#bob barnes imagine

[senka-mesecine]

What would happen if reader tried escape from hills!Barnes and she thought she had made it out, unknowing that Barnes had been following her the entire time?

That Dog Don't Hunt.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

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wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

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Meaning; Hound not taking part in a hunt. Apparently originating from the southern United States, the phrase may refer to a hunting dog that refuses to do its job. Something won't fulfil its intended purpose, or a plan or scheme will fail. 

⚫

You take one final look at the mountainous forest perimeters left behind you and you think to yourself 'Thank god. Never again.'

With every step taken closer to civilization, at least faint, ramshackle signs of it in the form of an occasional roadside diner, an old, semi-defunct gas station, a semi-abandoned lonely trailer park or a neglected settlement partially swallowed up by nature you felt one step away further from Barnes, at least in a subjective sense, some lizard part of your brain convinced against all logic, that by the time you'll make it to the nearest city, perhaps Knoxville, Gatlinburg or even going as far as Nashville, the embrace of all those buildings, the bustle of people, the cars, the shops, the traffic, you would've been safe from him, like someone having gone to a place he couldn't follow, repelled and left outside not unlike a vampire that needed an invitation to come inside from the cold and the wilderness; an invitation you wouldn't extend. According to an old Summer proverb, a dog understood 'Take it', but it didn't understand 'Put it down.' Barnes was much like that in a sense; he refused to comprehend letting anyone or anything go, the concept of break ups practically nonexistent in his vocabulary. A man could be only a couple of things in that regard in his opinion that consisted only of polar extremes; widowed, legally hitched or both dead and neither you or him were any of those three respectively.

That's why you needed to run.

Go as far as your legs would take you.

For the time being, that began and ended with hitchhiking.

But, so long as you were on the move, you had some vestige of consolation.

That so long as you moved, you'd be fine.

It would be fine because it beat him or you being buried rather than parted.

The highway snakes through the Appalachians like a circuit and the man who picked you up from putting up your thumb on the side of the road was a mercifully elderly one; a typical senior, fishing rods, buckets and nets in the back of his truck --- someone back from a pensioner's fishing trip judging by a quick deduction --- living with Robert made you careful by proxy --- all of his vigilance, long silences, instincts for danger and scrutinizing stares rubbing off on you like a second nature. Made you hellbent on details. You came to profile people and sizing them up without even intending to, neatly classifying them inside of your head into distinct categories. Safe and not safe. Friend or foe. Enemy or ally. You'd chuckle bitterly if you could, seated beside the greying man with a cap on his head combined with faded jeans overalls that seemed like they were exposed to too many days in the sun and rubber boots that were very well loved by the looks of them. Nobody was as unsafe as Barnes, so the point was moot in trying to analyze this situation to the extent you were unwittingly doing so. -"Fancy findin' anyone out here all on their lonesome. I thought you was a ghost when I first saw'ya by the interstate."- The grandpa remarks with some humor, not unkindly, curious eyes travelling between you on the passenger seat and the road, his coincidental usage of the word 'lonesome' immediately causing a shiver to run down your spine. -"You out here all by yourself?"- He asks, voice peppered with worry in the most paternal sense possible; sure, you realized you must've seemed demented walking beside the edges of the forest, stopping vehicles whose drivers could just as easily rape you and dump you in the nearest ditch instead of giving you a ride anywhere, but you supposed desperation caused people to do crazy things; you were like a wild animal in that sense. Felt like it too. Caught in a trap and willing to gnaw your foot off to limp free and bleed out somewhere where you could be left alone so long as it meant you'd have a moment of liberty. You give the old man a tentative look. You don't know why you decide against coming up with a creative lie, but the truth slithers forth before you can stop it.

-"I've left my husband. Ran away."-

You admit.

You find the old man's wrinkle framed eyes immediately widening.

Mouth agape.

What were you gonna say where untruths were concerned anyway?

That you were a lost hiker mysteriously separated of all their equipment and their group against all odds and now taking a ride in the opposite direction for no discernable reason? That you've been abducted by aliens and dropped off in the middle of the mountains? That you had a curious case of total amnesia? Honesty. Honesty was the best policy in the long run. People could feel honesty. They could sympathize with it on a primal level the way they never could with blatant, made up bullshit. You focus on the rearview mirror in front of you and the pine air freshener along with a picture of a woman in a plastic pouch hanging off a colored string, dangling as the old Ford moved --- old timer was a family man. Maybe a widower killing time by fishing. You weren't going faster than seventy miles an hour but that was good enough.

-"I haven't got a cent on me and I need to get as least as far as Gatlinburg. Please."-

You explain, not too proud to plead a little, semi expecting the obvious.

That he tell you to alert the police.

If the police headed back up those hills, thing is, they wouldn't be coming back.

-"He a bad man?"-

You're asked, with some semblance of familial worry on the driver's part, wrinkled, pale fingers having a vice grip on the steering wheel. Yeah, Barnes was a bad man. You felt you didn't even need to answer that one; the fisherman could just about read the truth off your heavy silence, no doubt. There were some good people in this world. Good people who'd understand even without you saying a single thing. -"Been puttin' hands on'ya?"- He eggs on and no, no, you mutely shake your head at that one, staring at your own lap. Problem was, Barnes was always ready to put this hands on everyone else. One time at a nearby bar at the foot of the mountain that also doubled as a hunter's lodge on occasion he held a knife to a man's neck just because he decided to vaguely chat you up and then look at you for longer than Bob liked; in the aftermath, the whole place was trashed and Barnes had the poor sob by the collar of the shirt, sobbing on the floor, pissing leaking through his trousers and you never stopped feeling guilty since, the whole situation leaving you with the ingrained fear that one of these days someone would get killed over a mere nicety of yours and that you'd have to live with that notion for the rest of your days. You weren't one of those girls. Who felt thrilled and titillated by the prospect of their man hurting others for them. If anything, once the knot that's been settled in your stomach for months after the incident started unwinding, you unwinded right along with it and hit the road, believing that with you gone, perhaps Barnes's incentive to bring harm would internalize itself too, his jealousy ceasing to have a reason to exist. -"No. It's more complicated than that."- You manage sincerely, trying for vagueness, feeling your own voice weak and faint, watching the road ahead disappear into dusk of the Great Smokies, the forest behind you seeming dark and distant, like a dream you couldn't place, relief washing over you slowly, like a caressing wave, the tension in your shoulders dissolving, so much so you hardly minded your lack of luggage or things, save for the ID and some small cash you could get your hands on tucked into your bra. You hoped Robert would've found the meal you left in the kitchen for him by now as a last farewell.

This was for his own good too, even if he didn't know it yet.

---

You had a total of twelve dollars to your name.

Now twenty, with the addition of what you were given.

The last money an old man's kindness could give you before he drove away.

Pushed it into the palm of your hand before you could protest, not that you could find it in you to, alone at night in Gatlinburg with just enough for one night at a room on a basic motel. You didn't get far, but it was still far enough. Better than nothing; the comfort almost instant --- the twinkling lights, the pedestrians and the honking of the moving vehicles like a bubble of humanity far away from the fray -"A room for one, please?"- You manage, out of breath at the counter of the first motel you spotted straight off the parking lot; whichever seemed on the cheaper side, aptly called The Roadside. Truth of the matter was, you were no soldier and you were no Barnes. You tended to get tired. Tended to need your rest like any person. You slide the money across the counter with all the hope in the world. The woman with the sharply penciled on eyebrows and the beehive eyes you speculatively. -"We've only doubles."- She retorts, seemingly bored, like she's spent the better part of her shift explaining this very same bit of information to dozens of people before you. Funny how that worked; if Barnes was here with you now, you'd get a room booked. Fact that he wasn't only complicated everything. The minute you detached yourself from him it's like the whole world conspired to keep you at bay and make things difficult for you. -"Can you please find something? Please? I really need this."- You halfway whimper, met with nothing but the cold scrutiny of the counter attendant; a radio playing behind her on a shelf. Sonny and Cher's I Got You, Babe. How ironic considering she didn't in fact, have you. Or your back. Then again, she was only doing her job. -"No singles."- She insists. Man, you really needed to get off the streets and under a roof somewhere. You still weren't out of danger. There wasn't a single information's board displayed anywhere detailing the prices and by the general look of the woman's disposition, you concluded she didn't want to book you on the basis she must've concluded you were a vagrant. You were, in a sense. -"What if I came back later? Would there be free spaces then, do you think?"- You try for pleasantries and she shrugs her shoulders as you grabbed your money from the counter. The nametag pinned to her dress revealing the name to be Debra. Jesus, Debra, help a person out. -"Yeah, maybe in an hour or two or ---"- She cordially blows you off and your legs are on the move. Yeah, you couldn't afford to waste time in a place called The Roadside; if anything, Barnes would look some place just like this first. In any case, you tried. Nobody could say you didn't try. -"Okay, thanks! Thanks a lot!"-

You respond, breathless, rushing out the door before Debra could even retort.

Not swift enough to where you could be suspicious.

But, still fast enough as not to waste time and lollygag, as Barnes would put it.

C'mon, now, Gatlinburg had to have someone to bunk for the night.

Somewhere beneath the bracket of twenty bucks.

Leaving you just enough change to eat literally anything.

Catch a bus or a train afterwards; in any direction but back from whence you came.

The crowded streets are dark, splattered with the light of the orange electrical poles melting into the moist pavement and the footsteps of people huddled around corner stores, the odd bar, drugstore, motor lodge, family diner packed with patrons --- you welcomed the crowd, feeling you could get lost in it. Out in nature there was only ever you and Barnes. Hiding being an impossible task. Always in his crosshairs. Like the prey of a hunter who knew his trade all too well. Even now, you could feel his phantom gaze on you, occasionally throwing careful glances behind you as you walked, checking if he was behind you, undoubtedly seeming unhinged or slightly unstable to whatever outside might've been looking in. A crazy woman rushing down the street, eyes darting around, looking for any place that had a plaque that said rooms on display, bypassing a motel decked out in Confederate memorabilia called The Rebel Corner. Nope. No way in hell. You couldn't do that one. It felt too prophetic; you could almost imagine him finding you there of all places and being so infinitely smug about it you would never live it down, hating yourself for being a choosy beggar like this as you sped up your pace, hope being alive and well once you stumble upon a small establishment, tucked in between two unassuming buildings, a blinking neon sign displaying the Dogwood Motel; working hours from 0-24h. Fair enough. Seemed both seedy enough and yet open and touristy enough to prevent it from being unsafe --- the garish yellow gingham wallpaper of the lobby hitting you like a sobering slap across the face. Yeah. You could stay here. Something about it seemed aggressively cheerful and friendly, right alongside the man attending the counter in a matching yellow wool turtleneck, a well manicured mustache and bushy sideburns. His trousers and the belt buckle it was fastened with tall on his waistline, shirt tucked in around it. You either spent too long in the woods or the world has gone more strangely surreal when you weren't looking. -"Good evening. Are there any vacancies?"- Feeling like an overly eager puppy, you practically prop yourself up your toes asking the question. -"Sure. There's an empty one on the third floor. Let me write'ya up."- He drawls, all fidgety and fingers, looking through his books, something regretful about his gaunt expression; he looked like an infinitely skinnier version of Burt Reynolds from Smokey and the Bandit, minus the hat, of course. -"Problem, though. The particular room has no windows, bit of an architectural fluke, so ---"- He starts and you instantly perk up, like a meerkat.

No windows!?

No place someone could crawl in? Break in!? Ambush you? Watch you!?

-"I'll take it!"-

You interject before the poor man could even finish your sentence.

Heart thumping fast in your chest.

He gives you an almost pitiable, concerned look, like he couldn't believe he actually successfully booked that one to someone.

You, for one, couldn't be happier. Oh, god bless the Dogwood Motel.

You borderline started fantasizing about something straight out of a movie scene; you mysteriously sliding the man a controversially large sum of money to hide the fact anyone by the surname of Barnes was staying here in the off chance anyone inquired, the fantasy remaining nothing but a fantasy. You barely had for food. You were nonetheless momentarily overtaken by the drug called hope, filling you with newfound euphoria.

-"That comes with a discount then. Five bucks a night. ID, please?"-

He explains, vehemently scratching the side of his face.

You slide him the plastic bit of identification of along with the cash for the evening.

Nearly bouncing up and down on your heel anticipating the key he gives you.

It's neon yellow, matching the rest of the interior decoration.

-"Alright, Mrs. Barnes. Room 307. Enjoy your stay."-

All pleasantries aside once he took one look at your ID, and the fact that being called Mrs. Barnes had the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, you don't remember when was the last time you grabbed something so fast in your life, squeezing the key and it's chain in the palm of your hand like someone would steal it from you, practically making a b-line for the nearby staircase, sauntering in wide steps up the third floor until you could practically feel your chest could explode with the pressure, sweat pooling your forehead; when you reach the room intended to be yours, pushing the key into it's allotted keyhole, you're entirely out of breath, huddling into the entirely womb-like, dark room with fingers searching hastily for the light switch and flicking it on to produce a dim, orange light stemming from the overhead chandelier, revealing a bed covered with rust colored Ogee patterned bedsheets and very loud, basketweave brown wallpapers lining the walls, enough to induce some measure of claustrophobia in just about anyone, semi expecting this to be an ambush for Bob to be waiting for you in some corner, deciding to jump out of the bathroom while your back is turned. The air is somewhat stale; the inability to air out and ventilate properly clearly taking its toll overtime. No matter. You wouldn't stay here forever. This was good. This was only temporary and meant to be a cheap shelter to help you recover from the ordeal it took you to get here in the first place. Next stop would be Knoxville via Pigeon Forge and Sevierville and from there, hopefully Nashville and the first plane out of the country, although how you'd get the money for the ticket eluded you. You'd think about that, you figured, when the time comes, in stride, deciding to focus more on moving than the future details. You turn the second interior room lock of your front door and you collapse on the squeaky, colorful bed that smelled like lavender detergent and accumulated dust, partially fearing that the moment you close your eyes, he'll be there, collecting you in his arms like a vice grip, meaty, thick, calloused fingers coiling around your neck.

You dreamlessly sleep without even removing your clothes like a train's just hit you.

'Works on paper', you remember him musing before you heavy eyelids flutter shut.

'You runnin' away. But that dog don't hunt.'

He'd gloat, warning.

Promising.

---

He was a man of immense self control.

So, when he decided to hurt someone, it was never an accident or a mere slip up.

It was a cold, deliberate, well-measured choice.

That's why you couldn't justify him. Robert E. Lee Barnes always knew precisely what he was doing; never his temperament winning out of him or something clouding his judgement, making him behave irrationally. His cruelty was finely oiled and tuned, almost like clockwork, with the punctuality of a Swiss watch; he's been threading the certain route of killing for you and because of you before and you knew it was for you and because of you in equal measure because he told you so. Quietly lorded it over you like a trophy. Held your chin over it, both literally and figuratively, making you witness it. Was only a matter of time, you knew, before he does it again and you'd wake up to something harrowing, like someone's skull on the mantlepiece serving as a reminder and a decoration, him leaning his whole arm over it while he smugly smoked after lunch with his legs up on a stool. You couldn't live like that. That was madness. Worse yet, it was purposefully evil. You loved him and you were assured he loved you too, in some sick, obsessive, dark, rotten, Barnes-ian way of his, but in equal measure getting away from him was the only sane choice that existed on God's green Earth, every other leading further back off the precipice of calculated, machine-like insanity that would sooner eat you alive than let you off the hook.

