#the empty woods are crowded

[vunblr]

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

By the way, I’m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

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

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

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

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[strawberri-syrup]

its so quiet....

[pricetagged]

fool's gold (pyrite)

Got inspired by gougie's executioner asks and cloth's egging hehe 💖 have some pirate au simon breeding kink~

Content: 18+; breeding kink; dubious consent*; mean Simon; pirates; captured-by-the-crown reader; barest implication of potential soap/reader and future ghoap/reader; POV shift

*in a 'get out of jail' way, so take that how you will.

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

It fluttered in your stomach. A nebulous, squirming little thing.

Not the baby, no. The lie.

You felt it, restless and hot. Kicking your ribs from the inside. It made you flushed, it made you sick-

It bought you at least another few weeks to slip the noose, to slide away in borrowed shoes meant to dance a gallows' jig. Maybe it would buy you more, if the stress held back your monthly the way it often did on the ship. Great, long stretches of time with too much work and not enough food.

You wore the lie like you wore your borrowed clothes, a too-tight bodice and heavy skirts. Impractical, sweet. Modest. A poor little dear caught up and brought low. Fallen woman, sunken to the depths before the law fished her out. 

Your thighs stuck together, warm and bare under the skirts. It was sweltering, damp. Clammy in the cell with its stagnant air and earthy, unfinished floors. The wood of your bench –and bedcot–was warped with age, woodlouse burrowed deep into the pulpy grooves. It was enough to make you shudder, sweat dripping down your spine until it soaked into the cotton of your shift.

It did little to cool you.

Nine months aboard The Watcher had spoiled you, coarse rope and sharp, sea air warping you into something new. Something wilder. It was hardtack and hard work, yes. But it was freedom. To toil under a flag of your choosing, to trust the waves and the Captain to take you to new ports and newer treasures–

You'd left your papa's place with little more than ill-fitting breeches and a pocketed purse. You'd passed the scars on your hands and the patches on your shirt as evidence of experience – hardy little stowaway, aren't ye–. The morals didn't bother you the way stolen scraps didn't bother a dog. Street rat or ship rat; at least this way you could put miles between you and your father. Nautical miles, bobbing away with the wood of the ship's log. You watched it often, knots of rope and grains of sand. Hourglass and paper in hand while you stood on the stern.

It was you who first spotted the English Man O'War, sluicing through waves with colours hoisted high. Three gun-decks, at least, and coming into port.

"–plead the belly–it'll spare ye the choppin' block. Might even get lucky and be sent t' the reformatory– ah heard they do that f'r expectant mothers–" you couldn't quite hear him over the ringing of the cannons and the ringing in your ears.  "–plead the belly, and I'll try tae come back for y–"

They echoed now in your sweltering cell, suspended in the humidity. The boatswain's last words before he was violently wrestled away.

You remembered him as you counted the bars of your cage. Iron-wrought and cruel. As cruel as the chain tethering you to the wall, cold metal biting into your bare ankle.

'–I've got the keys, girlie, if you want freein' from it. Don' have to sit against that wall, all shy. C'mere an' I'll make you a deal–'

You stayed silent, stone-faced. Weathered the taunts and jeers of your gaolers like a battered old rock. The guards took it as arrogance, the other prisoners took it as invite.

The priest took it as shame.

You let them all believe it, lips pressed tight lest you let loose sobs–giggles–something– as days passed and your sentencing drew closer.

You'd heard about him before you saw him. The Ghost. The last face you'd see before facing the faceless. The pitch-black eyes that would watch as you jigged to the jeers of the crowd.

It was the last face you'd see and it was only a mask. More macabre than the usual executioner's hood– a skull motif, bleach-white bones and empty sockets. A nasty minikin mockery of the reaper. It was gristly; it was sick.

But so was he.

A butcher, some said. Fingers caked in blood no matter to which job he attended. A pirate, according to others. One pressed into service, earning his freedom by sending others to the pits. 

And now you heard him for real.

The low, resonant whistle. The heavy tread of his boots.

It had you curling your fingers into your palms, nautical superstitions and fishwives' tales nipping at you like fleas.

–quit yer whistlin', you'll anger the winds and summon a storm–

                                                 –it's good luck, don't worry. It'll make the winds blow strong and steady, you'll see–

–I wouldn't do that if I were you. Cap'n'll think it's code between mutineers–

                                                                                                                                    –taboo–

The whistling stopped, a cheery solitary note wavering in the air before silence. Even the gaoler's dog had scarpered off, keys jingling around its neck until you couldn't even hear the echo.

A gravel-rough voice cut through the swirling tempest of your mind.

"Was told 'got a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage."

That pulled you from your reverie, neck-stiff as you turned towards the voice. It was more of a twitch than a conscious motion, a sudden flaring of deadened synapses as his voice rasped over them. Still, you didn't speak. Didn't even look at him fully, the hulking thing in your peripheral.

It was silent, now. Eerily so, like all the air had been sucked from the prison. Sitting in the eye of the storm, too calm and too quiet. You could hear the drag of his boots as he shifted closer. The rolling clank of iron scraping against itself, your cage creaking open.

The shadow in your peripheral became mass, then man as he stepped closer.

You risked a glance up.

He'd still be large, sturdy, even without you curled up on your dank, spongy bedcot. Tall enough to duck as he sauntered into the cell. Broad enough to block out the flickering oil lamps by the warden's desk. In the lambent glow of dusk it was already dim, hazy with sea-spray and the oppressive heat of wet season. But with him in front of you it was pitch-dark. A pall cast by his sheer size, all light swallowed up until you could just about make out his blurry edges.

The ghostly white of the bones bleached onto his mask moved and his voice rumbled out.

"Well, g'nna show me?"

You stretched out weakened muscles, unfurling as slow as a wind-battered sail. Joints creaked alongside the iron of your shackle, tight from where you'd clenched hard. Dug your blunt little fingernails into the pulpy, malleable fibers of the aged ironwood below you.

Standing was like finding yourself unmoored, sliding off the buoyant driftwood keeping you afloat. Your legs got tangled up in your borrowed clothes, damp petticoats and overskirts clinging as your feet finally touched the straw-strewn earth of the cell floor. It was cumbersome, made more difficult by the sliding of the heavy chain against the bench. You felt the weight around your ankle, anchoring you down.

Though you could barely see it, you felt as he studied you from top-to-toe. Flat, dead eyes followed every curve and dip of your body as you stood before him, your traitorous chest rising and falling in a way that made you grit your teeth. You used that force to steel your jaw, to look straight ahead and keep your arms lax and loose by your side.

Let him look his fill. Let him– your judge, jury and executioner.

He hummed. Circled you like a shark in a balmy waters. It was funny– you'd never felt more exposed than now in all your layers. Not even under the punishing sun in your loose, men's clothes. No, his eyes stripped you bare. More than cotton and linens, he peeled the flesh from bone. Flayed you open, eyes slicing through your skittish guise. Through your rabbity gaze hopping around the walls, the way you tried to arch your back and poke out more of your soft belly.

"You a liar, then?" You could hear the low, mocking note in his voice. "Or got a case of wishful thinkin'?"

