “It ain’t a competition.” After a moment, takes you by the arms and guides you to turn around and stand in front of him. Then, ever so gently, he places his hands on your shoulders. “But I’ll still dance wit’chu.”

You smile, already knowing what dance he has begun. “Without any music?”

He chuckles warmly behind you, a quick breath of air cools your neck. “Don’t need it, if you’ll sing it instead.”

You smile. Feeling a tune build up inside you, you begin to vocalize a melody. 

And he starts the dance. He guides you to sway, turning your body to the right, then to the left, then he takes your left hand, and, lifting your arm, he spins you around once. 

He then takes your other arm and you repeat the same swaying action as you continue to sing the song. 

You come back together, and he lets your right hand go as you both take light steps forward. You continue to dance the Holubička, your steps matching Arthur’s and you grow more impressed with his memory of the dance you had once taught him. 

“So light on your feet, Mr. Morgan,” you tease, though you mean every word of it. 

“You can’t be the only one with surprises, Kitten.” You both take a step back from each other.  You place your hands behind your back and he stands tall with open arms, ready for the next steps of the dance. “Now, keep singin’.”

You laugh and roll into the melody again. He bounces lightly on his feet towards you, swaying enough to swing his open arms. And as he motions to bring his arms together, as though to catch you, you duck underneath him and dance the other way. 

“Well, ain’t this familiar?” he mumbles humorously and you chuckle. 

The next steps come naturally, with you ducking under him one more time. After taking each other’s hands and twirling, Arthur then claps firmly to the beat while you quicken the pace of your steps as you skip in a circle. He reaches for you and, taking your hands, he guides you to press close to him. Your left hand follows the back of his arm to reach just behind his shoulder, and with his on your waist, you begin to spin around in circles, your four feet hopping to the rhythm of your song. 

But you begin to lose track of the melody, for he starts to spin faster and faster. “Arthur…!”

“Keep up, Darlin’!” he laughs and despite the pace, you manage to keep in step with him. Soon the steps and music don’t matter, as you get lost in his exhilarating embrace and your singing morphs into laughter. 

Suddenly, Arthur’s arm comes around you, and he lifts you up, your feet barely touching the ground as he twirls you around. 

“Ah…!” you delightfully shriek and you throw your head back from the force of his spin. “I’m getting dizzy…!”

That’s when you hear Hosea’s voice calling from the house. “Then come back inside, why don’t you?”

Arthur slowly comes to a halt, panting and his laughter ebbing away into sighs. You lean into him to catch your breath before stepping away and holding a hand over your pounding heart. As you recover from your dizziness, your vision focuses on Hosea as he stands in the entryway, holding your bright-eyed son. 

Well, you knew he wasn’t going to nap forever. 

He holds out his little arms, squealing excitedly. “Da-da…!” he cries. “Da-da…!”

Arthur pats the small of your back before walking away from you, his steps quickening as he near his father and son. “How’s my little buck?” he coos and he holds out his hands to his son. Antek wriggles excitedly in his grandfather’s arms, his legs kicking to will himself free. 

“Heh-heh-heh-heh…!” he breathes excitedly. “Da-da!”

Arthur’s large hands scoop his son up and he tosses him in the air once. Since becoming a mother, you’re more cautious than you used to be, recognizing that your baby is not a trained acrobat. But still, you refrain from chiding Arthur for playing with his little boy, even if it makes you wince a little. Deep down you know Arthur would never do anything to harm him. 

Arthur props Antek in his arms, supporting the baby’s bottom to sit in the crook of his elbow. Arthur’s hand comes around to support his back and Antek holds onto the lapel of his jacket. “You’ve been a good boah? Been listenin’ to your mama?”

Antek babbles, focusing on the fabric of Arthur’s coat. His eyes lift to look at his father and when they meet, Arthur gives him a smile. Antek’s gummy grin with his two front milk teeth is so endearing you can’t help but burst with happiness. Antek shrugs his shoulders and tucks his head bashfully. He’s got Arthur wrapped around his little finger, you just know it. 

You walk over calmly and lift a hand to comb the wispy dark hair from your son’s eyes. “He’s a little troublemaker,” you coo, and Antek sits back up again to look down at you. 