You ponder the whole idea out on a supply run, crack of dawn.

While the city still more or less slept.

First in line at the grocery counter, first to get out, first to be off the street, needing to start vacating the rented one-night room and return your key by nine in the morning, buying a reusable cheap rucksack, pastries in brown paper bags, some bottled water, more so for the bottle you can fill later rather than the actual fluid inside; another lesson you learned from Robert directly --- sometimes the canteen itself was more valuable than what was inside, because a canteen was always valuable all on its own --- figured there was something bittersweet there. Using the skills he pass on to you to escape him. Bypassing a Smoky Sky Lift billboard, you think about the prospect of catching a train out of here, hopefully the first one, refusing to stall or procrastinate; maybe hit the next town over. Get a job. Any job so long as it was honest and legal. Lay low for a while. Accumulate more money. Move on. Keep moving. Always moving. Disappear in some town, some city, maybe even some other State somewhere. Divorce wasn't what you were after. Just separation. Bringing Barnes to a divorce court feeling inherently absurdist. You could vividly imagine him being served the papers by whatever poor, long suffering postman would be forced to climb up the hill where your and his house stood and Barnes silently showing up to the court date with a sowed off shotgun.

You shiver at the thought.

What if he just got bored, you think in stride, looking both ways crossing the street?

What if his pride got so irrevocably injured by this, he wouldn't follow?

Was that possible?

Would he be capable accepting loss? Losing?

Would he retaliate for retaliation's sake? Would you ever be able to rest easy?

Set down your head on some pillow, god knows how far from here, and be assured that he wouldn't be looming at your front door one night? Would he ever throw in the towel and say, shit, I give up?

No.

Not Robert.

You knew him.

He'd follow you to the ends of the earth.

He never gives up, even at the cost of his own life, it simply wasn't in his nature, you solemnly conclude, settling back into the hallowed safety of your windowless room, plastic grocery bags in tow, re-packed into your backpack in the off chance you needed to get a move on quickly with no time to waste, taking a moment to look at a photo of him you brought with you as a keepsake; a rare sentimentality for sentimentality's sake, a reminder to yourself you could still care for someone, carry them with you and want to get away, locking the door behind you, using the leftover hour or two you had left in here to take a warm shower and wash the stink and sweat off of you.

God only knew when would be the next time you'd have the opportunity.

---

You board the ten thirty train northwest, heading towards Nashville.

With a transfer and a quick stop in Knoxville.

Funny. Part of you expected him to have caught you by now. Expect him to catch you day one, while you were still hitchhiking along the ADHS. The fact you were still out here and free to move about as you pleased, well, filled you with some semblance of unspoken terror and unease, like a calm before the storm or the deep breath taken before a dive. Where was he? Was it oxymoronic to ask that of yourself? This wasn't like him. Wasn't like Barnes to be seen when he hunts either, your subconsciousness tells you. The point you couldn't observe him tracking you was the whole point. A trick, to think you've gotten away. Outsmarted him. Ensure you let you guard down and then when you felt most assured in your safety he ---

The train tracks disappear beneath the rushing train in a blur.

You spent the last of your money on a one-way ticket, with literally fifty cents leftover, sharing a coupe with a mother, her newborn and two men; who they were to each other hard to asses but you welcomed the crowd. You were safer in a crowd. You might just slip away if you continuously surrounded yourself with people even if your situation started resembling a comedy sketch; you were travelling with a group off to protest the unveiling of a Civil War canon or other up in Nashville and judging by their colorful attire, lack of discernable luggage and the long hair, you could only assume they were drop-outs, beatniks and possibly homeless, like yourself. Degenerate scum, as Barnes would call them. You sigh sadly at the moniker. One irony compounds another. He would blow a fuse if he knew who you were bunking with. That or you were focusing way too much on the thoughts and the possible margins of approval to disapproval of a man you were hellbent leaving behind.

He was still your husband, not just some random man, you remind yourself.

He was a killer, another voice reminds icily.

But then again, you always knew that. He never hid it from you.

You knew that about him before you even married.

-"It's a history of oppression, of bloodshed, of violence, and they unveilin' that shit for the whole world to see!"- One of your fellow coupe passengers rants to the other while you gave yourself the brief leeway of closing your eyes, hugging your rucksack around your body, leaning the side of your head against the vibrating glass of the train window, the thinning forest bypassing the cornered edges of your eyesight in a blur. In everything went well, you'd be in Nashville in some three hours give or take. You internally curse yourself for not having a wristwatch on you --- then again, how could you, when he kept everything under lock and key? When he was always watching, like a hawk? You flutter your eyes open briefly, catching sight of the man's faded, ripped jeans vest riddled with badges and pins, turning your head away once you spot one saying Ban the Bomb and another that said Give Piece a Chance. Why did you feel haunted? By everything? -"Now, tell me how we can move on as a society with crap like that goin' on in our own backyard, man!"- The other one, with a long ponytail retorts, impassioned and you feel the sweat pool along the surface of your scalp, anxiety bubbling up in your gut once the baby in the woman's arms seated next to the pair hiccups itself awake, no doubt alerted by all the noise, whimpering in its swaddling cloth; its mother immediately grabbing the hem of her long, flowing blouse embroidered with the odd floral pattern peppered with tassels and frills, giving the child the nipple to suckle on. -"You'll wake the baby, asshole."- She whispers, slapping one of the men across the shoulder in a manner that could be considered playful, softly but with enough force to be considered a reprimand, cooing her crying kid. Her head leaning down in consolation, smooth, long hair falling around her face like a curtain; it must've been below her back, spilling all around her train seat like a veil. -"Shh, shh, Robbie, it's alright."- She mutters and it's like every instinct in your body fires and flares up, on alert. Robbie? As in Robert? Her baby was named Robert? Why wouldn't he be? It was a common name. You don't even remember when you excuse yourself, hastily exiting the coupe to get as much fresh air in the hallway, leaning against the nearest cabin wall to calm yourself down, feeling your own chest heave with tension. Would life always be like this, you wonder, hyperventilating, using your backpack as a comfort, embracing it like a shield around your body, protecting what exceedingly few belongings in the world you had left --- you running away and Robert always chasing you and catching up with you, in some shape, way or form, even if through reminders if nothing else?

The train screeches and you conclude you had to have been paranoid.

These were growing pains, nothing else; you anticipated this when you ran.

There was nothing more natural than being afraid when you were out surviving.

The whole hallway trashes and you feel every movement in your bones.

Causing you to hug your bag even tighter, like a life raft.

The baby's crying intensifies.

A pair of people smoking in the corridor stumble, one nearly falling over.

What the ---

A moment of silence later, the train sluggishly jumps, only to slow down.

Coming a complete halt.

You stop breathing, tears goddamn nearly welling in your eyes once the uniformed, heavy set, red faced Conductor slams the corridor door open, sauntering inside, pushing past the bewildered smoking couple sporting a matching pair of tan sunglasses. -"Get out of the hallway! Out of the hallway! Evacuate the train!"- He orders, pointing outside and you mutely shake your head once he spots you standing alone, grazing you with his finger from afar to signify that included you too, the threesome and their newborn peeking their heads out of the coupe through the sliding door, alerted by the commotion, looking at each other in confusion and then at you; the collective so distraught you figured nobody even noticed your cheeks were wet by now. The wispy, long-haired mousey woman with the baby looks at you square on, appearing like the spitting image of Olivia Hussey under this light; just as wide eyed, fae-like and lost. -"What's goin' on?"- She asks you and then repeats the same question to nobody in particular, staring down her two companions who seemed equally perplexed. -"What's happenin'?"- One of them echoes the inquiry and you stopped. Everything stop. You weren't moving anymore and that was the worst thing that could happen right about now. You needed to keep going. If you started running into obstacles now, all of this would've turned out to be in vein. You're practically soundlessly crying by the time the Conductor arrives to wrangle the four of you forward. You feel yourself grabbed by the elbow and pushed to move; unwillingly, you do. Like someone sleepwalking and having no control over it. No, no, no. This was a temporary setback, is all. Temporary setback. Temporary setback. -"The tracks have been de-railed. We can't get a move on 'till it's fixed."- You hear the Conductor shout and if there was a way for fear to feel painful inside of a human body, it does with you there and then; you sense the dread shooting through you like an electrical current. The forests around the train thick and deep; like someone who moved in a circle you were right where you started. And he could be out there. Waiting. -"Hey, what about a refund for our tickets, man! Shit! We paid our way fair'n'square! Ain' right, man!"- You hear the beatnik argue his case and whatever the surly Conductor responds back fades into background noise, some deeper instinct inside of you rendering you blind and deaf as you walked with the certain knowledge that he did this.

He singlehandedly sabotaged the fucking train.

-"No, we can't go outside."-

You whimper, aggrieved once you feel the Conductor's heavy hand on your back.

Ushering you down the steps in your unwillingness to get out, holding up the line behind you, like an animal led to the slaughter. You weren't being deliberately difficult; you were just...so scared. So scared.

-"Ma'am."-

Are the last words you're cordially give once you're practically shoved down the metal train steps, landing on the grass on your own two feet, right beside the train tracks that stood askew, the footboard, wheel and breaks stuck between what seemed like several planks dislodged from their place on first amateur glance; was honestly a shock the impact of the crash wasn't more severe. That it didn't send you and everyone thumbling headfirst down the floor. You look around, finding the scattered passengers confused, your companions from the coupe already walking down the train tracks on foot, the two men in cowboy boots and flaring bell bottoms still arguing among themselves, no doubt on the subject of the injustices of the railway system this time around, the woman and the baby between them, her long skirt fluttering after her in the breeze. Was nice, some yearning voice inside of you whispers, reproaching. To have a family. You had one too. Until you left it. No. That was just your intrusive irrationality throwing a wedge into your plans --- you could still make it, even though you cursed the fact that the nearest highway had the closest shortcut led through the surrounding woods, but then again, for all of Robert's faults, he was only human too and this fear; it was only skin deep. You'd make it to the road and simply hitchhike, the way you did before. If you could do it once, you could do it twice. This was only over if you believed it to be. Now wasn't the time for despair. Now was the time for action. You turn on your heel, seeing the Interstate from here, through the tree line of pines, making a dash for it, leaving the collective of befuddled, aggrieved passengers behind, practically running, the trees rushing past you in a haze leading you down a steep slope, accelerating your movements, nearly causing you to stumble forward, branches getting caught into your clothes, your hair, scratching against the skin, leaving you under the impression the painful, sudden impact drew blood and you were certain by the time you sprinted out of here you'd look like someone who's just taken a beating. Nobody was chasing you, you think feverishly, gripping your backpacking, you were just spazzing out all on your own. How ridiculous you must've looked. The pines close in around you and you falter, catching your balance of your footing at the last moment, the blur of adrenaline taking over and you barely spotting the untouched campsite in the forest clearing in front of you.

An extended hand holding a match to a piled on stack of woods.

Holding the flame there until the planks lit up under a pillar of thin smoke.

You...no.

It was him.

Crouching on the ground, lighting disemboweled bits of the train tracks on fire.

A metal crowbar, a hammer and a shovel leaned on a nearby tree.

You recognize him by the bush of curly hair.

Robert lifts his head up slowly, blue eyes calm, meeting yours.

Something about his voice infinitely pleased, humming in contentment.

You stand paralyzed, feeling the blood rush into your brain.

-"Mhmm-hmm! You ever get to Nashville?"-

Laced with soft spoken sarcasm, he tilts his head to the side, taking the half smoked cigarette out of his mouth, balancing it between his index finger and thumb, right before chucking it into the newly formed, fledgling campfire, letting it crackle; you take a step back instinctively once he slowly stands up, dusting his knees off with all the casualness in the world while you were here, with your eyesight dotted back in distress, causing you to feel faint and lightheaded. Shortness of breath overtaking all survival instinct as the distant sounds of slamming, shouting and clanking echoed from further back up the hill; repairs on the train no doubt already commencing. You weren't ambushed. You practically ran into a trap. -"Bob, I ---"- You try, desperately glancing between the point of where you came and where you winded up, wondering if you should try your luck and run back or not, finding your own words cracking midway through your pathetic attempt at a sentence. The train tracks were burning and he stood in front of you, rifle slung over one shoulder, fingers gripping the leather belt strap. His words come into mind; That dog don't hunt. And it was just as he said; it didn't. If this ever winded up in the newspapers, which you knew it never would, it would be one of those things where truth was stranger than fiction --- you could already see the article title; Vietnam Veteran involved in brigandry, deliberately causing an accident and highway sabotage to circumvent his wife from dumping him. More on page six! In a second of inappropriate self-indulgence you envision the hippies headed for Nashville getting their hands on a periodical and recognizing you on the front page. The gulp in your throat is heavy, glutaral. You were so embarrassed you could die. You open your mouth to say something to him, perhaps something meaningful, groundbreaking, witty, something of a verbal checkmate, but before you can, you feel yourself grow limp, nostrils filled with the pungent stench of vapor and smoke, all endurance fading once he's entirely too close for comfort, causing you to go collapsing into the familiar prison of his arms where you've been countless times before, the forest closing in around you, like the jaw of a flesh eating plant around an insect.

The campfire crackles on, swallowing the wood, leaving no traces behind.

The whole world goes thumbling on its head and everything goes black.

[bumpkinbitch]

your face may have changed, but we stay the same.

[ultralightpoe]

Ultralightpoe Masterlist

Requests are OPEN !

Last Updated : 2-4-25

“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”

Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen

~ ~ ~

-Marvel -

-House of The Dragon-

-Top Gun-

-Bullet Train-

-Stranger Things-

-Scream-

-Witcher-

-Ted Lasso-

-Twisters-

-Challengers-

-Hunger Games-

Midnight Album Event

~2024 Halloween Event Masterlist

[rebelliousstories]

ValenFics 2025

Ooo! Are you ready for some loving? Because I know I am. Fourteen Fics, fourteen days, and fourteen different couplings. Get ready to feel the love this month!

Cupid (February 1st) Bernard the Elf

Now we all know that Cupid’s arrows do not work on legendary figures. What about legendary adjacent?

Letters (February 2nd) Poly! Gambit x Rogue

When the three are sent off to various missions near Valentine’s Day, Rogue proposes a very interesting proposition to cure their blues.

Puppy Love (February 3rd) James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes

Bucky was a skirt chaser in the 40’s; this is just a fact. Bet you never heard this tale from the era though.

Date Night (February 4th) Robert “Bob” Floyd

Finally, coming home after a long day away, all Bob wants is the simple things in life.

XOXO (February 5th) Spencer Reid

You thought Spencer knew an absurd amount of Halloween trivia? Oh, be prepared for this.

Candy Hearts (February 6th) David Loki

Having a lover at home that packs lunches for him is always sweet. And there are, sometimes, extra sweets involved.

Chocolates (February 7th) Eddie Brock/ Venom

Oh, the joys of introducing new foods to an alien symbiote who only wants brains.