That had you looking up, meeting him dead in the eye. Your hands hovered above the slight swell of your stomach, fingers twitching in an abortive gesture–

–you wanted to cradle it, the fluttering in your empty belly. Push down the sick, swirling terror and face the ghost you'd summoned, because you had summoned it–

He grabbed by your wrist, meaty paw pulling you close enough to brush against his expansive chest.

–Hadn't you? Bad luck. Malefic omen, having you on the ship. No prophets, no redheads–

There, in the cradle of his arms, you were frozen. Your wrist felt fragile, bird-like under the firm grip of his thick-knuckled fingers. You weren't weak, you'd rigged topsails in tempest winds with those wrists. But that was then. That was weeks ago, when you were part of a crew on the open seas. Here, it was just you and the beast that had sent stronger than you to their graves. The warnings from persnickety old seadogs tolled death knolls in your mind–

–no women. And now the sea had swallowed you up. Sent you down to the belly of the beast. A Jonah, locked behind something stronger than whalebone. Trapped. Unless–

Wishful thinking.

He chucked at your chin, calloused fingertips arching your head further back until your neck strained. Your heartbeat rushed past your ears, sending your head spinning. Dizzy, docile. An artificial calm; buoyant lifeline in the raging currents. He turned you slightly, left then right. Like he was measuring you up, the line of your throat. The fluttering of your pulse. That treacherous throbbing, sending oxygen to your brain that you were too erethic to feel.

He spoke again, rough and coruscating. You noticed that he didn't blink, just stared down at you. Dead-eyed as a fish, blond lashes spiked around dark irises. He kept you arched, unable to escape as every syllable struck you like a storm. You balanced on bare tip-toes, butterfly-soft fingers spread across his hairy forearm.

"The Beak's happy to let ya swing if it means 'e can catch the rest of y'r crewmates. And, 'round here, the only good pirate is a dead pirate," he must have felt how your fingers tightened, a futile brace against his butal strength and harsh words. "So, I tell him y'r a liar, get paid to do my job, and keep the governor happy."

He shrugged, bulky shoulders popping as he rolled them back. He shrugged like it meant nothing to him, just a matter of fact. The fisherman, fingers deep in guts and gristle. The butcher, hands stained copper and hardened on cannon bone. The executioner, calloused from rope neckties and the deadweight of the condemned–

But you catch the way his eyes follow your flinch. The way his lips move under his mask too as your mouth opens and closes. Hesitant. Dry.

You could only look up at him with wide, naïve eyes, dilating in the dark. The jejune jailbird. Doe-eyed. Caught.

The jig was up.

"Please," the words stuck in your throat, cracking and broken. "Please don't–"

He lets you go. Not a gentle action, no. No careful caress; he lowers you abruptly, chuckles as you scramble to face him. Stunned, you rub at your throat. Still there, still unadorned with the necklace of rope you swear he wants to place there. Coarse twine and hessian brown, constricting tighter until– no. You can't think on it, anathema to the lie you've worked hard to maintain. If he doesn't believe the plea of the belly, you'll– you'll–

You'll make it so.

As he settles his massive frame on the thin, wooden slat against the wall you wonder. Why did he come here in cover of night. Why did he need to see for himself what the priest confirmed as a priori truth? The seal of confession melts away, your moribund admittance flakes and crumbles under his heavy hand. He knows.

Solid legs spread wide, he makes himself comfortable. You follow the bulge of his thighs, easily as thick as your skull–more–, as the bench groans and creaks worse than the brig in a storm.

You worry that it can't handle the weight.

Even sitting, he dwarfs you. Stepping up between his thighs is like willingly stepping off the stern into still waters. It's terrifying, thrilling– your belly swoops and head feels light. You know there must be something lurking in the depths, some undulating hydra ready to slide its malignant limbs around your ankle and wrench you down–

He clamps a filthy boot down over the length of chain across the floor. Keeps you tethered to him, unable to pull back even if you wanted to.

"Clever enough t'come up with the scheme, clever enough t'get out of it." It's an offering, albeit a twisted one. Alms tainted by the greedy slap of his palms against his thighs. Rough, scarred hands frame the growing bulge between his legs.

Even in the dark, you see it. Heavy, perverse, Fattening enough to strain against the seam of his trousers. You can't look away, can't escape the muggy heat in the air and the scorching burn of his eyes on you. Incendiary, it sends heat pooling to your own belly. The damp, stickiness between your thighs seems cool now, sweat superseded by the slick gathering in your core. It's filthy, it's wrong–

It's blazing hot, shame seared away by a want that is not entirely born of desperation.

At first you think it's a tit-for-tat, your mouth stuffed full in exchange for his staying closed. Kneeling before him, you're suddenly grateful for your skirts. Matchsticks of dried straw and dusty smithereens dig into your knees, legs bent awkwardly as he keeps his boot on your chain. He's content to let you paw at him, to tug at the drawstrings and fumble with his waistband as he offers no help.

Eventually, he must grow bored.

"Don' need me to tell ya that's not how it works."

"What–?" He has you frozen, tableau vivant of a wanton grisette. Pupils-blown and lips-parted, you tremble up at him. Try to read the desire that he hides beneath harsh words and heavy breaths.

"Tryin' t'make me a liar, too?" He grunts, brushing aside your confused, hurried protestations. "Gonna make me a liar when I go out'nd tell them there really is a pregnant little birdie caught in the cage?"

He pats at his lap, palming at himself and hissing through his teeth. Sound is muffled by that grotesque mask, but you catch it all the same. Every flash of the man beneath– of the desire wrought by your artless, ingenue fumblings– sends you reeling. You are not a creature of flesh and blood, not when both are fever-hot and itching. You can't breathe in your body under sweltering layers and sultry air. And he can sense it, too. The beast you let into your cage, bars bending as easily as your will to his.

And, through messily-tugged drawstrings, you see it. Tugged through the opening you'd hastily torn open. The thick, ruddy head of his cock is already leaking.

And as you slide into his lap, it all slides into place.

You think of– no, not now. You can't think of him now. When he comes back for you, if it takes, you could pass the baby off as his. He was sweet on you, you know it. A breezy, comfortable kind of affection. Small, just barely burgeoning but still there. He's a good man– You'll claim that you were telling the truth at your capture– that you and he already– He's a decent man– maybe you wouldn't even have to lie. He'd take you in, little stray and the seed that kept her off the scaffold–

Thoughts slip away, sea spray in the wind, as you work yourself open in his lap. You're drenched beneath your skirts, slick running down your thighs and into his. You're spread so wide across him that it burns, pinned open by his bulk. You can feel the power of his frame, coiled muscle holding you up from the worn wooden bench. The soft pudge of his belly presses into yours as you lean forward, shakily lining up with the swollen head of his cock.

It's already weeping, thick globs of his slick mingle with yours as he slides between your folds. Like he can't wait to be inside you, leaking his spend at the barest touch of your cunt. Like he can't wait to put it inside you, to make good on his word and yours and put a baby there.