“He takes after you, then,” Arthur teases and you resist the urge to swat at him in front of your son. 

“You’re lucky you have my baby in your arms.”

Arthur chuckles and plants a gentle kiss on Antek’s cheek. 

“How did it all go, son?” Hosea asks. “You’re back in one piece, so I take it that it could have gone worse.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You always gonna be this ornery when I get home?”

The old man shrugs, motioning to go back inside. “Just when there’s a pie on the counter taunting me for the past hour or so.”

“You want to burn your tongue? It has to cool down,” you insist as you follow him into the house. Arthur steps close behind you, the sounds of your babbling boy making you smile. 

It is warm once you step inside, the aroma of the pie still lingering after you took it out of the oven just before you put Antek down for a nap. Hosea has since gone through the trouble to light the lamps as it is growing dark and the evening will soon take over the day. 

“It’s worth it, trust me.” Arthur echoes as you all turn into the kitchen. Hosea goes to his spot at the table and Arthur sits down with Antek still in his arms. “If I had known you had pie, I would have just come straight inside.”

You look at him over your shoulder as you face the counter, your hands palming the pie dish to test its temperature. “You mean to tell me that you’d prefer pie to our little walk this afternoon?”

You watch him look up from Antek, the smile faltering as he realizes what you’re actually talking about. “Erm…well, uh…”

“Mmhm…” You bring the salmonberry pie to the center of the table and set it down. “I thought as much.”

You catch a glimpse of Arthur’s flushed face and he quickly clears his throat. “You still managin’ to keep busy, Hosea?” 

You bite your lip and turn back around to suppress your laughter as you listen to their conversation. You stack three plates on top of each other and retrieve some silverware. They’re nice dishes. A gift from Karen, who still leaves her life a mystery. If she’s come to find a means of affording fancy gifts, you aren’t entirely worried. 

“Oh, you know, for an old man I do pretty well to not step on any toes or get underfoot.”

Next, you grab a handful of leftover salmonberries from a wooden bowl and put them on a laid-out cheesecloth. You take a spoon and begin to mash the berries, careful to contain the juices in the cloth.

“You ain’t a burden, Hosea,” Arthur reassures him. “It’s nice havin’ you around.”

And you sense the truth in Arthur’s statement. You think back to that day of the bank robbery, and how deadly that all was. The explosion nearly killed Hosea, and things would have happened so differently if he wasn’t alive with you and Arthur today. He was the glue in the gang, you see that now, and even when you were all separated, he kept the hope alive in all that were still there. 

Now, Lenny leads. Well, not in the same way that it would have been. He and Kieran manage the ranch and its business to ensure that all who live there prosper. You hope that he will consider going to college, or educating himself one day, but he seems to be happy just to inspire and lead those who look up to him. It’s a quiet life, which is more than what any of you could have asked for. 

You ball up the cheesecloth and twist it to contain the mashed-up berries and bring it to Antek. You see his eyes brighten and his hands reach out eagerly to take it from you. Instinctually helping the little tike, Arthur holds onto the cloth and Antek brings it to his mouth, gnawing on it and sucking on the juices of the berries. 

Now that your baby is taken care of, you can serve your family. 

“You keep saying that, son, but I know that alone time with your family is always good.”

“You are family,” you insist as you begin to cut into the pie and serve it on three plates. “The end.”

Hosea is about to open his mouth but you shoot him a sharp look, quickly softening it to a wink and smile. He lifts his palms as you set a plate in front of him. “Alright, alright, but don’t say I didn’t try to give you an opportunity.”

Opportunity for what? Arthur did say that Hosea was too clever for his own good. You roll your eyes and shake your head. “Stubborn.”

“Hard-headed,” he quips back. 

“Da-da…!” exclaims Antek and you and Hosea look over at his face all covered in juices. 

Arthur is looking down at him, all lovingly and starry-eyed. He takes the clean end of the cheesecloth and wipes Antek’s chubby cheeks. “That’s right, partner.”

You adore them. Each person at your table holds a special place in your heart, their laughter and smiles adding warmth to the already cozy room. Who would have known that an immigrant, once struggling in a foreign land, a poor circus performer who had traveled from town to town, would end up here surrounded by people who love her?