Roses (February 8th) Logan Howlett/ Wolverine

There is only one person in the world that James Logan Howlett is soft for. Anyone else who finds out, very quickly learns not to blab.

Single Awareness Day (February 9th) Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Another year of failed romance leads to a night at the bar with her best friend.

Love (February 10th) Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

Getting orders that you are to be shipping out at 0600 on February 14th is never good. Thankfully, there is a certain someone with a trick up her sleeve.

Card (February 11th) Eddie Munson

Why must candy-grams be a thing? What purpose do they serve? Why do people think it’s okay to deal them out to students who use them to rub it in each other’s faces?

Kiss (February 12th) Cooper “The Ghoul” Howard

A ghoul and a normie walk into a bar…

Hearts (February 13th) Aaron Hotchner

A simple note that makes all the difference.

Be My Valentine? (February 14th) Nick Burkhardt

Rational thought would tell you not to mess with a woman with a gun. But Nick has, apparently, thrown that out the window.

[literaryslapshot]

auntie j's blog rules ✎☁︎♡

⎯ please respect my blog rules as much as possible. if you have any questions about anything, feel free to ask! no shame in asking for clarification about anything. rules under the cut!

⎯ if you are requesting a fic/blurb/social media edit, please use my roster to request. the link is on my "materlist & directory".

⎯ if you are requesting smut, please be over 18+. also, if you are a blog that does not like smut, then blog the tag. you are responsible for your own media consumption. a lot of, if not most of, my content will be 18+.

⎯ i will not write any of the following: - stepcest - noncon - death - siblings/readers as

i like to write some angsty, dark stuff but those are my limits. so really, the doors are wide open with endless opportunity.

⎯ hate, stirring the pot, drama will not be tolerated. this blog is my personal escape, i come here to my secret garden to have fun and write my little fics. so, no drama, no tea, no hate.

with those being the rules set in place, let's have fun!

[uhsolikethis]

Bucky should've kept his fuckass Bob. The spark left for me when he did the big chop. See if he had cut it shorter but still kept it as a bob it would've gave a little more.

[cosmicwavelengths]

suckin' and f***in'

minors, dni! - 18+ only pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader a/n: i came across this imagine by @fckmebarnes and i couldn't /not/ write about it because... fuck. full credits to them for this idea! (i hope you don't mind!) - this has a bit of a weird title but it's inspired by bistro huddy lol cw: smut, blow job, begging, orgasm (m! recieving), bucky gets a bit rough, explicit language wc: 959 | masterlist | ao3

────୨ৎ────

“Are you sure you can take all of me?” 

Bucky runs a hand over his length, smug smile resting on his face. You were aware that he was bigger than most guys you’ve been with, but you figured you can make him come undone all the same. You tug at the zipper of his jeans, opening the fabric slit of his boxers and pulling him out.

When your warm hand makes contact with his cock, Bucky sucks in a breath, stiffening and grasping onto the arms of his chair. With slow movements, you test the waters by running your digits over his smooth skin, tracing around his balls and up the shaft to his head. You think your ears deceive you when you hear a quiet whimper come from the back of his throat. Oh?

Gently running your index finger around the head of his cock, he reaches your hand and grabs it—holding tight enough to halt your movements.

“Don’t tease me, not today,” Bucky attempts to command, yet his voice is laced with… worry? A plea? Is he actually begging for you? You may as well have been dreaming.

Shaking your hand out of his grasp, you take his cock fully in hand and start giving him proper strokes. “C’mon, I know what I’m doing, just let me, okay?” Throwing him an innocent smile, you pick up the pace.

His breaths become labored now, chest rising and falling steadily. Maintaining that firm pressure, his head lolls back, locs of hair cascading back. His mouth released a slight groan. “Fuck, darling, I need your mouth on my cock.”

Quirking an eyebrow, you look at him with surprise, slowing your movements. “No way, are you actually begging me?” You have to stifle your laugh, so as to not embarrass him. “James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Begging me. This can’t be real.” In disbelief, you shake your head and start stroking him again.

Releasing the chair arms, he holds your head in place by your jaw, forcing you to look at him. And for the first time, you get a proper look him—how his bright blue eyes are blown with want, how a faint blush trails from his cheeks and down his chest. He breathes heavily, “Darling—sweetheart. Please, I need you to suck me off. I need to feel your warm mouth around me.”

This time, you chuckle. “As he commands,” and you dip your head down—finally, dragging the tip of your tongue from the slit of his balls to the tip weeping with precum, making Bucky’s eyes roll back into his head. 

“F-fuck, just like that,” he stutters, trying to stifle another groan from his chest. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Raising your brows at him, you grin before taking his cock fully in your mouth, burying him in your throat and popping back up, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock. Your mouth is so tight—so wet around him, feeling like velvet.

“Shit! Darling, fuck, I don’t know how much I can take if you keep doing that,” His breath is raspy, laced with lust. You couldn’t help but moan around him at his wantonness, sending vibrations down his shaft to his balls. Bucky’s eyes fix shut, holding onto his chair like a lifeline, unable to control how his hips buck into your throat.

You feel so fucking good, it should be illegal. Forcing his eyes open, he watches you bob your head up and down on him, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. He thinks he could feel the wooden arm of the chair crack under the grip of his metal hand, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Soon enough, Bucky feels his cum rising in his balls, and he thinks he could blow any second. Then you pull off of his cock, a string of your saliva mixed with his precum connecting him to your soft lips. The fuck?

“No, no.” Bucky shoves himself out of the chair to his feet, lacing his vibranium hand in your hair. He starts relentlessly fucking your mouth, forcing you to gag on his cock. He probably would’ve held back a bit, but you’re his strong girl and he knows you take his strength.

Scrambling, you brace your hands behind his strong thighs as you try to hold yourself in place for his thrusts. He feels the way your mouth and throat give way for the length of his cock. It was hot and wet, and fucking heaven. 

“Shit, I’m cummin’, Fuck!” Bucky is barely able to get the words out before he grips your hair tightly, emptying his balls in your throat with a deep growl. He cums hard, feeling your throat constrict with each pump of cum he releases.

After he has hit the peak of his climax, Bucky grabs your face, pulling you off of him. “Let me see.”

Blushing, you open your mouth so he can see the pool of cum on your tongue. He moans at the sight, dragging a smooth thumb over your lips.

“Now swallow.”

Nodding breathlessly, you swallow down his spend, the salty flavor sliding down your tongue into your throat.

He lets you go, allowing you to collapse backwards onto the floor. You land on your ass with a slight thud. As you try to catch your breath, Bucky stands over you, still shuddering as he climbs down from his orgasm.

And, fuck, if that wasn’t the most erotic thing you’ve ever experienced in your life, and the mere thought of it makes you rub your thighs together with arousal. Seeing you so needy for him, he smiles devilishly as he strokes himself hard again. Damn that serum. “Now, it’s your turn.”

[buckyalpine]

Mob Bucky likes his innocent date ft smut

Sigh. I wanted this to be wholesome but it’s horny instead I’m sorry. Might delete tbh. Imagine devilishly gorgeous mob Bucky getting joy out of making his shy date flustered til she’s tripping on her words and unable to speak. He got Steve to find him a date for an event in the evening, uninterested in having to actually find one for himself. He just wants a pretty thing on his arm that he could maybe fuck at the end of the night. Between busy schedules and mob work, Steve doesn’t find anyone so he scrambles to the last person he can think of.

His sisters best friend.

You’re not at all what he was expecting.

He walks down the long staircase in his all black suit, beard trimmed, his cologne intoxicating, coking an eyebrow when he sees the shy thing waiting for him that he’s supposed to go with.

You nearly squeak when he stands before you, too nervous to say anything, your heart running a million miles a minute, knowing exactly who the very James Barnes was. You had no business being here, you were doing this for Steve.

“Hi” you whisper, and Bucky can’t help but smirk at the way you keep tugging at your dress, not meeting his eyes, tipping your chin up to meet his wolfish expression.

“You must be Y/n” he doesn’t let go of your face, noting the goosebumps that now cover your exposed skin from your plunging dress. He doesn’t say much else, letting you squirm, quite enjoying himself.

You want to tell him he looks good, be the confident woman he probably expected to have, exuding grace and poise but you bite your lip instead, nearly whining when he lets go of your chin.

“Y-you um. You look b-beautiful” you finally stutter out, your face burning under his amused gaze.

“Is that so Bambi?” He smirks, cocking his head while you fidget with your fingers. “Hmmm. No one’s called me that before” he chuckles, taking your arm in his and leading you to the limo parked outside.

Your skin is so soft, you smell so sweet and for the first time ever, he doesn’t want to ravage his date to bits. Not when you’re such a soft precious thing.

The night goes well as you grow more and more comfortable with him. He dotes on you the entire time, not letting you lift a finger. He can’t help but take care of you, not letting anyone else near his precious little Bambi.

By the end, he wants to take you home safely like a gentleman but he wants more. And he knows you do too. He can see it in the way you look at him with such longing, nuzzling into his side further and further in the back of the limo.

You’re practically on his lap now, desperately wishing he’d just have his way with you without toy having to say anything but he’d never let that happen.

“What is it Bambi” he whisperers when you squeeze your thighs together, hiding you face in his neck. Your hand trails from his tie to his belt buckle, too embarrassed to go any lower.

“Oh you poor thing” he coos, bringing and pressing your hand on top of his erection, your shaky hands rubbing his bulge like a needy kitten, “do you want my cock baby, s’that it? My Bambi needs her cock?”

“Mhm” you whine, clinging onto him when the limo pulls up to his house, his thick arms wrapping you up and taking you right to his room with no second guesses.

When he gets you into bed, all his animalistic tendencies go out the window, holding back how badly he wants to pounce on you and ravish you like the cute little bunny you are, trapped in the wolfs den. Your gown has been thrown off, lingerie ripped to bits, laying on his bed as he crawls on top of you, his thick, leaky cock bobbing between his legs.

“Are you sure you want this Angel” he checks in with you first, cupping your cheek and swiping his thumb across your pouty lip.

“W-want you” you whisper, shakily reaching down to grasp his cock, swallowing nervously. “I just- I don’t-“

“You don’t have to be scared bunny” he kisses your cheek, placing his hand on top of yours, guiding your strokes. “I’ll teach you how to play with my cock baby”

You tighten your grip, tugging him to where you need him most and he can’t hold back much longer, he’s trying to hard but you makes it impossible.

“Fuck Bambi” he groaned feeling his tip run against your soaked cunt, holding back frok shoving himself in you “keep doing that and I’ll lose control baby”

“Lose control Bucky” you tug at him again and he shakes his head with a strained chuckle.

“I’ll hurt you bunny” he said warns again but you need him to take you apart till you cant walk.

“Please?”

“Bunny…” he warns one last time but you want anymore.

“Daddy” you whine in his ear and something inside him snaps. He doesn’t give you any warning, slamming his cock into you with one stroke, your pleasured cry music to his ears.

“What did you just call me?!” He pulls out to flip you over, spanking your ass while his balls slap your clit, loving the way you go dumb over his cock.

“Such an innocent little baby with a filthy mouth, huh doll, my bunny wants her daddy’s cock”

He grips onto the headboard, delivering powerful snaps with his hips, alternating between pounding you against the pillows and grinding his cock in you without pulling out.

“Such a tight pussy squeezing daddy’s cock, my naughty little bunny, you want daddy’s cream too baby? You want daddy to give you his fresh cum, hm? Breed this needy little pussy?”

“B-breed me daddy!!” You squeal, his words driving you towards your climax, crying into his sheets and arching your back more as his movements grow sloppy.

“Get ready for daddy’s cum baby- gonna breed this pretty pussy till your fuckin’ round n’swollen n’leaking with milk” he gritted out, grabbing your hips with slam back and meet his thrusts. “Together Bambi, cum with daddy, c’mon, be a good girl n’cum with daddy”

The most salacious and primal sounds fill the room as he pumps ropes of his cum into toy, your greedy pussy milking him for all he’s worth. He can’t believe such a quiet little bunny could turn out to be a minx on the inside but he’s never letting you go.

“You’re dangerous Bambi” he whispers, keeping his softening cock in you, having never felt so satisfied afterwards, practically floating in the clouds with you. “M’never pulling my cock out, you feel too good around my dick baby”

You giggle as he kisses your glistening skin, gathering your into his arms, your eyes growing wide when he doesn’t kick you out of his bed.

“You’re mine now Bambi” he says with a soft growl, holding you closer to his chest before pulling the sheets over you both.

Anyway. Wholesome version coming later.

[vunblr]

Tangled (#3)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 6.9k.

Previous Chapter

The sea was dark and quiet, just as he liked it. The moon carved silver shapes on the surface, and below, he moved like a shadow, gliding through the currents. His muscles were relaxed after the hunt, and the taste of salt and blood was still sharp in his mouth.

But as always lately, his course curved toward the cliffs, toward the stretch of shoreline he shouldn't care about. His sharp eyes caught the faint glimmer of warm, golden lights breaking through the dark, leaking out from the lair perched above the rocks.

So. She was awake.

Bucky floated just under the surface for a long moment, and his tendrils gently shifted with the waves as he watched the flicker of the soft lights.

His gaze narrowed.

Why did he care? Why was he here, lingering under her cliffs like some lost pup?

But he couldn't shake it. Since the first time she sat by his shore, and even more, since she’d seen him -since she’d survived him- there was a thread of restless curiosity winding tighter and tighter around him.

She had been brave. Stupid, but brave. And now, against his better judgment, he was curious about her.

He shifted in the water, and his pale skin blended almost perfectly with the foam around him, only the inky tips of his tendrils betrayed his shape as they rippled through the waves.

His gaze lifted again toward her den.

There was where she hid when she left his cave. He had guessed, of course, watching the path she took to climb back up, sometimes seeing her form disappear behind the shrubs and stones. But now, seeing the lights, the proof of her human life so close to his domain, it tugged at something inside him he didn't want to name.

Why do you watch, like she’s yours to guard?

He huffed at himself, and the sound was swallowed by the wind over the waves.

Maybe it was because she had left something of herself in his cave, two somethings now, the odd square and that strange dangling creature of yarn, bobbing gently with the sea breeze.

Still, he should’ve scared her worse. Should’ve made sure she wouldn’t dare return.

But he hadn’t.

Because a part of him -the part that remembered too well what it was to be caged and hunted and scared- understood why she looked at him the way she did.

His gaze hardened again as he let himself sink deeper under the surface.

She wasn’t safe, lingering so close to his cave. And neither was he letting her. Still, he couldn’t quite make himself turn away, lingering there, watching the light dance on the cliffside, imagining her moving around behind those windows.

Finally, with a low rumble deep in his chest, he turned, cutting through the water and vanishing into the dark, but not before one last glance over his shoulder.

She was there. Still within reach.

And that thought should not make him feel anything.

Yet it did.

----

The morning air was cold as she made her way down the narrow road toward town, and the sea breeze still clung to her clothes and hair from the walk. Her muscles ached faintly, a reminder of the other day’s fall, and of everything that had happened after. She tried to tell herself it had been some kind of dream. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought.

So, today, groceries. Normal things. Things that didn’t include staring into dark pools and meeting mythological creatures.