You shiver, biting back a gasp as he nudges the aching pearl at the apex of your thighs. His chuckle rumbles through his hulking chest into yours. It jostles you, hitching you just right over his length until it notches against you. You press down, hole clenching against the initial pain, until you feel the throb of his slit inside. It's deep, sending your back arching as you grip his shoulders with white knuckles. And there's still more–

"Tha's it, tha's it, birdie," his voice is impossibly thicker, desire dragging it down until he growls at you. "Gonna have t'take more, gotta make it all fit if you want this baby–"

"Yes, yes, please," you babble at him. Voice high, whines catching on every breath you work yourself lower. You can feel him in your stomach, every inch sending sparks dancing along your spine until they're all you can see when you close your eyes. The sparks, and the spectral imprint of his ghostly mask.

He grunts below you, swallowing back groans behind a jaw that you know is clenched tight. Avaricious brute, he needs you closer. Hands that were meant to measure you for the drop dig into your hips, working you lower and lower. He forces you down to the root, bare thighs on hessian cloth, until you cry out. Shaking at the spread– the stretch– you pant in his ear. Hot little breaths, heady against the crook of his neck.

You can hear it, the obscene squelch of your greedy cunt. The creaking of the bench beneath you as you ride him with shaking legs, chasing pleasure that's already beginning to pool in your belly. You feel heavy with it, moaning behind your clenched fist. Through bleary eyes you catch his, cimmerian and heavy-lidded. His head is thrown back against the wall, guttural filth spilling as he waits for you to come undone.

"Want it, don't ya? Want my baby so fuckin' bad, just look at ya," he growls it, frothing with a hunger so biting it reads as rage. "I'll put one in ya, keep you stuffed full. Keep this chain around y'r ankle, too, keep you shackled to me–"

Eyes-watering as you lose yourself in it. In the sounds that that send blood rushing to your head, the deep ache in your core, the desperation– make him come, make him come, want to come, need to come–

---------

At first, he was happy to watch you. To sit back and watch you work yourself up, to perform for him until he sees you drop the mask. You wear the mantle of captive soubrette so well, sweat-damp petticoats clinging to curves that he wants to trace with his tongue. With his teeth. He saw the craft in your sweet, open face. You're a flighty thing, aren't you? Trying to slip the noose and slip past him. Luckily his grasp is strong.

He saw the scheme slip away as he got you speared open on his length. He can see it in your eyes, feels the way you suck him in–. You're dripping down into his breeches, sloppy and squeezing him so tight. Desperate, wanton little naiad. Riding hard like your life depends on it. He huffs out a laugh as he squeezes you tight, rough fingers digging into peach-soft flesh.

He doesn't tell you that you're already free, that the Royal Navy is already in hot pursuit of The Watcher and the pregnant, little skivvy is of as much importance to them as the ship's rats. No, you're a nuisance they're willing to hand off to him. Too big, too blunt, too bloody to find a respectable wife.

(There was a time, once, when he had no need of such comforts. Lieutenant aboard The Larimar's Revenge, he'd docked in many-a-port. But he'd always come back to those blue eyes. The haircut that had even the natives of Port Royal looking twice– Cheeky, cocksure pirate.

He'd thought about him, sometimes. On that godforsaken island with just a pistol and one shot for company. 'Mutineer', he was branded. Traitor to King and Crown. Lower than scum, not worth even a keelhaul. But not even grapeshot can kill a ghost–) 

He feels you reaching your end, thighs trembling from more than just exertion. His mask is damp, sultry air mixing with your musk into something that scatters his desultory thoughts. His belly tightens as he feels you clamping down, whining behind the knuckles you’ve got stuffed between your teeth.

When you're home, together in his bed, he'll bite down on those knuckles. Show you what real toothprints look like. Or maybe he'll let you slip his hand into your mouth instead. Let you whet your blunt little teeth on something with more gristle. His appetite for you cannot be satiated on mere flesh. He's got to pierce you, taste you, feel you from the inside and leave a part of himself there–

For now, he holds you down. Forces you to ride out the wave of pleasure-pain as he sets his own pace. Your thighs tremble, whole body seizing around him. He can feel the fluttering in your cunt, the way you shudder and drip until his cock is soaked and his coarse hair turns sticky with your release.

He ignores your whisper of another man's name– John, or Johnny, it's hard to catch with the way you swallow your whimper–it doesn’t matter. Not when he's the one pumping you full of his spend. His belly clenches hard, balls tight and heavy with the come he's going to give you. Going to force it in, plant his baby in you and still leave thick, white, globs leaking out of your poor, abused hole.

He's filled you up, is going to fill you up again. He'll take you back to his house and do it as many times as he wants. Make you grateful for it, for saving your life and giving you the baby you’ve been begging for. Keep you stuffed so full of him that the only name he'll hear from you is 'Simon'.

(And if you help lure Johnny back, well. It's been a long time, but good dogs come home when called.)

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

Well, there is it. Shoutout to my beloved stelle and woolie for listening to me whine about pirate ship names 💖💖💖

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── OAKWOOD PUB ♫

...or rafe fucking reader in a bathroom.

✮ pairing .ᐟ pogue!reader x fuckbuddy!rafe

✮ summary .ᐟ meeting up with rafe after your gig when you’re horny.

✮ warnings / tags .ᐟ smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, drug use wc: 1.1k

✮ author's note .ᐟ i wrote this AGES ago but never posted it on my former acc… but i edited it a bit and decided to post it as a part of my 3k celebration.

3K MASTERLIST ✮ RAFE MASTERLIST

rafe didn't know what to expect when he had woken up to a text you had sent him only minutes earlier, his mind still groggy with sleep and his morning wood pressing against the fabric of his boxers. he rubbed at his eyes, trying to make sense of the message you had sent.

cum 2 oaks @ 9pm

he scoffed at the absurdity of you telling him where to be and when, especially the dump you were trying to get him to come to. of course, he knew what you meant when you referenced 'oaks', also known as the oakwood pub, a sleazy, rundown bar in the cut that was filled every weekend with every lowlife living in the area, and apparently that included you. rafe rolled his eyes, before typing out a response.

not happening. not coming to that shithole just for some pogue pussy.

yet, there he was, at 8:55pm, walking into the crowded bar, surrounded by old drunks, some local band playing on the stage while his ears simply blurred it out along with the noise that came from the other patrons, his eyes trying to find you amongst the sea of strangers, mostly consisting of men his father's age or even older; but he couldn't seem to find you.

he finally looked to the stage with an irritated scowl on his face, only to be met with your grinning face as you stood there, in front of a microphone, singing to the crowd.

your body swayed to the music, your eyes closed as if you were being controlled by something other than yourself, like your entirety drowned into the song you were singing. your bandmates basically melted into the background, but when it came to you, it was as if you owned that stage, like you owned the entire bar, your voice so melodic that it managed to drown out all the chatter of the other patrons.

"thanks everyone for listening." you said with a husky voice after the song came to an end, pushing your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss on one of your bandmates' cheek, the same girl handing you a flask that you took a big chug out of.

without even realizing it, rafe had started nearing the stage, and you spotted the boy from the corner of your eye, gesturing towards the bathrooms. he made his way to the empty men's bathroom as you exchanged words with your bandmates for a moment, joining him moments after in the men's bathroom.