A husband to cherish and a baby to hold? Beyond the walls of this home lies a hundred acres of lush forest and sparkling seaside, just waiting to be explored and cultivated. After years of searching, you have finally found true freedom and happiness in this idyllic place. After years of searching and searching.

You can see it. You can taste it. You can feel it. 

You know what it is. 

And you are the freest human alive. 

A/N: There it is. The end.

I want to thank you all so much for taking the time to read my story. It is one of the longest stories I have ever written thus far, and I couldn't have pushed through it without feedback! It can be exhausting work, but to read the comments made it all so worth it.

I especially want to thank @photo1030 for the consistent feedback and reblogs. It meant so much that you would take the time to comment on your favorite parts and say the nicest things about my story. You didn't have to do that, but I am glad that you did. Thank you!

And I also want to thank @eternalsams for the reblogs as well! I appreciate it so much!

And now, with this story finished, I intend on working on the other story that I haven't completed: If I Had to Do it All Again and my High Sierra series! I want to finish and freshen these up before I take on the next project, and if you feel like stickin' with me, I'd be much obliged!

If you like my work, and would like to read more of it, feel free to check out my other stories. Or, better yet, shoot me some ideas! I am always open to doing one-shots, and maybe even another story! But of course, one at a time. I do have some ideas that I have been brewing up, but that won't be until my next story is done.

Again, thank you all!

[girl4music]

It just occurred to me that WayHaught had sex in Wynonna’s old bedroom because they turned her bedroom into a craft room. That’s kind of hilarious.

But then again - they’ve likely had sex all over the house because they tend to just go at it anywhere.

Mel was like “change it up - go outside and do it for once. Me and Doc do.” And Kat was like “we have class.” Sure. So much class. There’s not a single room or square area in that home that you and Waverly haven’t fucked in. Off the top of my head Haught…

Willa’s room. The kitchen. The hallway. The stairs.

Obviously your own bedroom. The Homestead barn.

Now Wynonna’s bedroom (aka - now a craft room).

If someone were to draw an interior diagram of that entire home, I bet you every single square area of it was christened by WayHaught sex at some point. 😂

And on those nights with Waverly working the police dispatch… and the Sheriff working overtime, I am very sure that they did more than make out in that office.

Class my ass, Kat. WayHaught are pretty crazy too.

[hatsbuckets]

AHDJFNDICNFN

MY MALE FRIENDS FROM HIGH SCHOOL AND I JUST HAD A THREE HOUR LONG DISCUSSION THAT STARTED WITH ME EXPLAINING THAT...

These boys have read little to no fanfic, if they have read it, it was for the porn...

We started on me opening up (chaotically) about writing about cod characters and loving like NikPrice as a ship.

And then it was important that I explained the history of Star Trek, fandoms, Spock x Kirk, and omegaverse. And how like sometimes people make big scary, 30 lines or whatever '09 Ghost a fucking Omega down bad for Cap (who my friends were like :O well he-- he's too badass and scary what. And i said hold up hold up like, it's about the fun.)

Then jump to how Steve x Tony is a pretty big marvel ship. (THIS BLEW THEIR MINDS)

They were like "Steve Rodgers??? Born in the 1920s?? Him being gay doesn't make sense.

I said: "Steve Rodgers??? Army soldier surrounded by military men all the time who's only friend was Bucky "hunk and flirt" Barnes??? it's not about if he's canonically gay. He's a fictional character, we can do what we want to him. It's about taking a character and putting him in a situation and seeing what he would do. For example, Steve discovering, in the modern world where being gay is more widely accepted and he's not only focused on WAR, that oh... Maybe this man is kinda... Attractive to him.

Or just for shits and gigs, let's suspend our disbelief, and forget how we got here and just let it happen. A "What If" scenario if you will."

THEN we moved on to Magneto and how like Magneto doesn't happen unless he experiences all of the horrors he did. And I said well, imagine if he didn't. Maybe his mother lived and all is fine. Let's pretend, because we're already pretending.

One made a great point that it's a disservices to characters and long standing stories (like Star Wars) to do things like "somehow Palatine returned."