And yet, as she passed by the tiny, cluttered craft shop, her feet slowed almost on their own, and her eyes flicked to the display window. There it was. That particular shade of blue, the color of shifting tides and ink-dark tentacles. She stepped in, the tiny bell above the door giving a cheerful chime that felt at odds with her thoughts.

"Back so soon, dear?" the old woman behind the counter asked, peering at her over her glasses with a knowing smile.

"Yeah," she said, managing to sound casual. "Ran out of some shades I need. And, uh, thought I might try something new."

The woman hummed, watching her too closely as she plucked up the skein of blue yarn. As she paid, she hesitated, then leaned her elbows on the counter, trying to keep her tone light.

"So… that cave by the cliffs," she began, letting her gaze wander to the dusty shelves as if she wasn’t too invested. "You told me to be careful around there, right?"

The woman’s eyes sharpened immediately, all pretense of nonchalance gone. "Mhm. And?"

She shrugged. "Just curious why. I mean, it’s a nice spot. A little wild, but… safe enough. So why the warnings?"

The woman leaned in, dropping her voice slightly. "Because nice spots sometimes hide the worst things, that's why."

She blinked, raising her brows. "What do you mean? Like, dangerous animals?"

The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not animals, girl. Things older than that. Things that don’t take kindly to strangers poking around where they shouldn’t."

She felt her throat go dry but pressed on, giving a small laugh, trying to sound like she wasn’t fishing for specific information. "You make it sound like there are sea monsters down there or something."

The old woman’s gaze didn’t waver. "That’s what some would call them, I suppose."

Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she straightened. "Monsters?"

"Old stories," the woman admitted, but her tone said she believed every word. "About creatures in the caves under the cliffs. I was a girl when some of the older men swore they caught sight of something down there. They never spoke much about what they saw, but..." She gave a meaningful pause. "People talked. About things that weren’t quite human. About folks who went missing near the water. Strange marks on the rocks, long grooves like claws or something worse."

Her heart gave a slow, heavy thump.

"Of course," the woman added, softer now, "the men who told those stories are gone. Some think they just drank too much. But others…" her eyes pinned her in place "know better."

"So... what? You think something’s still down there?"

"Mhm," the woman hummed, leaning a little over the counter, lowering her voice like someone might be listening. "Not just of creatures in the water, but of them coming up to shore. Walking around on two legs, like you or me. Posing as human. You’d never know, they say. Not unless you catch them wrong, or see 'em too close."

Her throat dried.

The woman gave a small, almost knowing smile, as if she had seen too much, or heard too many things that didn’t add up over the years. "Some say they’ve even lived among us from time to time. Took wives. Husbands. Some of those folks didn’t last long. Others…" she trailed off, her eyes darkening, "...never quite right again."

She tried to laugh it off, though it sounded thin. "You mean like… selkies? Mermaids?"

"Not like the pretty stories," the woman snapped gently, but firmly. "Not those sweet things in fairy tales. They don’t want to be found."

Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

As the silence stretched, she forced a small smile. "Right. Well... thanks. I’ll keep that in mind."

The woman’s gaze persisted on her, as if she wanted to say more, but she simply nodded. "You do that."

With a soft murmur of goodbye, she left, the bell chiming behind her as she stepped out into the open air.

Her feet carried her through town on autopilot, but her mind was spinning. They don’t want to be found. The words echoed in her head, loud and clear.

As she made her way down the next street, she ducked into a small general store to pick up candles, she had learned the hard way during her first week that power outages happened more often than she expected near the cliffs. And with her luck lately, she'd rather be prepared.

She grabbed a few groceries as well -easy stuff to cook, snacks, tea- anything to avoid another trip for a while. Her thoughts stayed fixed on what she now knew as she checked out and carried her bags toward home.

----

Bucky was already at the shoreline when she arrived a couple of days later. He had waited, half-expecting -half-daring- her to show up at his cave one of those mornings. But clearly, she wasn't that foolish.

Still, foolish enough to eventually come back. To her usual rock, as if nothing had happened.

By the time she reached her usual spot, her mind was made up. She wasn’t going to give up her place by the rocks. It was her spot. Well, maybe not technically, but she had been coming here since she moved into that cottage, snd he hadn’t seemed to mind.

It was only when she wandered into the cave -his space- that things had escalated. She could admit that now. She had trespassed. And still, in the end, he hadn’t hurt her.

So, her logic went: if she stuck to her usual routine and didn’t go poking around in places she shouldn’t, she had nothing to worry about.

Right?

Still… she packed carefully before leaving the house. Her yarn, of course -and, after some internal debate- a box of strawberries.

And now, here she was, sitting on her usual rock like she hadn’t had the weirdest, most terrifying, most fascinating encounter of her life less than one week ago.

Hidden among the darker shadows of the stones, he watched her settle down, expecting her to start with her usual threading ritual. But instead, she pulled something unfamiliar from her backpack, some kind of translucent box that strangely caught the light. He narrowed his eyes as she popped it open and reached in, plucking something small and red.

His head tilted slightly as she bit into it, chewing slowly, with her gaze fixed on the waves. Meat? He sniffed the air. No, not flesh. It looked like some strange kind of coral, but soft... not from the sea. The scent carried to him on the breeze, sweet and sharp, something he couldn't place. Inland fruit? Something that grew in the dirt, far from his world.

He kept staring as she bit into it, juices wetting her lips, as her eyes lazily followed the waves without any care in the world. But then, damn that sun. He was being reckless. A cloud slid aside and a beam of golden light poured down, catching him squarely and turning his pale skin stark against the stone before he could shift his pigments.

Her eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, she didn’t pretend not to see.

She stared right back, unwavering, like she had half expected him. And then, casually as if they were old neighbors passing each other on the street, she waved again.

His throat rumbled, and a low hiss slipped through bared teeth before he could stop it, flashing the sharp glint of fangs.

But instead of recoiling or fleeing like she should, she just rolled her eyes, as if he was nothing more than some territorial gull trying to scare her off. A very dangerous, very deadly gull, but still.

Then, to his confusion, she lifted the container and tilted it toward him, as if offering to share its contents. He didn’t move from his place, half-coiled near the rocks, eyes sharp and narrowed as he stared at her, unmoving.

Still, some small, stubborn part of him, buried deep under layers of instinct and distrust, couldn’t help but feel... curious.

“They are good, you know? No spells or tricks, since I’m already eating them,” she said casually, her voice carried by the breeze, soft and calm, too calm for someone talking to a creature like him.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. His sharp teeth pressed lightly against each other as he stared at her, unmoving, suspicious.

No spells or tricks, she claimed.

As if he should just believe that. As if she hadn't already wandered too close, already seen too much.

To her surprise -and, okay, maybe a little bit to her terror- he started moving.

Slow, deliberate. Tendrils sliding over rocks in smooth, predatory grace. Getting closer. She fought the urge to scoot back, refusing to let fear dictate her actions. This was a game of trust now, wasn’t it? He hadn’t hurt her when he could have. And she had kept his secret.

She tilted her head at him when he stopped, popping another piece of the red thing into her mouth, watching him with an unfazed expression. Like she thought offering him this strange food would be enough to pacify him.

And yet...

The scent wafted toward him again. Sweet, sharp, foreign. It was tempting. Not because he trusted her, but because he had never seen something like it. Never tasted anything that didn’t come from the ocean depths.

Every instinct in his body screamed danger, screamed that this was a trap, that humans never offered something for free unless they wanted something in return. His narrowed gaze slipped from her mouth to the box, to her hands. If she wanted to trick him, she wouldn’t be sitting there like that... right?

A quiet, annoyed hiss slid past his teeth. He could take her down in an instant if she tried anything. Crush her fragile body, pull her under the water, and let the waves claim her before anyone knew.

So why was he hesitating?

He pushed forward, slow and deliberate. First, a tendril, curling over a stone. Then another, pulling him closer with a smooth, powerful movement. The closer he got, the more she tensed -he could feel it- but she didn’t move away.

A small, reckless part of him found that amusing.

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, and he paused just a few feet away, looming half out of the water, with his tendrils sliding in the wet sand and over the stone. His pale chest glistened where droplets clung to his skin, and his dark hair hung heavy and wild over his shoulders.

He looked from her face to the box again, narrowing his eyes.

“What is it?” he rasped, low and rough from the disuse of his voice, but the words were clear enough.

She blinked, surprised that he spoke, but then smiled just a little.

“Strawberries,” she said softly, holding one up for him to see. “They’re fruit. Sweet.”

He stared. Fruit. Something from the land...

He shifted closer still, curling his tendril around the rock at her feet, flicking his sharp eyes between her hand and her face as if daring her to move wrong.

“…Try?” she offered, gently.

His gills flexed along his ribs, unsure. But he was closer now. And he was already here. A long pause, then one pale hand reached out, and plucked the small red thing from her fingers, careful not to graze her skin, though his knuckles brushed her wrist like the brush of seaweed in passing.

He held it up to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it warily. Soft. Strange. Smelled like nothing from the sea. Still watching her from the corner of his eye, he slowly brought it to his mouth and bit, sharp teeth slicing easily through the tender fruit.

Sweet. Tart. Strange.

His brows furrowed slightly, as though confused. But he didn't spit it out. He ate it quietly, and sat back on his tendrils, as though deciding whether he liked it or not. When he swallowed, his dark eyes returned to hers, searching.

“…More,” he finally said, rough, reluctant.

Her lips twitched in the faintest smile. “Sure,” she said, nudging the box toward him.

He took another, slower this time, watching her like a hawk. Because she was dangerous. He knew that. But, so was he.

----

He ate three more, and she began to wonder if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to offer him fruit in the first place. After all, she had no clue what his body could handle. His digestive system couldn’t possibly be the same as a human’s, what if too much made him sick?

"Um... maybe that's enough for now," she said carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, narrowing in a way that sent a chill down her spine. As if to challenge her, he deliberately plucked another one from the container and ate it, watching her like he was daring her to object.

"You may get sick," she tried again, frowning a little.

The moment the words left her lips, she saw his entire demeanor shift. His expression darkened, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes, and one of his tentacles smacked the water with a sharp thwap, making her flinch.

Clearly, he had taken that as a threat.

"No, wait! I'm not threatening you," she quickly clarified, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "You’ve never eaten this before... I’m just saying, maybe if you eat too much, it could..." she hesitated, searching for a word, "...hurt you."

His gaze focused on her, unblinking. She could almost feel him analyzing her words, weighing them.

Then, to her surprise, he pressed a hand to his stomach as if considering her warning. "Bad?" he asked, voice rough and uncertain.

She relaxed with some relief when she realized he wasn't angry anymore, just wary, like a wild animal trying to figure out if she was lying. "Maybe," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it when I offered. I guess I thought... I don't know, some pet fish eat fruit..."

Her attempt at explanation was met with a sudden outrage.

"No fish!" he snapped, slapping a hand hard against his chest in an unmistakable display of indignation. His eyes blazed, and he leaned forward like she had insulted him on a deeply personal level.

"Okay! Okay!" she blurted out quickly, raising her palms in surrender. "You're not a fish. Definitely not a fish.”

He kept glaring at her for another long second, as if making sure she understood the gravity of her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she added, softening her voice. "I didn’t mean to offend you. I just... I don’t know what you eat."

That seemed to deflate some of the tension. He clicked his teeth, almost thoughtfully, though she could see how his fingers kept turning the last berry over and over, inspecting it like it might reveal a secret.

"You eat...?" she asked, carefully, realizing it might be a loaded question.

He didn't answer right away, but his eyes sharpened, reading her easily, as though he could see the direction of her thoughts.

"Hunt," he finally grunted, jerking his chin toward the sea. "Meat."

Yeah. She had figured that much, but hearing him say it so bluntly still made her pulse jump a little.

"I just thought..." she tried to clarify, gesturing to the almost empty container of fruit. "Too much of this could make you feel bad. It's not meat. It’s fruit. A plant."

He seemed to consider that, glancing down at the berry he still held. With a low grunt, he flicked it into the water, watching as it bobbed away.

"Good," he muttered at last as if grudgingly admitting it.

Then he fixed her with a sharp look, touching his chest, and repeating firmly, "Not fish."

Her lips twitched in a faint smile. "No. Not a fish."

Something in his expression shifted, softening slightly, not quite a smile, but something that hinted at less hostility.

----

They looked at each other in silence, a strange quiet that neither seemed to know how to break. His eyes never left her, sharp and assessing, while her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the container, unsure of what to say next. Then, suddenly, something clicked in her mind. A small revelation that maybe, maybe, could help bridge the strange gap between them.

She extended her hand toward him, palm up, in a soft, tentative gesture that made him tense immediately, tendrils twitching warily against the rocks.

"My name is Y/n," she said clearly.

His eyes flicked from her hand to her face, confused.

"You're supposed to give me your name and shake my hand," she added with a small, nervous smile. "It's how we... humans, you know, introduce ourselves. To say we're not enemies."

Still, he didn't move. His gaze dropped back to her hand, watching it like it was a trap, like if he touched her, she would somehow bind him with her strange land-dweller magic.

She could see him thinking, the way his jaw tightened, how his pupils thinned as though weighing something dangerous. Names, she realized, were probably no small thing to him. Names held meaning. Names gave power.

But... she had given hers freely. She watched as slowly, very slowly, he seemed to come to a decision.

His hand, larger and rougher than hers, reached out. He wrapped his cool fingers around her smaller hand with a carefulness that surprised her, as though unsure how much strength to use.

"...Bucky," he murmured at last, voice hoarse and reluctant.

Her smile brightened, though she kept still, not wanting to spook him. "Hi, Bucky," she said softly, like a small victory.

He gave her hand a single, brief shake -awkward and stiff, but it was more than she thought she would get- before pulling away again, retreating slightly like he was unsure why he had agreed to it the first place.

"So..." she ventured, cautious but curious. "That’s how we do it. But what about you? How do your kind greet each other?"

For a moment, his brow furrowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tightened as if the question brought something heavy to mind. His kind. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone like himself if any were left at all. Still, after a moment of silence, he moved.

Slowly and deliberately, Bucky lifted his hand and pressed the palm gently to his chin, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. Then he turned the hand outward, offering it to her, open.

She blinked, watching the fluid motion with growing fascination.

"Oh," she murmured softly, processing it. "Like this?"

She mirrored the gesture, touching her chin and then extending her palm toward him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, almost playful but respectful.

His sharp eyes studied her, tilting his head slightly as if appraising her effort. Then, to her quiet surprise, the tension in his posture seemed to ease. They had shared something. Something old, something from his world.

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, though his tendrils still curled and flexed over the rock like restless cats' tails.

She let the silence stretch a little longer, watching as his gaze flicked out toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping low and painting gold over the waves.

"So... Bucky," she ventured softly, careful not to spook him, "how long have you... um, lived here?"

His eyes snapped back to her, sharp and unreadable. The question seemed simple, but something in it made him tense, tendrils pausing their slow movements. Still, he tried. His jaw worked for a moment before he rasped out, "Long."

She nodded, encouraging. "Long like... a lot of years?"

His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. His hand came up, spreading his fingers as if trying to measure something in the air before giving up with a small frustrated snort.

"Before," he said at last, voice rough. "Before... them."