"why did you-"

you cut him off by pressing your lips on his, guiding him to one of the stalls, tugging the door closed without caring about the thud it made, your hands behind your back as your fingers worked to lock the door while your lips were focused on his.

he pulled away breathlessly, his pupils now much bigger than the blue of his eyes as he looked down at you, his semi-hard cock pressing against you. "why did you call me here?" he managed to ask.

"i get really horny after shows. don't read into it.''

he grinned, and you pushed him to sit on top of the toilet before straddling him, connecting your lips with his as if you hadn't eaten in days and he was your favorite meal.

his hands were all over you, rafe's hands dipping below the hem of your top, making their way up to your tits, his eyes widening slightly when he realized you hadn't worn a bra, a grin on his lips as you slowly pulled your lips away from his.

you stood up, rafe's gaze following your hands as you slowly took off your black lacy panties from underneath your skirt and put it in one of his pockets, leaving the rest of your clothes on as you bit down on your lower lip.

"you cool if i do a line?" he asked, pulling a bag of coke out of the pocket of his jeans, the boy already preparing to pour some onto the toilet lid.

"go ahead, but i wouldn't recommend doing it off of that. sage, my bandmate, did that once, and she got a weird ass cold for two weeks. don't recommend it."

rafe scoffed, shaking his head, "then where should i do it? your tits?" he asked, fully jokingly. but you couldn't resist the temptation.

you straddled his lap once again, now without any panties, pulling your top down slightly to reveal more of your breasts, a small grin on your face. "go ahead."

and it didn't take too long until rafe had a hundred-dollar bill rolled up, snorting a line of coke off your heaving tits as you looked down at him, a part of you enjoying how almost vulnerable he was in that moment before he threw his head back, your lips attaching themselves to his neck before he pulled your face back, rubbing the remaining coke into your gum, a soft moan leaving your lips as he was rubbing your clit with his other hand.

"you look like a dick when you wear this..." you murmured, taking his backward cap and placing it on your own head, rafe almost laughing as he pulled down his jeans along with his boxers, his cock straining hard in front of you.

"you ready?" he asked with a grin, guiding his cock right below your entrance.

"shut up." you scoffed, placing your lips on his as you let yourself sink down on it, the feeling of every inch of his cock sucked in by your warm, inviting cunt making you moan, but a part of you didn't want him to know how much pleasure he was giving you, didn't want him to give the satisfaction to know just how much you wanted it.

"this is so that no one catches us..." you mumble, your mind hazy, taking his hand and bringing it to cover your mouth while you start getting yourself off on his perfect cock, moving your hand to your cunt, starting to draw circles on your own clit.

rafe's eyes roll back as you ride him, but you don't pay any attention to him, one of his hands still covering your mouth and the other one was on your hips, almost as if he was trying to pull you closer, both of your heads thrown back in ecstasy, lost in the feeling of fulfillment. he pushes two of his fingers into your mouth and you comply, sucking them in deeper, moaning around them as you move your hips up and down on his cock as you felt the tufts of hair at the back of his neck.

the sloppy thrusts slowly turned into more precise ones and you felt the tip of his cock kiss that sweet, spongy spot inside of you each time and you sped up the small circles you were drawing on your own clit, feeling yourself getting closer, the band in your stomach getting close to snapping.

"i'm-"

and before you could even utter the full sentence out, you were clenching around him and creaming on rafe's cock, your thoughts floating to the way rafe's jaw had slackened when he saw you singing on stage, the boy now groaning as he felt your pussy clench around his cock.

and when you felt him spill his warm load in you in spurts, gasps and small whimpers escaping his lips as you let him ride out his orgasm in you, you knew that you had as intense of an effect on the insufferable kook as he had on you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Barter 3

Warnings: suggestions of death, I am a dark blog and I write dark things.

Summary: You are bargained to be wife to the witcher if he can slew the beast in the village.

Character: Geralt of Rivia

**note, I am not a Witcher genius or aficionado and so I may get some things wrong.

As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍

There’s a hush throughout the barn. The guildmen crowd around the doors as Todrick presses himself to the wood. With the help of several others, he lifts the bar that keeps the entrance in place. You sit with Marsh and watch patiently. A group of women titter nervously and wring their hands. 

The end of the bar hits the ground with an echoing thunk and the men angle it away to lean against a post. The doors shift as the clustered bodies let them open bit by bit. The smell of dew pervades the space, swallowing up the stink of confinement. 

There’s a gasp and the doors are let go. The daylight pours over Todrick and the guildmen. They stare out into the village. 

“The fog has lifted,” Marsell declares. 

“The witcher has slain the beast,” Todrick adds. 

The women creep forward as your little brother stirs against you. His head is wobbly as he sits up, still confused in the dregs of sleep. You rub his bony back and peer around. Your father sits in a corner, as despondent as the day the witcher came. 

“Is it true?” Caralyn appears with her sisters, Orania and Aster, “has he done it?” 

You look over at the doors as Todrick fusses with the short sword on his belt and steps out with heavy hesitance in his boots. Marsell keeps close as he follows and the other men clutch their tools, hammers and sickles alike, as they brave the open air. 

“I am to be wed,” you squeeze Marsh’s shoulder. 

“Will you go away?” Your brother asks. “Like mother and Lessa?” 

You share a look with Caralyn, “I will go wherever my husband bids, Marsh. And I shall miss you and father but perhaps he would be gracious to let me visit.” 

Marsh sniffles, “I will be alone.” He wipes his cheeks mournfully, “without Lessa, without mother, and father...” 

“You will have us,” Caralyn says. “We have all lost those we love so we must learn to love what is left.” 

He nods but continues to snivel. He turns and clings to you, “promise you’ll come back. Promise.” 

You pet his head as icy hollowness consumes you. You stare up at your loyal friend. You gulp, “I promise, Marshy. I will see you again.” 

Caralyn gives a bittersweet smile before her sisters tear her way. They catch up to her brothers as the men without holler. “It is gone. It is clear.” 

A cheer goes up and draws the women from their fear as they creep forward to see through the barn doors. You stay as you are as those who live erupt in glee. Marsh continues to weep as you find not well to draw from. You are empty. 

Your strength only comes with the approach of hooves. You lift your head and look at the wall as if you might see through it. You gently urge your brother away and take him by the hand. You bring him up with you and near the doors. 

The dark horse and its rider come up between what is left of the mill and a house. There is ruin left in the wake of the unnatural fog. Whatever that monster was, it ate at more than the living. 

You step out with Marsh and stop him. You bend to hug him and whisper to him, “I love you brother, keep well.” 

“Sister,” he sobs as you pull back. 

You give him over to Caralyn and she ushers him away, her own face streaked in grief. A sombre air falls over the uproar. The villagers quiet and Todrick looks in your direction. The rest follow his gaze. They watch as you stride toward the witcher. 

He slows his steed and looks down upon you. You bow your head, “you have defeated the evil as promised, sir, and so, on behalf of my people, I will fulfill my duty. We are most grateful for your service.” 