And I agree ! And then we discussed trust between readers and storytellers. And how there is a relationship between them. And whether it's about crafting a beloved story, writing for funzies and wanting to share, or just making money, there is a relationship.

And we had more conversation about, for example, the What If episode of Nebula joining the Nova Corps and he was like "it's not even Nebula anymore it's just like a complete different character. It was a waste of time."

And I said, "maybe it's more that her personality will take different turns, but just like Magneto we said well just what if. And yes, she might change some, but pieces of her core character are still there and that's what matters."

And then we talked about book to movie adaptations and movie to movie adaptations (like Snow White or HTTYD) and more on that relationship stuff side.

It was such a fun conversation and I just got to be a nerd and I think I may have convinced them all that fanfic is good because creativity and fun. (Also, those boys need to read some good, soft porn with plot just so they can learn how to really treat a woman. (Instead of the straight up porn ik they watch)

Anyway, good night, I hope you all can have a silly little ramble like me with friends.

[questionableratatouille00]

ᴏᴜᴛꜱɪᴅᴇ

Pairing: Sambucky (Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes) 

Summary: Sam and Bucky swim together as Bucky recalls the past. 

Bingo Fill: ‘Cookout/Summer Camp/Stargazing/Hiking’ on my ‘Vacation’ card for @sambuckylibrary’s sambucky summer bingo!

Warnings: brief mention of something bad happening (non-specified), let me know if anything else should be tagged.

Bucky folded another table cloth, looking around and making sure there was no garbage on the ground.

Sam was doing the same at another table, and Bucky glanced at him every so often. 

It was the day after the party, and now they were just cleaning up anything that hadn’t been cleaned up the day before.

“After we finish this, you up for some swimming?” Sam called. “Shit, it’s hot out here.” 

Bucky hesitated for a moment, pausing. And then, he nodded. “Sounds good to me.” 

Sam also nodded, before going back to cleaning. Bucky couldn’t help but notice how his shorts hugged his ass. He mentally slapped himself, cursing himself for even thinking that.

When they were done cleaning, both boys went inside the house and went to their separate rooms to get changed. 

Bucky had been around so often that Sarah had cleaned out the old guest room for him. The gesture—though she argued it was small—meant a lot to him. He grabbed his swim trunks from his bag, staring at them. 

They were basic dark blue swim trunks. But the idea of being shirtless—he didn’t like it. Being shirtless outside was already a horrible idea, but shirtless outside fully knowing that people would see—that Samwould see? It made him want to shrivel up and die. 

He glanced at his left hand, eyeing it anxiously. He knew all too well about the gnarly scarring on his left shoulder, along with all of the scars on his torso. He had plenty of those, too. He was muscular—he wasn’t insecure about his physique, surprisingly, but he definitely wasn’t confident in his skin. And he was pale, too. Isn’t that not a good thing these days? It is, but it isn’t. 

He didn’t have the time to contemplate modern trends right now. He needed to just grow up and get over it. 

He begrudgingly got changed. He slipped on some Hey Dude shoes he’d gotten, and they were one of his favorite pairs of shoes he’d ever had. They were comfy, easy to get on and off, and they had a pretty design, too.

And just as he was about to leave the bedroom—his bedroom——

—he turned around and grabbed his shirt and slipped it back on. Goddamnit.

He walked down the stairs and found Sam, who was waiting by the door with two towels. He tossed Bucky one, and then snickered. 

“You need some sunscreen?” He teased. Bucky looked around to check if the kids were around before flipping Sam the bird.

Bucky followed Sam out to the water. His swim trunks were red, and he wore a black shirt. 

When the reached the water, Sam dropped his towel on the dock and pulled off his shirt. Bucky glanced away, though he desperately wanted to look.

He dropped his towel on the dock, too, before taking off his shoes. And then..he pulled off his shirt. He took a second to get used to the feeling, taking a few deep breaths.

He followed Sam into the water, swimming around with him. 

“Where’d you learn how to swim?” Sam asked suddenly. Bucky glanced down. Did he look weird? Is that why Sam was asking? 

He glanced back up at Sam’s face, realizing there was no judgment on his face. 

“Summer camp. In 1927. I can’t remember what it was called, but I do remember that there was a lake.” Bucky recalled. He remembered that summer camp. 