Her brows drew together, but she didn't press on that yet. Instead, she offered a soft smile. "Okay. Before. Got it."

He watched her, weary, but there was a faint sense of surprise too, like he hadn't expected her to accept so little.

She decided to keep it light. "Do you always watch people from the water? Or am I just special?" she teased gently, tilting her head, trying to coax some response.

His eyes narrowed a bit, but not in anger, more like confusion, as if unsure if she was mocking him. "Watch," he said simply, tapping two fingers under his eye, then gesturing at her. "You... strange."

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it, light and breathy. "I'm strange?"

He tilted his head again, tendrils curling a bit tighter. "Sit alone. By sea. Make... things." His eyes flicked toward her bag, where her yarn peeked out.

"Oh... the crocheting." She smiled and reached to pull out a small ball of yarn, holding it up. "Yeah, I guess that's strange. Most people don’t hang out near creepy caves and make jellyfish coasters."

Bucky’s gaze followed her fingers, watching the yarn, but he didn't respond. His hands flexed slightly, and she wondered if it was nerves or restlessness.

"Why?" he asked abruptly, startling her a little.

"Why what?"

"Why... here?" His voice was low, and rough, as if dragging words up from somewhere deep and unused.

She blinked, then smiled softly, realizing this was the closest thing to an actual conversation they had.

"I like the sound of the sea," she admitted. "It’s... peaceful. Easier to breathe out here."

His head tilted again, studying her like she was a puzzle.

She took a breath, feeling a little braver. "And you? Why do you watch me?"

He hesitated. His lips twitched, but no words came out. After a moment, he glanced away, as if embarrassed. "Don’t know," he muttered finally waving his hand. "You... stay."

She blinked, unsure what to make of that. "Yeah... I stay," she echoed gently, offering him a small smile. "You noticed that, huh?" She hesitated, but curiosity pushed her forward. "Bucky... what do you call yourselves? Your kind, I mean. Not what humans say."

His expression darkened instantly, sharp as a blade. The calm manner in which he’d been watching her moments ago turned to something heavier, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"You call... ce-cecaelia," he said finally, like forcing the word out.

"Yeah, I know," she pressed gently, tilting her head, carefully. "But you. What do you call yourselves?"

For a heartbeat, she thought he might answer. His eyes flicked away, toward the water, the tendrils around him curling tighter, restless. Then, sharp and clipped, he growled.

"No."

The word cut through the air like a slap.

She froze, watching as his body tensed, and a storm brewed behind his eyes again. His gaze flicked back to her, colder now, as if warning her off the subject.

"Okay," she said quickly, lifting her hands in a soft gesture of surrender. "Okay. I won’t ask again."

The tension in his arms eased just a fraction, but the wall between them had been reinforced.

She sighed, realizing that, as much as they were starting to see each other, there were still oceans of distance between them.

Still, she stayed. And he didn’t make her leave.

----

"Well..." she said softly, reaching for her bag, "I’ll just work a little before I go."

Her voice was light, like she wasn’t sitting a few feet away from a dangerous creature, a creature who had just reminded her how little she knew about him and how much he could hide.

She pulled out her yarn and hook, choosing a soft neutral color this time, and set to work. Simple coasters, nothing fancy. Something she didn’t need to think too hard about, letting her hands work while her mind stayed alert to the figure near the rocks.

Bucky stayed where he was, watching her.

Conflicted.

Part of him felt… oddly disappointed. She was ignoring him now, turning away as if she didn’t care to know more. Well, it was him who made it happen. The questions stirred things in him he wasn’t ready to face. Memories that were better left at the bottom of the sea.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her hands moved gently, with a cadence that was almost… calming. Familiar, even, in a way that tugged at something deep in his chest.

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten until a stray tendril brushed the edge of her bag, curling just slightly before he snapped it back with a small flick.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but said nothing, as if pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Good.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to explain what he was doing there, watching her, hovering like some unsure shadow. Still, when her hands stilled for a moment to adjust the yarn, his eyes locked on them, fascinated despite himself.

So strange, these human rituals. But soothing to watch.

She felt it before she saw it, that subtle shift of the air, the faint scent of brine and salt-soaked skin. When she lifted her head, his face was right there, startlingly close, watching her hands work with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his nearness.

His gaze flicked from her eyes to her hands, then back again, and after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly and gestured at the yarn with a tendril that curled in the air, hesitant.

"...What?" he rasped.

"This?" she asked gently, holding up her half-finished piece so he could see.

He gave a sharp, impatient nod.

She smiled. "It’s a coaster. Something you put under a cup. To protect tables and stuff."

His brow furrowed. "Cup?"

She blinked, realizing that might not be something he had. "Um... to drink from?" She mimed holding a glass to her lips.

Understanding flickered in his eyes, though he still looked faintly puzzled.

She chuckled softly, glancing down at her work. "It's just... something small. Easy to make. Not dangerous, I promise."

He leaned in a little closer, inspecting it now, shifting his tendrils restlessly on the rocks beside her as if wanting to reach but not daring. For a long moment, he just stared at the piece of yarn art in her hands. Then, as if pronouncing the word was a battle, he murmured, "...Pretty."

Her eyes widened slightly, heat blooming in her cheeks at the unexpected compliment, or at least, what felt like one.

"Thanks," she whispered, meeting his gaze again, softer now.

His shoulders tensed, as though realizing he'd revealed too much, and he sat back a little, though not enough to create real distance. His eyes stayed on her hands, watching every movement like he was trying to decipher a language he used to know and had long forgotten.

"Want me to make you one?" she asked quietly, half-teasing but also a little serious, remembering what transpired in the cave.

At first, he didn’t seem to react to her offer. His gaze stayed fixed on her hands, following the slow dance of her fingers over the yarn. She thought he might not have understood, or maybe he just didn’t care.

But then, almost reluctantly, he gave a small nod. "Yes.”

She blinked, a little surprised. "Alright," she murmured, smiling faintly, "I'll make one for you."

As she worked, looping and pulling the yarn, she felt him shift beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the slow, deliberate motion of his tendrils stretching along the rocks.

At first, she thought he was just getting comfortable. But as minutes passed, she realized his long, powerful limbs were spreading out in a wide circle, inching their way around her. By the time she dared to glance up at him again, she realized she was nearly surrounded.

His tentacles lay sprawled on the rocky floor, not quite touching her, but close enough that she could feel the cool, coming off them. Like a living fence, fluid and silent, encircling her while she worked.

She swallowed, trying to keep her hands firm. "You are really into ignoring personal space, huh?" she muttered, half to herself, though her voice came out a bit more breathless than she wanted.

His eyes flicked to hers, tilting his head slightly, as if not understanding. Then, he just kept watching, unmoving, while his tendrils coiled loosely, some of them draping over the rocks just inches from her legs.

She licked her lips, glancing at his face. His expression was calm. Intense, yes, but not hostile. More like… he was studying her.

Letting out a quiet breath, she focused back on her work. "Okay, big guy," she whispered under her breath. She tried to keep her breathing calm, moving her fingers carefully as she worked, but he was impossible to ignore.

Her eyes flicked sideways again, taking in the way one thick tendril coiled lazily around a jutting rock, as the tip twitched slightly like it had a mind of its own. Another rested just near her ankle, close enough that if she shifted even a little, she’d brush against it. 'Okay... stay calm', she thought, focusing on looping the yarn, 'he hasn’t hurt you. He let you go from the cave, remember?'

After a while, she dared to lift her head, only to find that his face was much closer than before. Close enough that she could see the little constellation of freckles scattered on his cheek near his ear, the slight shimmer of seawater still clinging to his skin, and the way his eyes -sharp, intense, and curious- searched hers for something. Her breath caught for a second, and she instinctively leaned back, only to realize there wasn’t much room left behind her.

His tendrils sprawled wide, blocking most of her easy escape paths. "It seems you got all comfortable," she commented with a nervous little smile curling her lips. Still no answer. Just that sharp, unreadable gaze. "Okay then..." she whispered, returning her focus to the coaster, though her fingers stumbled once before picking up their rhythm again.

----

What she didn’t know was that, for once, he was content. Or as close to content as he could remember being.

Because she was making something for him, without him asking, without him demanding it. She had offered. And that small gesture of willful giving, rather than fearful compliance, stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He told himself it was just boredom. Just curiosity. It had been so long since he spoke to anyone, even longer since anyone sat near him like this, acting like he was something other than a monster, even his own kind. Sadly, she was human. Fragile. Foolish.

Still, there was something about her that pulled him, like puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. A part of it was her scent. Something that made his senses prick with restless curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, watching her hands move with that odd grace over the yarn before something in him decided he needed to understand what that scent was.

So he did what felt natural to him, he leaned in, slow but deliberate, until his nose was just a breath away from her head, inhaling deeply.

The reaction was instant.

She jolted with a startled gasp. His own reaction was just as quick, pure instinct snapping into place, tendrils shooting forward to wrap firmly around her wrists, pinning them against the rocky surface before she could even think to pull away.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her breath came fast, her heart pounded under her skin, and his grip tightened fractionally before he realized what he was doing.

Narrowing his eyes, he growled lowly -more at himself than at her- but didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he watched her face closely, as if searching for something in her wide, surprised eyes.

"...sorry," she breathed out, though she wasn’t sure why she was apologizing when he was the one with the tentacles wrapped around her wrists.

Her voice seemed to break through whatever fog had overtaken him. Slowly, reluctantly, the tendrils loosened and slid away, though they remained close, coiled with barely restrained tension.

"You startled me," she managed to say. "Getting that close suddenly without warning." she exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

He tilted his head slightly as if weighing her words, and something about her tone seemed to click in his mind. She could see it in the way his shoulders loosened a bit like he understood, and let her wrists go.

"Alright," she sighed, glancing at him sideways. "But what… what were you trying to do, anyway?"

For a moment, he looked like a child caught with his hand in a jar, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before he quickly masked it, trying to appear unaffected.

He raised a hand, almost stiffly, and gestured to his temple. "Scent," he said simply, watching her closely for her reaction.

"Oh," she breathed out. Okay… scent. That made sense. A lot of animals use scent to learn things about others. Maybe his kind did too. She blinked at him, then offered a small, almost amused smile. "Alright, I get it. Scent is important."

He seemed to relax a fraction more, but there was still a tense curiosity in the way he held himself, waiting to see if she'd bolt or scold him again.

She tilted her head slightly in thought, looking at him, then -deciding to leap- she reached up, sweeping her hair to one side and exposing the curve of her neck. "Well… now that I’m aware of your intentions," she said lightly, quirking her lips  into a half-smile, "do you wanna try again?"

The offer clearly caught him off-guard.

His eyes widened, and his pupils dilated slightly, and, for a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Watching her like she was some strange, fascinating thing.

What she didn't realize, was that to him, this wasn’t just an invitation. The way she tilted her head, exposing her throat so casually, and shifting her hair aside, was a gesture of trust and vulnerability. And, among his kind, a subtle but unmistakable signal of courtship, offering one's scent in a way that said look at me, know me, choose me.

His teeth clicked together once, a sharp little sound he barely managed to suppress.

She caught the sound and blinked, uncertain. "What?"

He shook his head quickly, though his eyes were still locked on the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, as if testing how far she would let him go, he leaned in again. This time, there was a different air in his movements, they were careful, deliberate. His breath ghosted over her skin as he inhaled, and one of his hands, hovered like he was tempted to grab her but didn’t dare.

She swallowed and felt her pulse fluttering fast under his gaze.

His nose brushed lightly against her neck as he drew in another breath, slower this time. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened just a little, though they were still sharp, and curious and there was something else, something she couldn’t quite read.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Better?" she asked, a little breathless.

He nodded once, never breaking the eye contact.

"Better," he echoed, low and rough.

She exhaled slowly, toying absentmindedly with the yarn in her lap, but her mind was already spinning with the moment they had just shared. Then, before she could think better of it, she found herself saying, "Well… since you got to smell me, I think it's only fair I get to do the same."

His eyes widened, blinking at her like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

"I mean…" she shrugged, a crooked little smile pulled at her lips. "Seems like the polite thing to do, right?"

He stiffened. His head tilted slightly, with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

She noticed it, of course. "What?" she asked, teasing to soften the moment. "Are you scared?"

At that, his gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and narrowed. "No," he grunted, frowning, but there was a flicker of something else.

She leaned a little closer, amused now, "C’mon… it’s only fair," she said softly, holding his gaze. "I let you get this close, didn’t I?" She gestured to her neck, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of his breath ghosting over her skin. "It’s not like I’m gonna bite you."

He huffed through his nose and then, with an almost reluctant grumble, he shifted closer, but slower this time.

She smiled gently, trying not to startle him. "Okay… your turn," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between them.

Tentatively, he tipped his head forward, lowering himself just enough for her to reach. His hair was still damp, smelling faintly of salt and something sharper, darker, like deep water and stormy tides.

She hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned in, mimicking what he had done, and inhaled gently near the side of his neck, careful not to touch him. The scent was strange but not unpleasant, wild and raw but surprisingly human.

When she pulled back, she smiled, tilting her head. "See? Not so bad. It was the fair thing to do, after all."

He stared at her, with unreadable eyes. Then he nodded, the smallest of motions. "Fair," he murmured.

She chuckled, and that seemed to make him relax just a fraction. Inside though, her heart was still racing, because she couldn’t ignore the way something electric had passed between them, something unsaid but very tangible.

And it seemed neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[senka-mesecine]

I wanna reverse the roles a little bit but what if during the war the reader was presumed dead by barnes after a huge battle, and was never seen again, only for him to meet her again like a figure in a dream after the war?

I’m all for sappy reunions but sprinkle in a little angst ✨

The Ghosts of Ia Drang.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

The wide, dry grassland grew nothing but the dead.

It's been miles and he's gone about the business of turning each carcass sprawled out on its belly, its side, its face towards the sky, towards himself, so he could get some small measure of identification and try and assess who it was, gender, rank, serial number included, or a vague idea of age and even those with their features barely recognizable, deformed and mangled after meeting the flying end of an explosive shrapnel, a bullet straight to the mug or white phosphorous that still burned and sizzled in the hollow of a skull blasted apart, leaking into the red dust, frying their brains even as they lay butchered, necks tangled into the chains of their own dog tags, Barnes still checked, his own face split open like the side of a milk carton, the flesh of his cheek hanging limply, the wet meat slapping against the red hot meat beneath the layer of his face as he look and looked and looked; the women always outnumbered in every platoon at least ten to one, so the task of finding a female among the hundreds of piled up dead and thousands from the enemy's side shouldn't have been a difficult task from a technical point of view, but the particular deceased he was scampering over eluded him all morning, nowhere to be found. Not out in the open. Not piled up under the corpses of the men. Not impaled, bayonetted. Not shot. Not burned. The smoke filled dawn offering no answers; only uncertainty that bubbled into terror and wrath.

Thing was, you were lost.