You keep your chin down, your body rigid, your spirit shaky. He does not respond but to extend his arm, his leather gauntlet filling your vision. You steel yourself and latch onto him. He hauls you up and sits you in front of him. He clicks his tongue and the horse sweeps around and canters away. 

Just like that, as swiftly as he came, you are gone off to your fate. A witcher’s wife, whatever that may entail. 

[chloeangelbaby]

Drunken distress

Crybaby! Reader x Rafe Cameron

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

Trigger warning!!! Mentions of vomit, gagging and being sick so if you have emetophobia you have been warned

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

Rafe groaned as his phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, the brightness of the screen illuminating the dark room. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the time: 2:11 a.m. A deep sigh escaped him as he reached for the phone, seeing your name lighting up the screen.

Swiping to answer, he brought the phone to his ear. “Dolly?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse with sleep.

The sound that greeted him wasn’t your usual chipper tone but soft, uneven sobs. “Rafe,” you whimpered, your voice shaky. In the background, he could hear the muffled bass of party music.

“Where are you?” he asked immediately, sitting up straight and already grabbing his hoodie.

“I’m… I’m in the bathroom,” you stammered, a hiccup cutting through your words. “At Abby’s party. I don’t feel good, Rafe. I—I think I’m gonna throw up.”

He stood up, already slipping on his shoes. “You been drinking?”

“Just a little,” you admitted, your voice cracking as a fresh sob broke through. “But it’s so loud out there, and I just—I wanna go home.”

“Stay where you are,” he said firmly, grabbing his keys. “I’m coming to get you, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice small and pitiful.

“And Dolly?” he added, softening his tone.

“Yeah?”

“Breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

Rafe pulled up to Abby’s house twenty minutes later, his Range Rover idling in the driveway. The front lawn was littered with empty red cups and groups of people laughing and shouting. He ignored them, heading straight inside.

Navigating through the crowd, Rafe pushed past drunken partiers and shouted over the music to ask for directions to the bathroom. When he finally found the right door, he knocked softly.

“It’s me,” he called through the wood.

A second later, the door creaked open, and there you were—teary-eyed and trembling, your cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and your crying. You clung to the doorframe, your makeup smudged, looking so small and miserable.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, and before he could say anything, you threw your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, his chin resting on your head. “I’ve got you, Dolly,” he murmured, gently rubbing your back.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into his hoodie.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said firmly, pulling back to tilt your chin up. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

You nodded, sniffling as he led you out of the bathroom and through the crowd. He shielded you from the worst of it, guiding you out the door and into the warmth of his car.

Once you were settled in the passenger seat, he handed you a bottle of water and a plastic bag—just in case. “Sip this, okay? Slowly.”

You nodded, taking small, shaky sips. The drive was quiet except for your occasional hiccups and sniffles. Rafe glanced at you every now and then, his brows furrowed in concern.

“You’re warm enough?” he asked softly, reaching over to adjust the heat.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice still trembling.

———————————˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊————————————

When he pulled into the driveway, Rafe quickly got out and walked around to your side, helping you out of the car. You leaned on him for support, your legs wobbling slightly as he guided you inside.

Once you were in bed, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by pillows, he sat on the edge, brushing a stray tear from your cheek.

“Feeling a little better?” he asked.

You nodded, though your lip wobbled again. “You’re not mad at me?”

He sighed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “No, Dolly. I’m not mad. I just want you to feel better.”

You sniffled, giving him a small, watery smile. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Always,” he said softly, tucking the blanket around you. “Now get some sleep.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, Rafe stayed by your side, his hand resting on yours until your breathing evened out.

[ohisms]

↪     𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , HISTORICAL 〳 FANTASY edition !   (  a  collection  of  25  settings  based upon the period 〳 fantasy genres ; meant  to  inspire  drabbles  or  be  used  as  prompts . WILL be updated .   )

001. the interior of an elegant carriage .

002. seated at a large dining table set with an elaborate meal .

003. the shadowy corner of a lively tavern .

004. the top of a light house during a raging storm .

005. along the dimly lit corridor of a large manor .

006. the damp , dark brig of a pirate ship .

007. the ruins of an ancient structure lost to time .

008. a theater hall brimming with attendees .

009. the bustling streets of a market town .

010. a sun - drenched vineyard .

011. along a boardwalk overlooking the sea .

012. a moonlit cemetery full of weathered graves .

013. on horseback , deep in the woods .

014. a luxurious drawing room smelling of tea .

015. a sprawling dragon roost , hidden atop craggy mountain peaks .

016. a war - torn battlefield .

017. a beautiful cathedral bustling with churchgoers .

018. within a crammed opera box during a performance .

019. an elegant tearoom serving afternoon refreshments .

020. a lakeside pavilion on an especially hot day .

021. a sprawling network of underground catacombs .

022. a hidden glade in the middle of the woods .

023. the deep , dark dungeon of a castle .

024. a market square full of fruit and fineries .

025. a baker's shop smelling of wonderful pastries .

026. the quiet stables of a large estate .

027. on the outskirts of a magnificent water fountain .

028. in a dimly lit library , hidden amongst the books .

029. among the high walls of a hedge maze .

030. at the front desk of a warm , homey inn .

031. under the protection of a gazebo as it rains .

032. on the landing of a busy train station .

033. a gambling hall alight with raucous laughter and drink .

034. a pristine infirmary , mostly empty .

035. on board a huge ship making a long voyage .

+   20  more  setting  prompts :    6 / 01 / 2024

036. in a sunlit garden adorned with blooming flowers .

037. at the edge of a serene forest lake under a starry sky.

038. within a quiet corridor of a castle during a lavish ball .

039. in a bustling blacksmith's forge , sparks flying .

040. on a rocky cliffside overlooking a vast ocean .

041. in a quaint village square during a festival .

042. within a secret chamber hidden behind a bookshelf .

043. in the grand atrium of a luxurious hotel .

044. along a narrow brick alleyway in a crowded town .

045. within a busy marketplace in a desert town .

046. on a tranquil beach at sunrise .

047. in a cozy cottage with a crackling fireplace .

048. at the helm of a majestic airship soaring through the clouds .

049. in a grand library filled with ancient tomes .

050. on a bustling harbor dock as ships come and go .

051. within a magical forest where the trees glow softly .

052. in an apothecary's shop filled with herbs and potion .

053. at a secluded cabin by a dangerously quick river .

054. within the opulent throne room of a powerful ruler .

055. in an enchanted glade where fairies dance in the moonlight .

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: lust & rage

masterlist

cw: cheating, angst, violence

Life with Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t always hell—at least, not in the way most people would think.

It was the week before Christmas, the storm outside relentless as the blizzard pummelled the city, driving everyone indoors. People sought refuge wherever they could, and for you and a couple of friends, that place turned out to be a small, crowded pub. Not the kind of place you envisioned yourself drowning your frustration in after failing your finals, but it was warm, and it was shelter. 