He’d been ten, and sleeping in a cot in a huge tent with other boys. They swam together, ate together, got changed together. He made a lot of friends, he thinks. None of those friendships lasted, obviously, most likely due to the lack of communication options in the time period. 

He felt himself zoning out as he found the memory.

There was a lake. A large tent. A mess hall for them to eat in. Trails for hiking. Places for crafts. Things like working with leather and crafting knives. Typical 1927 boy stuff.

Something happened at that camp. Something did, he was sure of it. He couldn’t remember if it was good or bad. No, whatever had happened there was definitely bad. Something told him that his brain was blocking it off for now for a reason.

He did know that he had started to realize that he was gay there. He’d never fully understand that until seven years later, but that summer had kickstarted the whole thing. 

What the hell had happened there that he couldn’t remember?

“Yeah? How was that?” Sam chuckled, snapping Bucky from his thoughts. They treaded the water, facing each other. They were a comfortable three feet apart.

“Fine. We were all butt-naked and it counted as bathing, but fine.” Bucky said, purposefully being expressionless.

Sam couldn’t keep himself from breaking into a smile. “Man, it’s like every time I talk to you, you just drop some random detail that throws off my entire day.” Sam laughs. Bucky grins, too, his lack of a shirt long forgotten.

“Okay, well, how did you learn to swim?” Bucky asked after a long moment of laughter. 

“Right here. I think I was five or six.” Sam grinned.

“You learned to swim here?” Bucky echoes. Sam nods.

“I grew up here, man.” Sam reminds him. 

Bucky nods, reminding himself of that.

“There were hiking trails, and the stars were beautiful. Yeah, we had pollution too, but not like now. You could see the stars every night, there.” Bucky murmured. He remembered that. The stars—there was one trail, that led to a field where there weren’t any trees and it was the best place to stargaze.

“Yeah?” Sam looked at Bucky, and Bucky tried his hardest not to stare at his chest.

He nodded. “Mhm.” 

“I can’t say it’s the same as 1930s summer camp, but the stars are pretty nice out here, too.” Sam raised a brow a little, a soft smile on his face.

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky felt a grin on his own face.

“Yeah. Y’know, I think Sarah’s got some camp chairs. If you want, you and I could see how it compares.” Sam said, a shameless look in his eyes.

Bucky smirked softly, before nodding. “We’ll see if it’s as good as it used to be.”

a/n: yeah uh I did actually combine the last couple of prompts but uhm merry Christmas

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[nelyawyn]

Get to know your mutuals!

thanks for the tag @orbitalmirror (this is @madam-whim, I'm just putting this on my personal blog)

What's the origin of your blog title?

For my personal blog, Nelyawyn's an old rp character of mine that I've had since I was 14. My TES blog name was shamelessly stolen from the ESO npc Madam Whim.

OTP(s) + Shipname: Oh god I have so many. But I'm just gonna say Martinhok because Martin gives me brainrot and so do my friends' Heroes of Kvatch.

Favorite color: royal blue as well as dark reds

Favorite game: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (though both Oblivion and ESO are very dear to me too)

Song stuck in your head: the one that definitely gets stuck there the most is "Red Eagle's Song" from ESO.

Weirdest habit/trait? I keep optimizing my bedtime routine like crazy so it'll take as little time as possible out of my free time.

Hobbies: drawing, writing, singing

If you work, what's your profession? I'm an editor, but I won't go into detail :)

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Definitely something with a variety of tasks since I tend to get bored and have focus issues once I've mastered a task.

Something you're good at: being patient with old men that don't know how to handle modern technology, apparently

Something you're bad at: handling doctors appointments

Something you love: chocolate

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: anglo-saxon history or maybe the Silmarillion. if you catch me on an especially weird day, it's gonna be both in combination.

Something you hate: people (and by that I mean the authors I work with) not understanding what dpi means and why it's important

Something you collect: I don't really collect anything irl but I'm an awful completionist in ESO. Achievements, collectibles, crafting recipes... you name it, I need it.

Something you forget: where I left my brain

What's your love language? I don't think I really apply that concept? But I'm making one up rn and it's asking my friends about their blorbos and then gushing about them.