Took a feat of willpower to stand up and collect himself after whatever piece of shit hovered above him and blasted him straight in the fucking kisser, putting one in each shoulder to top it all off, leaving him for dead; Barnes was certain, in fact, he could still feel the bullet lodged in his forehead, pulsating there like a stray, sharpened nail lodged into his bone and brain matter --- but that could be lived with. Fact that he couldn't find your remains? That he couldn't live with. Thing was, however much it filled him with primal despair, he prefered you confirmed to be KIA; clean and straight to the point. The idea you'd be MIA? Captured? Perhaps a prisoner of war, right now, as of this very moment? It made him want to rip off the remainder of the excess, malformed skin hanging off his face and throw it to the vultures and the buzzards circling the field right along with so many Hueys circling overhead; it was a victory, but he didn't feel it. In fact, when they found him, he was kneeling among the dead, a step away from peeling his own self off like excess paint. He'd be at least content finding a blown off limb of yours; an arm. A leg. So he could embrace it like a life raft and hold it for a while. Have some measure of certainty you at least bled out to death overnight somewhere in some bush. That you at least had enough intelligence to die. November 18th, 1965.

-"Barnes?"-

Someone yanks the sweat-drenched collar of his uniform.

He is immediately, on instinct, ready to fight it.

For a brief second, shorter than a blink of an eye, he hoped it was you and your dumb ass; the sunup overhead is sharp and dazing, obscuring the face in a halo of blinding light and buzzing flies; rescue evac. His head is split open, from his forehead to the side of his mouth; a piece of his lip hanging and hobbling in his mouth dripping saliva, making it too painful to swallow. Like water filling his ears, the deafness clears and the once the voice that was trying to get to him becomes more tenacious and vehement.

-"Sergeant Barnes!?"-

A soldier, that couldn't have been older than himself was squatting beside him, grabbing his dog tags and giving it a turn, inspecting his face, halfway trying to pull him towards the chopper that just landed in a windy flurry of turning propellers, swaying the stench of blood westwards. He digs his heels into the mud, like someone unwilling to go. It wasn't shellshock. He wasn't fucking leaving here without finding what he set out to find; was that simple. -"You need to get that shit fixed! Need to get flown out overseas for that; you'll be on a long R&R."- The voice practically yells over the loud, whirring sound of the Huey's spinning blades and once the attempt at dragging him to evacuate failed, Barnes doing nothing but stare off, trying to make them wordlessly understand what he's lost, another man joins in on the effort of hauling him. Then four more. He kicks. Bites someone at one point, the sack of shit who's hand he graced with his teeth marks yelping in surprise; he felt himself as more animal than man in that moment, communicating displeasure with grunts, with snarling, with kicks, with hand grabs. -"They'll add another chevron to that uniform; you made it, now get going!"- One of them tries for flattery, voice strained as they dragged him, struggling, the five of them; he headbutts a man at one point, gripping the back of his neck and lodging his own forehead, split at the seams into the lump of shit, sending him thumbling back, causing them all to pile on him, practically wrestling him forward along with the groaning wounded; those lacking half of their everything. All except you. You where nowhere to be found and he felt like someone who's brain's been zapped by electricity at the prospect that evac would head out with you. You could've still been out there. He was willing to walk back to base. On his own two feet, crawling, dragging himself forward by his nails, if only there was a chance to ---

-"A serious case of CSR. Pacify him. Don't want him jumping from the chopper to his death."-

The syringe flashes in the hands of one of the team members giving the diagnosis flatly, matter-of-factly, produced like a saber of bolting thunder in his eyesight widened against the sunlight, cold and metallic; by the time Barnes turns to fight it, break the arm of any motherfucker that dared to touch him, the needle jabs, impales and breaks inside of his neck from the suddenness of his movement and he's hauled into a chopper by countless fingers, kicking and screaming; the morning, battle-borne sun is relentless and searing, obscured by the colored signal fog of aerosol particles and red and orange pigment dye, offering no respite as he lays limp on the side of the chopper held down by two orderlies, dangling his own mud-crusted, bloody hand from its side, mid-air above the field, the vista disappearing underneath him in a blur, hoping, somewhere, somehow, in his folly that you'll reach out from the ground, taking it, coming with him.

Barnes's grip remains empty, tormented by a phantom hollowness.

Nothing but crimson smoke passing through his fingers.

---

A year in recovery has him hitched.

Yeah, he got married in Japan during a springtime that wept.

Figured a balm was needed, like an antidote to a gaping, gangrenous wound that called out to him with your voice; anything to avoid him going mad and smashing up the hospital or tearing the hair from his own scalp, killing people with his bare hands, ripping up the building one brick at a time, looking for someone to blame, turning every sick bed until he saw a mere shadow of your face, even if by accident, half-dead, as mangled as he was --- anything except being out there, out of his reach. Nobuko was a good woman, might've even said he'd relate to her and that she related to him, half of her family as bent out of shape and as cancerously disfigured from the blast of '45, making his ugly mug seem good by comparison while she treated him, stitch after stitch, operation after operation, reconstructive surgery after reconstructive surgery, metal plate after metal plate --- a sort of life could be made here under different circumstances, perhaps --- but he laid awake at night in his own marital bed, his framed wedding photo on the nightstand, with half of his face practically mummified on it, as a stark reminder he didn't have as much as a pocket picture of yours, unblinkingly staring up at the dark ceiling, overtaken by six months of nonstop insomnia and post-recovery pain, kept up an almost otherworldly adrenaline, thinking of you in some animal cage, bamboo drilled under your nails, emaciated, raped ten times a day, weeping in some pit, crawling with shit, piss and insects and he gets up one morning with his shit already packed like someone who's insides were tied with a metal wire dragging him forward not unlike a force stronger than earthly gravity itself. All he tells Nobuko is that he'll be back in some indeterminable time when he's done fighting; what he truly meant was that he needed to find you, alive or dead, even if it's the last thing he does in this lifetime. Even if he needed to turn every square meter of the landmass you got lost in, border to border, into to a glass garden wasteland.

---

July 4th, 1969, the ripped off page of the calendar revealed the print.

What could be called a makeshift office at the back of the barracks, halfway above ground, all concrete and brick and halfway dug below ground, a foxhole's soil lining the groundwork instead of a floor, a low window against an even lower ceiling looking out towards basecamp, its glass flashing, on occasion, illuminated with zaps of light emanating from the fireworks above, blinking throughout the night, darting through the night sky like an angry fire southwest of the Cambodian border --- a dented metal cup tray doubling as an ashtray overflows with crushed cigarette buts as he mules over stacks of papers; One folder box, two folder boxes, eighteen folder boxes later and still scouring ever missing persons report in the last in five years; the one lonesome positive about Lieutenant Wolfe was that he was so easily intimidated with nothing but a lingering stare when push came to shove that getting him to use the outreach of his rank to give Staff Sergeant access to this material was easy pickings --- what Lieutenant Wolfe could not do is do the work of a miracle and produce a paper with your name, anything that got stacked in some archive confirming you died somewhere, in some hospital, in the back of some military vehicle, in some chopper en route to somewhere else, that someone found you, years ago, months ago, any time at all. The fact that the ground seemed to have swallowed you that day has been like a leech attached to the back of his spine, where he couldn't rip it off, getting fat on sucking his blood. He hears O'Neill coming down the steps, recognizes him by his general sound, but chooses not to react, looming over the desk, the oil lamp flickering beside him, the long shadows of his face swallowing up the mountains of paperwork.

-"Hey-a, Bob-o, what'cha up to there, huh?"-

The Irishman tries with humor, on hand leaning over the table sheepishly.

Barnes says nothing. Sees no point in saying anything.

As if it was not abundantly clear what he was doing.

What he was doing for years now.

-"Not gonna come out with the fellas, uh-oh? There's gonna be broads!"-

Red offers with some vestige of insecure hope in his voice and Barnes looks up at him, merely shaking his hand as a negative. Didn't even want to dignify it of a full answer, even though this was retort enough. -"Eh. Nah."- More of a sound that a response; the only grace he accepted from O'Neill was the cigarette he handed him along with the service that came with operating a zippo; the footsteps that follow are hasty, overly eager; he instantly recognizes them as Wolfe's. The Lieutenant appears in the dim, orange light of the lamp like a mouse carrying a bite of cheese too big for its own mouth, placing a manilla file on the table, next to all the others. That would be the nineteenth one in a row. And that was just today alone. -"The folders you requested, Sergeant."- Wolfe fidgets setting the documents down, like he wasn't sure what to do with himself afterwards, now that his usefulness for the task at hand has briefly concluded, so anticipated, he tries for pleasantries, decked out in his college casual wear, he looked as out of place a weasel stuck in a chicken coop; Barnes was seldom in a mood for this nonsense. Now, less than ever before. -"You men shouldn't work so hard. Bad for morale."- Wolfe quips jovially, climbing out of the foxhole and it takes a world of willpower for Barnes not to visibly roll his eyes at the man's attempt at poster platitudes, so much so that his bitterness, however unspoken seeps through to Red who grumbles into his chin, once the Lieutenant is out of earshot, giving him a long, sour stare. O'Neill knew. O'Neill was about the only one Barnes told. He knew for years now. -"Sorry fuck in his sorry fuck sweatshirt from the Ohio college of sorry fuck sciences."- Red mutters venomously and something about those choice words felt like indirectly support for Barnes's cause juxtaposed against the clueless notion he should just unwind; not that Wolfe understood just why Barnes needed these stacked up documents in the first place.

Red places a hand on his shoulder, the shadow it casts over his torso as long as a veil.

Barnes stares the gesture down, contemplating it.

The sounds of blasting fireworks outside cutting through the silence.

He catches a fidgeting O'Neill longingly staring between the window and him.

He knows the words that were going to be spoken before Red ever opens his mouth.

-"So, Sarge, you mind if I ---"-

Red wanted to leave him alone as much as Barnes wanted to be left the fuck alone, the cementing of the agreement wordless and mutually understood once O'Neill removes his hand from his shoulder, taking a hint and scurrying up the stairs, no doubt feeling eclipsed and out of his depth down here, leaving him with his paperwork and lit cigarette for company --- every minute spent down here was a minute he was weaker for leaving you out cold to suffer; every minute spent here was a minute where you could've been alive yet better off dead and he didn't know which of the three evils he prefered less out of the 43,830 hours contained within five years you were missing.

Yet, despising the idleness like a mortal foe, he opens the file Wolfe brought him.

Starts reading over the sound of music and ruckus taking precedence outside.

Tonight wasn't going to be a night he slept, like many more before it.

Not that Barnes minded the nightmares.

At least in them, he could see you.

---

Buôn Anh of the Chư Prông District spread out northwest.

Go west enough and march long enough, Barnes thought, and he could walk back into it like a grocery shop; slam open the glass door and demand what's his --- the scene of crime and death - Ia Drang Valley on the outskirts of many villages, some eighty clicks from their current position while they were carried airborne over the vast, open grassland riddled with holes in the soil filled with water like a land of countless artificial, newly formed lakes caused by bombardment meant to extinct; he kills his own burning impatience by imagining you standing in the swaying, yellow plains covered up to your waist, your hand raised to wave the Huey off with a smile like a bride anticipating her groom to return, looking up from a rice paddy in place of the straw hat broad with a baby on her back that stares up at their chopper; You weren't there, but his mind could still paint you there like a specter brought on by the blinding mirage, not that he ever forgave your folk for allowing you to come here in the first place. Your pappy, your ma' and the rest of your blood relation should've all been stood up to attention and spat in the face for not locking you into your room the second you got the bright idea of enlisting. He squeezes the handle of his own M16 at the notion until he could feel the blood circulation in his gripping fingers practically cut off. The villages in the district were suspected of harboring NVA and all sympathizers along with a contingent of Soviet arms. He wouldn't deny that what they were about to do would be a pleasure. One American life was worth a village of these pieces of shit to him. Your life was worth the whole fucking country. Fuckin' apeshit, his brain chastises him, a married man goin' AWOL over a dead woman. What were you gon' do when you find her? Alive or dead.

If you were dead, he'd kill these sons of bitches right back so long as his arms and legs could serve him, and when they were done serving him, he'd kill them with his fucking teeth until they break.

If you were alive ---

-"Sergeant ---"- Lieutenant Wolfe interrupts his reverie by pointing to the village down below, huddled in the back of the chopper; the sudden flash of adrenaline Barnes felt at the prospect of all the possibilities of you being living causing him to shoot the college boy a haunted look he was well aware looked half crazed because he could feel it, his eyeballs painfully wide; thankfully, the men were used to that by now. Wrote it off to him simply being him. -"Up ahead. Elias's squad will meet us at the vantage point on the other side of the river."-Wolfe stands up, half bent at the spine, his head reaching the ceiling of the helicopter's interior as he laid down the law with the firmness of a limp dick; sometimes, admittedly, Barnes envied the snot nosed kid --- his weightless stupidity and clearness of mind. Nothing bogging that brain down but his own flaccid self importance and a rank bought by daddy's money. He wishes he was that young and that dumb; so that he could walk out of here with you in tow. Life and its fucking complications; he probably wouldn't have even had a chance of meeting you if it wasn't for the war the same way he wouldn't have lost of you if it wasn't for the war. -"No rough stuff this time; we just get in and out. Confiscate the arms if we find any and get a move on! Understood?"- Wolfe explains, almost yelling over the sound of a helicopter in flight, sheepishly grazing Barnes with his rapidly blinking, squinted gaze, like these words were intended for him and his men in particular. -"Sure, top dog."- Barnes mutters in confirmation with all the acidic sarcasm of a viper concealed as respect as the Huey flew low, the close proximity of Ia Drang Valley still smelling the same as it did five years ago and before the chopper even hits the ground, Barnes finds himself being the first one jumping out.

His hand isn't as empty as it was half an eternity ago.

Dangling bleeding fingers out of the chopper, grasping at the smoke.

This time, he comes totting an M16.

---

-"What you did in that village was unforgivable, Barnes."-

Captain Harris leans back, away from the tidiness of his desk, while Barnes stood on attention, arms crossed behind his back, legs akimbo; he didn't think what he did two weeks ago was unforgivable, even though he didn't intend to argue his point with a superior officer. If anything, his actions were tit for tat. Not that anyone here would understand that. The payback of it all.

-"And this isn't the first incident ---"-

The good Captain comments, looking at him square on, with fatherly concern.

Wouldn't be the last incident either.

-"But, I keep putting this off because you're a talented soldier and the field needs talented soldiers."- The older man's index finger points at a folder containing what would've been a report leading to a court martial as emphasis just what he meant by 'putting off this' and Barnes stares, profusely, chin raised, at the manilla file; What difference did it make? He wasn't going to be stupid and pretend he wanted to land himself behind bars, but would a genuine life ever really even be possible even if he played the game clean, finishing his tour of duty and finding himself relieved? Would he ever be able to exist normally again? Put him in front of a firing squad and it would've made no difference. -"You and Elias keep this squad at a balanced equilibrium like two pillars; remove one and the whole shebang crumbles and we'll have fifty caskets flown out of here within a week. You think I want that for these poor kids?"- Captain Harris's wrinkled brow furrows and the man crosses his arms on the edge of the table, his ring studded fingers entwining. Nah, Barnes didn't want no poor kids to die; just the pieces of shit who stole you from him, along with every cow, every hen, every old honcho, every old haggard woman and her bastard, barefoot brat in tow. That's all. The Captain stands up, something weary about him, and Barnes's eyes follow him, standing still to watch the man take position in front of the window, staring out into the barrack's courtyard only to turn towards him, chastisement peppered with honest concern. -"But, I can't have you waging a holy blood crusade unchecked and unchallenged when there's protestors on every street back home threatening to knock down the doors of the White House."- Barnes frankly didn't care if they set the darn place on fire and he decides to say just that, with all his chest, off the records. Any country that sent off women to get lost in the jungle, never to be found again, instead of rightfully staying home and raising youngins, making some sack of shit happy, deserved at least some of his ire. -"Let 'em, sir, all due respect."- Barnes retorts flatly, looking on straight ahead, towards the white wall and Lyndon's framed, monochromatic photo hanging on a screw. -"But, why?"- Captain Harris comes inquiring with genuine confusion, a moment of silence, the older man's mouth opens and closes into a hard pressed line, like he got it.