Inside, the pub was alive, the air thick with the clinking of glasses, the low hum of laughter, and the heavy scent of liquor. But none of it reached you. The world felt muffled like you were hearing everything from underwater. The weight of failure pressed down on you—your head aching, your thoughts scattered. You sat there, elbows on the bar, hands cradling your skull, staring at the worn wood beneath you like it was the only thing in focus. Your friends’ voices faded into the background as you swirled your drink absently, too tired to care.

And then, he sat next to you.

The shift in the air was immediate. You didn’t even need to look up to know that someone had taken the empty chair beside you. You could feel it—the heavy presence of someone who didn’t just occupy space but commanded it. 

When you finally allowed yourself a glance, your breath caught in your throat.

He was... imposing. His hair was a shade of pink that shouldn’t have worked but did—a pale salmon that contrasted sharply with the cold, dark mood of the pub. Tattoos snaked down his arms, intricate patterns that seemed almost alive, and multiple piercings gleamed on his ears, brows, and lips, each one a mark of rebellion or defiance. He wore a grey work jacket that hung off him with careless perfection, his broad shoulders filling the fabric in a way that made the jacket seem almost too small. 

He was a giant—physically overwhelming. Even sitting down, he towered over you, and there was something about the way he carried himself that made your pulse quicken despite the gnawing exhaustion inside you. The man wasn’t just hot—he was magnetic, a force of nature.

When he finished speaking to the bartender, his gaze turned toward you. His eyes, dark and steady, locked with yours in a way that felt almost predatory, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t playful—it was knowing, like he could see right through you.

“Take a picture,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, “It’ll last longer.”

The words hit you like a challenge. The cocky, effortless arrogance in his tone made you bristle, and you instinctively rolled your eyes. The remark was as predictable as it was infuriating, and yet, you felt a flicker of something—annoyance, attraction, or maybe something darker. 

Rather than answer, you turned back to your drink, your fingers absently twisting the straw in your gin and tonic, trying to ground yourself in something that felt less intense. Something you could control. But there was no escaping the pull of his presence. He was impossible to ignore, impossible to look away from.

"Name's Sukuna," he said, his voice a smooth drawl, effortlessly rolling the words off his tongue with an edge that felt like it was meant to unsettle. "What's yours, doll?"

The word doll hit you like a spark, irritating and almost condescending, but there was something in the way he said it—slow, confident, not asking, but claiming—that made you hesitate. You wouldn’t know it at the time, but soon enough, that simple pet name would become something you wanted to hear, something that would reverberate through your mind long after the moment had passed.

You shot him a look, dark and calculating, the tension in your chest rising. Was he worth indulging? There was a part of you—curious, cynical—that wondered if you’d end up walking away from this with nothing more than a quick, filthy fuck. But then there was the other part of you, the one that couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was dangerous in ways you couldn’t yet comprehend. A hot creep, sure, but a creep all the same.

“Don’t speak all at once,” he quipped with a lazy grin, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he settled in beside you, his presence filling the space like it was meant to consume it. He then turned to the bartender, thanking him for the drink that slid over to him with a familiarity you didn’t quite understand.

You turned away, your gaze shifting to your friends, who were so wrapped up in their conversation they hadn’t even noticed you slipping into this exchange. Typical. That left you alone with him, trapped in a game you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to play.

“No, no, let me guess,” Sukuna continued, his voice lowered as he leaned forward, the smirk on his lips widening into something almost predatory. His eyes were sharp, calculating. “Ten bucks says I won’t get it in two minutes.”

Your lips twitched in a mixture of scepticism and intrigue. Ten bucks? You didn’t have the energy to humour this game, but something about him—his confidence, the way he looked at you—made it hard to resist.

"I’ll have you know, I’m exceptionally good at name guessing," he added, his tone dripping with an arrogance that, oddly enough, intrigued you even more. "And I’m incredibly observant."

“Wow. And humble, too,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing as you swirled the drink in your hand, allowing the cold liquid to serve as a grounding force against the heat rising between you.

He took out his phone, his fingers moving with deliberate precision as he set the timer. 

—

The next few minutes stretched on like a game of cat and mouse, his guesses rolling off his tongue with ease. But there was a subtle tension in his words, a challenge in his tone as if he were testing you with each name. You could tell—each name, you suspected, belonged to some girl he’d slept with before. A litany of beautiful faces, a history of conquest. 

BZZ BZZ BZZ

The timer beeped. Two minutes up.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, the sound raw and frustrated as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders tensing with defeat. You watched, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. There was something almost refreshing about seeing the cocky facade crack, even just for a moment.

You stifled a quiet laugh, your gaze flicking to him as he peeked out from behind his arms, his eyes locking onto yours.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious note now, a sense of genuine curiosity seeping through the casual bravado. “You gotta tell me now.”

You leaned back in your stool, tapping your chin in mock contemplation. For a split second, you let yourself enjoy the power of the moment—he was waiting for you now. You were in control. You made him wait.

Sukuna groaned, rolling his eyes at your teasing, but there was an undeniable edge of anticipation in his gaze. He was dying to know, and it made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Yn,” you said softly, the smile that curled at your lips really this time. It wasn’t just a name anymore. It was something personal—an introduction to who you were, who you’d be, when this night was done.

Sukuna clicked his tongue, clearly not expecting the answer, but his smile never wavered. “Pretty name,” he murmured, his voice low as he took another swig from his drink, eyes lingering on you in a way that felt more like an invitation than a compliment.

“Chivalry doesn’t dismiss the fact that you owe me ten bucks,” you said, your tone lighter, almost teasing. You crossed your legs, the motion fluid, as you watched him carefully.

His grin widened, but there was a hint of something darker in it now, a promise of things yet to come. “Right,” he muttered, standing up and patting his pockets as if checking for something important. His movements were effortless, his confidence spilling into every small gesture.

“Aah, shit,” he cursed suddenly, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I think I left my wallet back at my place.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. The room, the noise, everything seemed to fade away as you processed the invitation behind them. There was something about the way he said it—casual, sure, but laced with an unspoken challenge—that made your pulse quicken.

“Are you coming?” Sukuna stretched his hand out toward you, his fingers curling slightly like he was giving you the space to choose. 

Your eyes drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to calm. The streets were now dotted with people, but the lampposts lit up with twinkling decorations, bathed the city in a soft glow that made it all seem... different. More inviting. 

Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the storm had finally begun to subside. The wind had softened, leaving behind only the whisper of snowflakes gently falling from a cloudless sky. The world outside seemed suspended in a hushed stillness, as if nature itself had taken a breath, waiting. The streets were dotted with people now, wrapped in coats and scarves, moving with purpose, but there was something ethereal in the air—like the weight of the storm had shifted something within the city, had made it feel more alive, more real.

More inviting.

You looked back at your friends, who hadn’t noticed your absence. You could slip away. Nothing to keep you here anymore. And yet, with him, there was something else pulling you, something that dared you to step into the unknown.

Without a word, you stood up from your seat, feeling the cold air rush back as you let go of your reservation. You slid your hand into his, the warmth of his fingers wrapping around yours, steady and sure. You didn’t need to say anything more—your choice was made.

Tonight, you’d follow wherever he led.