Favorite movie/show? LotR... obviously

Favorite food: I have so many I'm not even gonna try picking one

Favorite animal: Barn owl, my beloved...

What were you like as a child? I was such an extrovert apparently... also very talkative, I talked very early too, and it seems I was also a very musical child

Favorite subject at school? History!

Least favorite subject: math

What's your best character trait? probably that I can be very patient with others

What's your worst character trait? I guess I could be manipulative if I wanted to be, which I rarely do, but the worry is there

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? move to literally anywhere that isn't right next to the financial heart of Europe, both because everything's so hectic here and because the cost of living is crazy and I definitely have the wrong kind of degree for making good money

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? J.R.R. Tolkien because I want to ask one specific question. Otherwise, Harold Godwinson!

Tag as many mutuals as you want!!

I'm gonna tag @shitty-drawer @akaviri-dovah @crysdrawsthings because I've been talking to you guys for ages and still don't know what some of your favorite things are

[pitiplush]

Hi, I know I've been MIA for a while, but since the news about the cancellation of Shadow and Bone broke I've been sad and I need to let it all out. I've come to think of my blog here like a safe haven, so there's no better place for this.

These photos are of the very first original amigurumis I've ever made (sorry for the first photo, I hastily put it together just for this post because none of my photos seemed good enough). As you can see they are some of the characters of Shadow & Bone: Alina, the Darkling, Inej and Kaz. This was back in 2021, when the show premiered. Back then I had never heard of the Grishaverse, but when I saw the teaser my curiosity was piqued so I gave the books a chance and I LOVED them. After so many years on a reader's block and at a time in my life where I was struggling to get by, I had something new and exciting to look forward to. I loved the show (watched it twice in a row, actually), I loved the cast and I loved everything surrounding the Grishaverse. I even convinced two of my friends to read the books (and I regret nothing) 😂

I was so thrilled I HAD to do something, to create something new inspired by the Grishaverse. At that moment I had been crocheting only for a year but I thought I could try and see if something came out of it. That's how I crocheted Alina, my very first bookish amigurumi. It's not my best work, sure, but till this day I'm so very proud of the result. This was my first attempt at designing an amigurumi, I felt like I was improving my craftsmanship while honouring one of my favourite fantasy sagas. So I kept going, I crocheted the Darkling, made changes to get a better design, started putting more effort into my photos, even replicating the show posters. I kept growing my collection, adding Inej and Kaz and taking fun photos of all of them.

I didn't get far in terms of interactions and likes with them but I didn't care that much, I was just genuinely elated that I was creating something new with my bare hands and that was my priority.

And after them, I stuck to the book amigurumis. Created new patterns and characters, got more involved in photography and photoedition, and strived to do better with each new amigurumi. I got happier too, the thrill to create and share not only my craft but the books I love the most has been the best part of these last three years. And none of that wouldn't have existed without Shadow & Bone, without Leigh Bardugo and her universe, without that amazing cast and all of the writers and staff that have worked tirelessly to bring the Grishaverse to life.

So yeah, I'm heartbroken it has come to this abrupt and unfair end, especially when there was just a season left. In a way it feels like putting an end to a part of my journey as an amigurumi artist, this first part in which I was fumbling to learn and create something new. And as sad as it is, I want to say thank you too. It's not much, but it feels right to use my small amigurumi kingdom and reach to say thank you to everyone involved in the Grishaverse. You've made me unbelievably happy in so many different ways that I have trouble putting it into words.

Thank you as well to everyone who has taken a bit of their time to like, share and leave comments about my Grishaverse amigurumis. You helped me believe in my work and gave me strength to keep crocheting.

I will always remember the first time I showed Alina and the Darkling to my best friends and we talked about how I could crochet the rest, and which ones they wanted to see the most and "omg what if one of the actors noticed your work?????". It will never happen, but imagining the possibility still makes me feel a bit giddy even after two years.

If you've read this far, thank you to you too and sorry for my silly ramblings ♥️ If you love S&B too I'm free to cry together about all of the things we will never see on screen anymore.

P.S.: who would've thought that little me having a crush on Prince Caspian (aka the great Ben Barnes) would have ended in crocheting plushies inspired in book characters??? Not me for sure 😂