So, he's heard the story then, huh?

Barnes had to wonder just how the Captain found out.

Probably through O'Neill, who told someone else, who told someone else.

And here Barnes was, planning to take this to the grave with him.

-"You'll find, Sergeant that five years is a long time to survive, for anyone."-

Harris remarks, the empathy in his voice undeniable, but Barnes, concludes the flash of brute realism to be stinging, leaving a hollow pit in his stomach, finding the irony of it all by itself profoundly ironic; yeah, it was believable that you died, but he wanted some confirmation and concrete evidence. He didn't want to keep living with questions unanswered. How could he? Then again, was it wrong to hope you could still be alive? People can survive things. -"I did, sir."- He remarks openly, using himself as an example. A man shot seven times technically shouldn't exist as a possibility, yet here he was, standing and still in commission, watching the older man lean over the work desk, taking a hold of one of the documents there, scribbling something at the bottom of the paper --- could've been a dishonorable discharge, could've been prescribed visitation to the army shrink. Either or, Barnes didn't think anything could or would stop him. -"Don't consider the R&R a reward; consider it a forced leave for everyone's sake. Yours included."- Captain Harris stares him down through greying ashen flaxen eyebrows and Barnes's shoulder's drop; he had to find some humor in the situation --- Rest and Recreation was never something he indulged in so much so that this was more of a punishment than anything else; would've prefered it he was given a beating than this shit and he wondered if Captain Harris knew. Saigon, the paper says, once Barnes takes it from the man. He was given seven days in Saigon. Fuck's sake; what the fuck was he going to do there seven days away from all the action? Seven days away from the front where he could've been more use to everyone; more use in looking for you. -"And Barnes?"- The Captain's voice stops him while he's in the middle of turning on his heel and saluting himself out of the office. What was it? A warning for him not to waste any friendly civilians meanwhile? Barnes clicks his boots together. -"Yes, sir!"- He stands back on attention, crossing his arm behind his back again, as per habit, his other arm pressing the folder detailing his leave to his chest, squeezing it a little too hard for comfort and catching himself doing it. Unexpectedly, there's something unspoken in the Captain's eyes, like he meant to say something grand or impactful but choose not to, gulping down any and all niceties. This was, after all, a disciplinary measure. Not a picnic.

-"Godspeed, son."-

Is all the older man settles on.

Robert Barnes was fine with that.

---

Monsoon season, Saigon, and he still doesn't sleep.

The buzzing air is as hot as an oven.

Insomniac reveries in front of the lowered shutters of his hotel room turn into binge smoking and binge smoking turns into binge drinking only for him up and leave in the middle of the night, breaking house conduct, deciding to wander the rain-drenched, stormy streets at like someone forcibly removed from his natural habitat, a fish thrown out its waterbowl, left to flap around aimlessly on a carpet until it suffocates and dies. Unlike the likes of Bunny and O'Neill, reason why he never liked R&R is because he simply never knew what to do on R&R, finding the idleness stupidly murderous and weirdly degrading, and in several years of active warfare every time he was sent anywhere was because he was sent there by force by the higher up, a sort of cooldown when things got too hot, the establishment getting involved, convinced it's not good PR for a soldier to be continuously on the battlefield 365 days in a year after 365 in a year without break; not without his brain getting fried --- Barnes figured it was the opposite for him, going out at night into the sprawling neon labyrinth of the city, when all the animals like him came out as well was enough to melt his grey matter. All the whores eying him carefully, the swaying drunks parting like the red see upon sighting him on street corners and the pimps plying their wares from open bar diners that worked 24/7, blaring music late into the night, the occasional pedestrian's face in the blur of the crowd reminding him of yours. A moment's flash, Barnes imagines himself seeing someone with your hair, your nose profile in stride, a movement of hand, maybe your voice as you shout to someone else, only to pinch himself mentally, reminding himself it was just some hooker calling for her John. Degenerate sacks of shit. Barnes bitterly reminds himself, in a bleak sort of confront, begrudgingly; this wasn't a complete waste of time, though --- seven days of this trip. The first three alone he's spent looking through every hospital in the vicinity, every asylum, every morgue, every homeless shelter, every graveyard depo, every sanatorium in the vague hope you could've gotten found and ended up admitted somewhere, that someone knew something, that someone has seen you in the mass of people pouring in damaged from the frontlines, amnesiac, addicted, broke, handicapped, heads broken in, their minds lost.

He supposed he might as well turn to God.

Barnes thinks, eying the old, abandoned Catholic colonial building converted into an Christian Missionary Alliance church looming large on the end of the street, crushing the cigarette underneath his bootheel in a puddle of muddy water reflecting moonlight and the obnoxiously flickering street signs and walking into the stony, partially flooded courtyard, his footsteps coming down in loud thuds against the overgrown green moss shiny and slick with water, the sounds of music, rickshaws bouncing against the wet cobblestone streets, bike bells and motorcycle engines revving up along with the general chatter from down the block echoing through the bowels of the heavy, stony walls enclosing the open hall that's seen better days approximately a century ago, when the goddamned French were still around and running the show. The fuck was he expecting God to do for him that he couldn't do for himself? Reality was, and he should've fucking faced it by now, that you died somewhere as a POW and that your demise was long, gruesome and torturous and the he could do nothing about it except continue living with that fact for the rest of his life before the machine's that he was started breaking down and he ended up putting the barrel of a gun into his mouth or goading someone else to do it for him. Thing was, this war was on the verge of ending; he could feel it in the air, the general attitude, the sensation on the streets and what then? If he couldn't keep killing these motherfuckers who took you, what else was there to do? Maybe go seek out another war and keep killing them there, by proxy, because someone somewhere had to do pay; Barnes looks up at the dilapidated, shelled out ceiling dripping rainwater adjoined to what seemed like a church sanatorium or a Friendship Monastery, alerted by the footsteps of a lone, aged nun walking down the midnight corridor beside the form of a woman sitting on the ledge of a cracked cement balcony alive with the sounds of them crazies making a mania-filled ruckus in their rooms, overpowered by the distant shouting of what he could only assume was a night-shift doctor; the woman in the sack-like, old sick gown looks at him for a moment, catching his form down below and there it was, that zap again. The zap he felt in his brain five years ago while he was turning the wounded and the dead at Ia Drang Valley, looking for you, as feral as a kicked dog.

The woman's shocked face twists in confusion and she practically cries out.

Incomprehensibly.

-"Robert? Robert!? Is that you!?"-

You shriek off the veranda, and yes, you, it was you, that or he has gone completely dinky dau and he was flat out imagining you or hallucinating you in a maddened after nights spent not sleeping, face and voice and all; before he can even take in the fact, you've already jumped into action like someone stabbed by a bayonet before one of the patrolling nuns could even stop you, practically running down the foyer in a fever, disappearing behind several orange lightbulb lit pillars in a flash, only your footsteps audible in the darkness, leaving him convinced he could tear the building apart one brick at a time by the time you land on the bottom of the steps leading up the second story; an asylum above a church; a misshapen hospital patient gown slightly too big on an emaciated body, an old pair of clogs on your bare feet seeming like they were borrowed second hand from someone or found in a charity bin. Your hair cropped short choppily, in a haste, randomly growing in all sorts of directions like someone who was shaven at one point to prevent lice only to start healing back into themselves, both literally and figuratively. Your sunken eyes that seemed like they've seen some shit still undeniably yours, though and shiny with tears as you halt in the humid courtyard, taking him in as the orderly nun tries to grab you by the shoulder, causing you to flinch forward, back towards him. If someone had a feather, he thought he could be flat out knocked out with it. There's a loud, deafening fast train running through his head, cutting a bloody valley through his brain with its whirlwind speed, causing the plate lodged into his skull to vibrate in his brain.

Barnes sees red.

The ghosts of Ia Drang coming alive.

-"Bobby!"-

Your voice cracks, halfway a whimper, halfway a scream.

He doesn't even register when you lunge yourself into his arms.

He only speechlessly feels grabbing you hard enough to break bones.

So, this is where you were? For five years?

From hospital to hospital, sanatorium to sanatorium?

-"Your poor face!"- You remark at one point, hiccupping with distress, having gone through fuck knows what, the contemplation of that rendering him more animal than man as he wondered if you'd still want him like this, causing the whole world to fall off from its own axis as you were cradled against his heavy, labored breaths, sweat against sweat, overtaken by sobs and faltering knees, all skin and bones in his embrace, reaching up to touch his scars for the first time, hovering your fingers mid-air in contemplating and flinching away, like you didn't dare caress him there, not without permission or the understanding it didn't hurt when it hurt every day since he was blasted in the mug; fuck hesitating with anything right about now. He grabs your fingers hard, needing a confirmation that they were flesh and blood and not a goddamned mirage, placing them on himself, holding your hand to his face; the old, sour-faced Quaker nun is out of breath behind you, mere steps away, like you've put there through an actual ordeal, making her chase you, obviously angered by the presence of an uniformed soldier on the premises; fucking peace-loving hippie. -"You know this man?"- She asks with subdued niceties, outraged and ignored, ready to reprimand and you sink deeper into his arms like something a part of his own ribcage; the floodgates desperately opening in a sound that revibrates across the hall, rendering you a weeping, shaking, shivering mess.

Yeah, you knew him alright.

He knew you too.

[bumpkinbitch]

mountain mamaaa

ignore the colouring of this im sorry

[ultralightpoe]

ULTRALIGHT HALLOWEEN EVENT 2024

HAPPY HALLOWEEN WEEKEND! Stories will be posted from the 31st to the evening of the 3rd! A little forewarning some of these are full blown imagines and some are cheap blurbs! I hope you all have fun and had a safe Halloween!

Requests for other stories are OPEN

Check out my MAIN MASTERLIST HERE

[Thank you for the gif @heartsnmagic ]

ENJOY!!!!

The Bride - Bucky Barnes [Marvel]

Murder Mystery - Jake Seresin [Top Gun]

Trick Or Treat - Bob Floyd [Top Gun]

Masked Games - Gwayne Hightower [House of the Dragon]

Ghost Girl - Steve Harrington [Stranger Things]

In The Deck - Patrick Zweig [Challengers]

Masked Martyrs - Finnick Odair [Hunger Games]

Blood Runs Cold -Geralt of Rivia [The Witcher]

Scream Queen - Eddie Munson [Stranger Things]

The Hex Hold - Art Donaldson [Challengers]

Ghost Tours and Ghost Towns - Boone [Twisters]

Scarring - Coriolanus Snow [Hunger Games]

Last Ones Standing - Eddie Munson [Stranger Things]

Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark - Tyler Owens [Twisters]

Escape The Night - Bob Floyd [Top Gun]

Pots and Potions - Steve Rogers [Marvel]

More to come tomorrow and sunday!

[rebelliousstories]

New Year/ New Fics 2024-2025

I thought I would do something a little different year, and make some New Year’s Fics for everyone to ring in the new year with! So enjoy these seven magical Fics for the coming change.

Resolutions (December 26th) Eddie Brock/ Venom

A new year draws near, and thus the traditions of resolutions that they now have to explain the concept of to an alien.

Midnight (December 27th) Bernard

Another year, another bell chime, another roll around the sun. And another anniversary on the horizon.

Champagne (December 28th) Logan Howlett/ Wolverine

In his long, long life, Logan could not remember a time that he had ever drank a glass of bubbly. Apparently, it was a new year staple. But so is beer.

Toast (December 29th) David

A simple evening out at his girlfriend’s house that ends with a new tradition being started.

Fireworks (December 30th) James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes/ The Winter Soldier

Bucky is immune to things like PTSD. He has been cleared by numerous doctors and specialists, so that this thing never happens to him. Or so he thought.

New Years Eve (December 31st) Robert “Bob” Floyd

When you are married to a pilot for the U.S. Navy, you get to experience some cool things.

New Years Day (January 1st, 2025) Eddie Brock/ Venom

A new year has come, shedding the old. But some things remain the same.

[miley1442111]

new house, new title- b.floyd

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a/n: intended for fem reader, but as always imagine what you like:)))))))))

summary: how you and bob settle into your new home

pairing: bob floyd x reader

warnings: none

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Bob was nervous. He loved you and he saw himself growing old with you and having children, and eventually grandchildren. A family is all he’d ever wanted in life. He’d grown up in a huge family that shaped who he was, of course he wanted that for his kids. When he was a kid and an adult asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he told them he wanted to be a dad.

Now, standing outside of your newly-purchased farmhouse sitting on a hefty 15 acres of land, a barn and stables just a 3 minute walk from the house, and a small cove leading to the lake partly on your land, just a 10 minute walk away, yet he was nervous.

Why? you may ask. Well, Bob hadn’t proposed yet. Which is what he was planning on doing right now. 

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You looked so pretty, messy hair and moving clothes on from the exhausting day, yet you were still smiling at him the same way you do every time, with pure adoration and love. 

You two were sitting outside on a picnic blanket as the sunsets, the golden sun keeping you warm as the summer breeze gently blew past you. 

“I can’t believe it’s ours,” You smiled. “It’s so beautiful.”

Bob’s eyes stayed trained on your figure, going over his speech one more time, the ring in his pocket feeling heavier and heavier. 

“You’re so beautiful,”  he smiled and you chuckled. One thing you’d learnt about Bob Floyd is that Bob had moves  he’d just never used while flirting. Trust me, he used it now.

“So are you,” you smiled,  Bob would never get used to your compliments, his ears and cheeks turning red as a shy smile spread across his face. 

“Baby-” Bob was starting, but you yelped, spotting a small kitten in the distance. Immediately jumping up and running over to grab it. Bob didn’t know what was happening at all, so he jumped up and followed, running after you. “Baby!”

“Rob, look!” You squealed in delight, the small black kitten in your arms, nuzzling into you as she shivered. You were the only person in the world who called him ‘Rob’, ‘Robby’, or ‘Bobby’. He loved it. He smiled at the scene in front of him. You were a vision in the sunset, the small kitten looking so comfortable in your protective arms. Bob could hear more meowing from behind and found the rest of the litter, and the mother cat asleep. 

“Baby-” He started, knowing that look your eyes. 

 “We’re keeping all of them,” you said decisively. Bob stared at you with an amused smile. “What? They live on our land anyway, why not let them into the house and feed them?”

“There’s 10 of them!” He laughed.

“You can name like 5 of them,” you shrugged. “Maybe 4.”