—

The first year you were together, it felt like you had stepped into a dream. He was everything you had hoped for—thoughtful, romantic, and effortlessly charming. Surprises came without warning: spontaneous dates that made you feel like the centre of his world, gifts that were carefully chosen, and random “just because” flowers that seemed to say more than words ever could. It wasn’t just love; it was a feeling that everything was right—secure in a way you had never known before. You believed you had found something real, something lasting. Hell, you thought you would marry him. You were so sure, so convinced this was the one. It was the first time you hadn’t laid awake at night, haunted by doubts and the weight of tears you couldn’t wipe away. This was different. It seemed like everything was too good to be true.

And you were right.

By the second year, things began to change, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. He started pulling away. The sweet surprises stopped; the gestures that once felt like an outpouring of love vanished. The kisses, once soft and lingering, became hurried, almost perfunctory like he was counting the seconds until he could pull away. The warmth that had once been in his touch turned cold. The embraces you once lost yourself in now felt like an obligation, a quick fix to mask the distance between you. The affection became transactional. You had to beg for even the smallest effort, pleading for scraps of the love that had once flowed so freely. Every conversation became a minefield—one wrong step and the explosion would come. You were walking on eggshells, never sure which version of him you would get. Was he the man you fell in love with, or the stranger who barely acknowledged you? It was a constant game of hot and cold, and no matter how much you tried to reach him, everything began to feel meaningless. You were drowning in a relationship that had gone numb, a hollow shell of what it used to be.

And still, you made excuses. You kept thinking it was just a phase. He was stressed, maybe. Maybe it was work. Or maybe it was you. You blamed yourself. But deep down, you knew—you knew something was breaking, unravelling.

And then, one night, it broke.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t civil. 

“What the fuck, Yn?” he snarled, rage flooding his voice the moment the words "I think we need to break up" left your lips.

“Kuna,” you choked, the once endearing nickname coming out like they were torn from your throat, “you’ve been pulling away for months. I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried so many times to fix this, to fix us. And it’s not working anymore. We’re just—broken. I think we’re both fucking sick of each other.”

The air thickened with tension. He didn’t speak at first—just glared at you, his fists clenching. And then, the rage came, raw and explosive. Dishes flew across the room, smashing against the walls, lamps were torn from their sockets and thrown with a force that made you flinch. The furniture was upended like it was made of paper. His anger consumed him as if the entire apartment had become the battleground for something far darker than either of you had anticipated.

Each fight, each breakup, grew more intense. It was a spiralling chaos you could never control, and the more you tried to resist, the worse it got. The pattern was becoming so familiar, that it almost felt predestined. The violence wasn’t always physical, but it was always there—volatile, unpredictable, suffocating. The way he raged, the way he destroyed everything in his path… it was terrifying, and yet, you couldn’t look away. 

You had to wonder—how had you let yourself get here?

Looking back, it was almost laughable, how he’d react like a child throwing a tantrum when things didn’t go his way. But in the moment, there was nothing funny about it. You were terrified, not of him hurting you physically, but of what would happen if you didn’t walk away fast enough. You were afraid of the unpredictability, the way his temper would shift on a dime, the silent threat that always hung in the air after the storm.

You tried to stand your ground, but the arguments always ended the same way: one of you crying, and it was always you. Always you who broke first, always you who ended up storming out of the apartment, not knowing where you’d go, only that anywhere was better than being there, trapped in that suffocating tension.

And without fail, you found yourself at the pub—the same damn pub. The one place that somehow always called you back. You never meant to end up there, but it became a place of comfort ironically . And just as predictably, he’d show up—hours later, sometimes days—but he would always come. The silence between you would stretch, and for a moment, it was like the storm had passed. But it never lasted. You both knew it, even as you shared a drink, even as you spoke about nothing and everything at once. There was no going back, no fixing what had broken. Yet neither of you could seem to let go.

A few hours later, or maybe a couple of days—it didn’t matter. He’d show up, like he always did, with that look in his eyes, the one that both broke you and made you want to beg him to stay. The same pattern. The same broken promises. It was like a script you couldn’t escape, a loop that kept tightening around your chest.

And you couldn’t escape.

—

You gave him a second chance. No. You gave him multiple chances. And with each one, you convinced yourself that this time would be different. That this time, he would change. You clung to the hope that his empty promises would turn into something real. You told yourself you could forgive, told yourself love could heal the wounds, told yourself that maybe, just maybe, he was worth it. And for a while, you believed it. But now? Now, you were just a shell of the person you used to be.

Every lie, every broken promise, every moment of disappointment had chipped away at you until there was nothing left but the remnants of a relationship that never truly existed. And now you were standing at the edge of it all, staring into the wreckage of your love, heart heavy with everything you had given, everything you had lost.

It had all been a lie. A beautiful, painful, suffocating lie. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

You found yourself standing in the kitchen. The kitchen. The place that once radiated warmth and laughter, where the two of you had shared quiet mornings, intimate dinners, and whispered confessions under the soft glow of dim lights. The place where, at one point, you had felt like you were home. Now, it felt like a cold, hollow cage. The warmth was gone, replaced by something sharp and empty. Every inch of the space felt suffocating, the air thick with the weight of things unsaid, the things you couldn’t take back. It felt like the walls themselves were closing in on you, trapping you in this suffocating lie.

And there he was. Sukuna. Standing in front of you, avoiding your eyes, like he always did when the truth was too painful to face. You were done pretending. Done waiting. Done hoping. You were sick of the excuses, sick of being the one who always gave, always forgave. 

Sick of him.

The anger bubbled up inside you, but beneath that anger was something worse—something darker. It was the raw ache of betrayal, the gut-wrenching reality that you had loved someone who never deserved it. And you were done. Done. 

"Sukuna," your voice trembled as you forced the words through the tightness in your throat. "Look me in the eye... and tell me you’re not cheating on me."

The words felt like a knife to your chest, like you were forcing yourself to bleed. But you needed to hear it. You needed him to admit it, to look you in the eye and lie to your face one last time, so you could finally stop lying to yourself.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Instead, his gaze darted to the side, as if searching for something—anything—to avoid this moment. But you wouldn’t let him. You wouldn’t let him. 

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally lifted his eyes to yours. And for a split second, you thought maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. This time, he would tell you the truth. This time, he would finally be honest. 

But instead, he reached for you. Slowly, as if he thought you might pull away, his hand hovered near your face, before gently cupping your cheek. The touch was familiar, but it was wrong. It felt like it belonged to a stranger, to someone you no longer recognized.

“Doll," he said, his voice so quiet, so soft, as if he thought it would make a difference. “I promise you; I’m not cheating on you.”

I’m not cheating on you. 

The words echoed in your mind, hollow, meaningless. You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But how could you? How could you possibly believe anything he said when everything in front of you screamed the truth? How could you ignore the thousands of lies, the betrayals, the coldness, the distance? You had been drowning in his lies for so long, pretending to breathe, pretending to live. And now? Now, you were suffocating.