Bob laughed again, pulling your waist into his. This was the perfect moment, he’d never felt more love in his life. He pressed a kiss to your lips as his hand reached into his pocket to find… nothing. He pulled away abruptly, panic setting in. 

“Rob, what’s wrong?” You asked as you recognised the anxiety in his eyes. “Rob?”

“I dropped it,” he admitted, horror filling his features. “I dropped the ring.”

Now it was your turn to panic. What ring? Was he finally proposing? “Holy shit,” you gasped out. “You’re proposing.”

“Yes I am, and I dropped the ring somewhere back there,” he hid his face in his hands. He’d ruined it. He was the worst boyfriend/ maybe fiancee/ maybe ex-boyfriend? 

“Yes. I’ll marry you,” you smiled, tears falling from your wide eyes. Bob looked up immediately, shock filling his features. 

“You will?” He smiled, his hands circling your waist. You nodded furiously, the kitten still in your arms as you held it tighter, careful not to hurt it. “I love you so much, and it’s been a long time coming- I know that,” he smiled when you giggled. Even if he dropped the ring he might as well continue with his spiel. “And I’m sorry it took me so long. To be honest I’ve had the ring in my bedside locker for a year now,” that earned him a (deserved) slap on the arm. He chuckled, raising his hands in defeat. “And I’ve wanted to marry you everyday for the past 6 years. You are the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me, I swear to god, when you walked in on me changing in your mom’s house-” You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I never thought I’d find the love of my life. But I did. And I’m so glad I did. You are everything to me, I love you a lot more than I can ever try to put into words. Thank you for just being here. I love you, and sorry that I dropped the ring- it was real pretty, at least I thought it was.” 

“I don’t give a shit about a stupid ring Rob,” you chuckled. “You’re going to be my husband,” you smiled, kissing him heavily. 

“It’s not stupid,” he defended it, an uncertain insecurity running through his voice. “I-I made it,” he admitted sheepishly. “But if you want something else I don’t mind-”

“I’m finding that ring,” you said definitively. You loved it when Bob made you stuff, he was the epitome of ‘to be loved to to be known’. That man made you things at least once a week to make your life easier, even in the early stages of your relationship. “And I only want that ring Bob,” You smiled and kissed him again, then handed him the kitten in your arms as you walked off, beginning to look while the sun was still up. 

Bob looked down at the kitten in his arms, protectiveness filling him almost immediately. He wanted to name this one Patch because of the patch of white on his stomach. His baby fever had been bad in recent months, but seeing you hold the kitten in your arms, so contempt and protective, he was sure he was ready to have children that second. 

Fuck waiting until after the wedding. 

“I found it!” You shouted, holding up the small box Bob had dropped earlier. 

“Bring it over here!” He shouted back. “Don’t open it yet!” 

“Why not?” You asked, running over. 

“Cause I have to get down on one knee,” he smiled, his southern charm pulling out all of the stops. He lowered himself onto one knee, the ring box in one hand with the kitten in the other. “So Y/n, will you do me the honours of marrying me?” He smiled up at you, and when you wrapped your arms around his neck, practically screaming ‘yes’ he knew he was exactly where he needed to be. He also knew you two were definitely keeping all of those cats. He also knew he loved you, a lot. 

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navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games :)

topgun masterlist :) (requests open!)

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[dameronspector]

Snow Shovel

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Mom!fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky shows you a new trick on how to shovel snow

Warnings: Fluff, Bucky and Reader have a child, Dad!Bucky and Mom!Reader, the Barnes family lives in a brownstone house in this, set during/after TFATWS so Bucky has short hair still (because im choosing to ignore his fuckass bob for thunderbolts 😊🤞🏻.) I don’t think the reader has any kind of physical descriptions, either. If i have mentioned it in anyway, please let me know. (this gif is how i imagine bucky asks to pick up your baby)

Today, the entire city of New York was under a thick blanket of snow. It was nearing Christmas and the snow had finally decided to make itself known. You and your tiny family had decided to take a little trip to the nearest target to shop for Christmas decorations and a new tree.

Why shop, you ask? Well, you hadn’t bought new decorations ever since your baby boy was born. Now that he was 5 years old and past the crawling and knocking-himself-over-with-everything-stage, you and Bucky had finally decided to upgrade your decorations. And it would be a fun experience for your son as well. You and Bucky had decided to let him choose the tree this year and boy was he excited.

“Mama, are we doneeeeee. Can i pleaseeee go”, Sam, your son, whined (yes he is named after his Uncle Sam and yes, Sam cried buckets when he found out.)

“Hold on, honey. You gotta wear your beanie or else your teensy ears are gonna freeze and you also gotta wear your coat”, you said while putting on his beanie and tickling his tummy.

Sam giggled, shaking his body to get away from your hands.

While you were zipping up his coat, Bucky came over and leaned on the doorway.

“All done?”, Bucky asked while smiling ear to ear. Looking at you and Sam was his favourite thing in the whole world. Both of you were his heart and soul.

“Pa!”, Sam exclaimed while whipping his head to look at Bucky. Bucky was his superhero and best friend. So, as soon as he noticed you were done fussing over him, he ran over and hugged Bucky’s legs.

Bucky smiled down at Sam and picked him up. Sam put his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissed his cheek. Bucky came over to you and held out a hand to help you stand up. Hey, you you weren’t a super soldier. Your knees hurt.

You held his hand and stood up, groaning.

“You okay?”, Bucky asked worriedly and put his hand on your back, thumb rubbing circles on it. He knew that ever since you had Sam, your back and legs would particularly trouble you.

“Yeah, buck”, you replied and pressed a kiss to his cheek. You pulled away and smiled at him adoringly.

His cheeks turned a tinge of pink and he cleared his throat. “Are we ready to go, mama?”, he asked you.

“Yep. Had to bundle up precious cargo”, you say while poking Sam’s little button nose. Sam giggled again.

“Yeah, pa! We’re ready, let’s go!”, Sam said excitedly while swinging his little feet. Bucky tickled his tummy and all three of you giggled.

Much to Bucky’s dismay, his son loved winter and the snow. Because snow means he can make snowmen, drink hot chocolate, visit Santa, eat lots of sweets and watch lots of movies. Being the best father in the world, Bucky would always sacrifice his distaste for the winter season just to see Sam smile.

The three of you, now bundled up and ready, put on your shoes and opened the door, just to see your car being completely hidden by a huge pile of white powder.

You and Bucky cringed because it was going to be a task to remove that in your snow gear.

Sam, who was holding your hand now, gasped. “Where did our car go, mama!?”, he looked at you with his little eyebrows furrowed.

You looked down at him and ran your hands through his hair.

“It’s okay baby, pa will clear it, don’t worry”, you said and smiled at him. “Right, pa?”

You looked up at Bucky to see him approaching the car.

He turned to look at you and Sam and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. You raised an eyebrow to ask him what was he thinking.

He just smirked at you and put out arms in front of him and made grabby hands.

“C’mere buddy”, he asked Sam with mirth in his soft and gentle voice.

Sam dropped your hand and tried to run over to Bucky. You quickly put your hands on his shoulders to stop him from running across the slippery footsteps of your entrance.

“Wait! Samuel Barnes you will not run on these slippery stairs or the road”, you told him firmly.

Sam looked at the stairs with a serious expression and turned to you sheepishly.

“Sorry mama, will you help me get to pa?”, he asked sweetly.

You instantly smiled and pinched his cheek. “Ofcourse baby, come on.”

You held his hand tightly and made way to where your husband was standing. He was still looking at the two of you with amusement shining in his eyes, making him smile big and making the crowsfeet by his eyes prominent. He then cleared his throat.

“Honey, you’re going to see a new and improved way of shovelling snow”, Bucky said with the seriousness of a professional tutorial teacher.

You and Sam both turned your heads to the right like a puppy and it made Bucky look at you both with soft eyes.

Before you knew it, Bucky gently grabbed the front of Sam’s coat with his vibranium arm and he slid him across the rear window, brushing off the snow with his tiny body.

Sam squealed and you started giggling uncontrollably.

“Pa! Again! Again!”, Sam said loudly while laughing.

Bucky couldn’t stop the wide smile that broke out on his face. He lifted Sam up gently and slid him across the front door and Sam erupted in giggles once again.

You couldn’t stop smiling. You pulled out your phone and captured a photo of your boys, both of them mid laugh with their eyes crinkled.

Bucky brought Sam in his arms and kissed his cheeks repeatedly.

Sam put his arms around Bucky’s neck and laughed, his teeth (minus one canine) on show.

You clicked another photo and made it your lockscreen.

You went over to them and Bucky immediately brought you in his arms.

And maybe, winter was Bucky’s favourite season as well. He had to thank you and Sammy for that.

AN: i saw a video of a dad doing this to his baby and i went “oh i HAVE to write this w bucky.” And also because sebastian said bucky would be a good dad 🥹

[casedclosedbye]

Bunny pt.2

Bucky Barnes x reader

Fluff to smut

C: oral f receiving, p in v no protection filthy smut

Summary: After a week-long mission, Bucky Barnes finally returns home to his girlfriend, who has a surprise waiting for him. In an attempt to playfully surprise him, she greets him dressed in a Playboy Bunny costume — the same outfit Bucky’s been affectionately calling her “Bunny” for months. Flustered and shy, she’s unsure of how he’ll react.

The air grew thick with anticipation as you led Bucky through the apartment, his eyes never leaving your body, his gaze burning with desire. Each step you took made your heart race faster, the anticipation building like a crescendo. Finally, you reached the bedroom, where you had set up a surprise that was sure to leave him speechless.

The room was bathed in soft, warm light, and the scent of vanilla filled the air from the candles flickering on the dresser. The bed was turned down, with plush pillows and the softest blankets you had ready to embrace the two of you. The music playing in the background was a sultry jazz tune, one you knew Bucky liked.

You turned to face him, your pulse pounding in your ears, and took a deep breath. You felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but you knew Bucky would never make you feel anything but cherished. You watched as he took in the scene before his gaze settled back on you, his eyes darkening with hunger.

“You’re... you’re unbelievable, doll,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He took a step closer to you, reaching out to trace the neckline of your bodysuit with his fingertip. “This is more than I could have ever imagined coming home to.”

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of confidence that you hadn’t felt earlier. You had done this for him, and the way he was looking at you was all the reassurance you needed.

Bucky reached up, taking your hand in his and placing it over his heart. “Feel that? That’s all for you, Bunny. Every beat of it.”

With a playful wink, you stepped back, spinning around in a little twirl, letting the skirt of the costume flounce around your thighs. The fluffy tail bobbed with your movement, and you watched as Bucky’s gaze followed the motion, his eyes darkening even more.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching around your waist to pull you against him, his body hard and demanding. His mouth found yours again, his kiss urgent now, his tongue slipping past your lips to dance with yours. You melted into him, your body responding to his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You felt his hands begin to roam, slipping under the bodice of your outfit, cupping your breasts. A soft moan escaped your lips, and Bucky took that as his cue to deepen the kiss, his hands growing more insistent as he explored your body.

You reached for the zipper of his pants, eager to feel his skin against yours. He groaned into your mouth, his hips pressing against you as you unzipped him, his arousal obvious.

Breaking the kiss, he stepped back, taking a moment to look at you fully. “You’re so fucking beautiful, doll. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed you.”

You felt a thrill at his words, a heat pooling between your legs that only grew as he reached down and gently removed the bunny ears from your head, tossing them onto the bed. His hands returned to your waist, and he began to undo the bow tie around your neck. With trembling hands, he unbuttoned the collar, sliding it down to reveal more of your smooth skin.

His eyes never left yours as he knelt down in front of you, his hands sliding down the zipper of your bodysuit. He took his time, his eyes tracing the line of the zipper as it inched downward, revealing your naked skin. When it was completely open, he took a moment to look up at you, his eyes full of love and lust.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Every inch of you, my sweet Bunny.”

You nodded, unable to form words, your breath hitching as he pulled the costume down to expose your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you gasp. His hands slid down to cup your ass, his thumbs tracing lazy circles as he kissed and licked his way down to your navel.

He pushed the costume down further, until it was at your waist, your breasts fully exposed. His hands slipped under the fabric, cupping your bare buttocks, his thumbs teasing the cleft of your ass.

“Bucky,” you breathed, your knees growing weak.

He looked up at you, his eyes full of fire. “You’re mine, Bunny. All mine.”

With that, he stood up, picking you up in his strong arms and carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his hands moving to pull the rest of the costume off you. You were now completely naked before him, and you felt more exposed than you ever had, but there was something incredibly empowering about it.

He climbed onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. He settled between your legs, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your toes curl. His mouth followed the path of his hands, kissing and nipping at your skin as he moved lower and lower.

When he reached your core, he took a moment to simply breathe you in, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. Then, his tongue was there, tracing your folds, teasing your clit until you were writhing beneath him.

You watched as he licked and sucked, his eyes meeting yours, watching your every reaction. The pleasure was building, a crescendo that you hadn’t felt in so long, and you knew you were close.

“Bucky, please,” you begged, your voice shaky with need.

With a smirk, he slid two fingers inside of you, curling them just right, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back in your head. You moaned, your hips bucking against his hand as he continued to lick and suck at your clit.

And then, you shattered.

Your body convulsed with pleasure, your muscles tightening around his fingers as your orgasm crashed through you like a wave. You cried out, your nails digging into the bed as he kept up his relentless pace, pushing you even higher.

When the tremors subsided, you looked down at him, panting. His eyes were still on yours, filled with love and satisfaction at bringing you so much pleasure.

“Now, it’s my turn,” you murmured, your voice thick with desire.

Bucky chuckled, moving up your body to kiss you deeply. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only served to turn you on more.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking him as you kissed him. He groaned, his hips moving with the rhythm of your hand.

“Bunny, I need you,” he whispered, his voice strained with need.

You nodded, eager to give him the same pleasure he had given you. You straddled him, his erection pressing against your wetness, and slowly sank down onto him, his length filling you up completely.

You began to move, your hips rolling as you took him deeper and deeper, your movements matching the rhythm of your heartbeat. His hands were on your hips, guiding you, his eyes never leaving yours.

You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and whispered into his ear, “I’ve missed you so much, too, Bucky.”

His response was a low groan, his hips bucking up to meet yours. You felt his hands tighten on your hips as he began to move with you, his strokes growing faster, his breathing more ragged.

The pleasure was building again, coiling in your belly, and you knew you were close. You leaned back, arching your back, giving him a better angle. He took the cue, his hands moving to your breasts, pinching your nipples as you rode him.

It didn’t take long before you were both on the edge, your bodies moving in perfect sync, the pleasure threatening to consume you both.

With a final, desperate thrust, you came again, your inner walls clenching around him as you threw your head back and screamed his name. Bucky followed shortly after, his body taut with pleasure as he filled you completely.

You collapsed onto him, your breathing heavy and erratic. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his heart hammering against your chest.

“Welcome home, Bucky,” you murmured, a content smile playing on your lips.

He kissed you gently, his eyes full of love. “Home is wherever you are, doll. Always has been, always will be.”

And with that, you cuddled into his embrace, feeling more complete than you ever had. The night was still young, and you had so much more to show him, so much more to explore. But for now, you were content to just lie there, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, knowing that he was home.