You tore his hand away from your face, your breath ragged, heart racing with fury and heartbreak. This time, you wouldn’t let him play you. You wouldn’t let him lie his way out of it. You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you unlocked it. You scrolled through the messages, through the photos—the undeniable proof of his betrayal with her, the woman who had once been your friend. The woman who had smiled at you laughed with you, shared stories with you, all the while hiding behind your back, betraying you in the most intimate, unforgivable way.

You shoved the phone in his face, your fingers trembling, forcing him to look at the evidence. You didn’t care if it destroyed him. You didn’t care if he was about to cry, or if he was going to beg for your forgiveness. He had destroyed you. He had broken something inside you that you couldn’t fix, and now he had to face the consequences. You deserved to be seen. To be heard.

He stared at the screen, his face going pale, his eyes flickering between the images and your face, trying to process the weight of it. But it was too late. You were already done. You had already given him every chance you had.

“Doll... I can explain—” 

Explain?

You couldn’t even hear the rest of his words. Your body trembled, the rage and hurt burning in your veins like fire, the tears you had been holding back for so long finally spilling down your cheeks. "No," you spat, your voice breaking but stronger than you had ever felt before. "No more. No more fucking excuses, Sukuna. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are, how much you love me, how this time it’s going to be different. We’re done. We’re fucking done. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. I don’t care. I’m done."

The words came out in a rush, and it felt like your heart was being torn in two, but it was also the most freeing thing you had ever done. You had to say it. You had to cut the ties, even if it hurt, even if it destroyed you. Because staying would have destroyed you even more. 

And then… silence.

The kind of silence that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came after a fight, the silence that came before reconciliation. No, this was a different kind of silence. A suffocating, crushing silence that screamed of finality. It wasn’t him trying to fix things. It wasn’t him begging you to stay. 

It was him, standing there, in shock, with nothing left to say.

“Do you really want to break up, Yn?” His voice was almost too calm, too detached like it didn’t matter either way to him. As if you were just another fight, another issue to be swept aside. The words tasted like poison on your tongue, the way he said them—like he had already convinced himself that you wouldn’t do it. That you wouldn’t walk away. That you wouldn’t leave him. 

Was he really this fucking dense, or was he just pretending? 

The anger inside you flared, hot and vicious. You’d given him so many chances—too many—and he still never got it. How long were you supposed to wait for someone who didn’t care enough to fight for you? The truth cut through you like a blade. You tried to steady your breath, to force the words out without cracking. 

But the pain, the bitter disappointment—you couldn’t hide it.

“I would have to be drugged to stay with you,” you whispered, each word feeling like a nail in your chest.

It wasn’t just the end of a relationship—it was the end of you. The person you were before him, the person you tried to hold onto, was already gone. He had drained you dry, and now, there was nothing left but emptiness.

He didn’t even flinch at the words. Instead, he tilted his head, the same indifference in his eyes that had been there for so long. “Like... how much?” he asked, his voice almost playful, like he was still trying to make a joke out of this—your pain. Your heart breaking right in front of him. How could he be so blind?

You couldn’t stand it anymore. The way he dismissed you. The way he made you feel like everything you said and felt didn’t matter. The way you’d sacrificed yourself for someone who could never even give you a fraction of what you deserved. 

Your breath hitched in disbelief. He really didn’t get it, did he? How empty his words were, how little they meant. 

You scoffed, the sound rough and bitter in your throat. “Like how much?” you repeated, voice trembling, but with all the venom you could muster. “You make me fucking sick.” 

With those words, you grabbed your suitcase, the weight of it making your hands tremble, but the finality of it all felt like a relief. You didn’t even look at him when you walked out the door. You couldn’t. If you did, you knew you’d break. And you weren’t going to do that. Not anymore. 

This time, you didn’t run to the pub, desperate to escape the silence of your thoughts, hoping he’d come after you. This time, you didn’t wait for the inevitable apology, the hollow promises that meant nothing. You weren’t waiting anymore. You were done. 

This time, you had somewhere to go. Somewhere he would never find you. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that was all yours.

And it was with them. With Maki, Nobara, and Panda—your real family. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t judge. They didn’t offer empty comfort. They just were. They were there when you needed someone to scream at the top of your lungs. When you needed to break down and let it all out without worrying about how you looked, or what they thought. They let you rage, let you cry, let you feel everything that had built up in you, until you couldn’t carry it anymore. 

For the first time in ages, you didn’t feel small. You didn’t feel like you were nothing. You didn’t feel like you had to fight for someone to care about you. They didn’t need you to prove anything. They just loved you. And that was enough.

But even now, after all of that—after all the love, after all the care—they couldn’t make you forget. How do you forget someone who carved their name so deeply into your soul? How do you dismiss the absence of someone who was once everything to you? Someone you gave all of yourself to, and in return, they took it, slowly, piece by piece, and gave you nothing in return? 

How do you stop hearing his voice in the empty spaces between your thoughts? How do you stop seeing his face in the places you used to find peace?

It’s not something you can just erase. You can’t just close your eyes and forget. Over time, you learn to live with it. To keep going, even when it feels like a piece of you is missing. 

But his name—his name was a curse that you couldn’t stop hearing. 

It would always be there, lurking in the background of your thoughts. The way he’d looked at you, like you were never enough like you were just something to be discarded when it became inconvenient. The way he’d said your name, not with love, but with contempt. The way he’d never fought for you never gave you the kind of love you’d deserved.

You would carry that curse with you. And maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest part of all—knowing that no matter how far you ran or how many people actually loved you, you would always hear his voice in the back of your mind. And you would always wonder why, after everything, you still couldn’t forget him.

backstage!

• the girl that sukuna cheated with was one of yn friends with her the night she met him…. taking name suggestions in the comments.. #OPP

• yn & sukuna were together for i think almost 4 years but on and off after the first year

• but they moved in together like 5 months into dating so that factored into why yn kept going back (she just like me😛)

• so the timeline is she dated sukuna, met the party girls, broke up w sukuna (for good) and THEN moved in with the party girls

• dunno where that bitch is that kuna cheated on us with probably dead in a ditch courtesy of panda or nobara or both of em

• now I need a gin and tonic after this chapter…

• this would’ve been posted earlier but i was cosplaying as choso…. sorry..

• thank you mitch @.sandwhitches 4 the last bit of dialogue #kudos (she will not see this)

a/n: aaaand i’ll see u guys next week! whoop back on schedule (kinda) are you guys proud of me? are you? are you? this chapter was the hardest to work on because there were so many essential points to hit. but i hope you enjoyed some sukuna lore! this has been in the works for a while. only 5 more chapters left guys!!!!! we are nearing the end….

taglist: @shokosbunny @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @burnishingbagels @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @standcom @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm @syxoki

*if i can’t tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[quillcraftconquer]

John “Soap” Mactavish x Female reader

TW: Smut, spanking, (kinda) rough sex? Bj, piv.

Soap deserves more x reader content. Just sayin.

WC: 1.9k

Maybe a WIP? Idk

—————-

You didn’t intend to go out tonight and get unequivocally drunk, especially the night before you were deploying with a new unit.

But here you were, a couple beers deep, watching the muscled back of the man with the short, dark mohawk as he attempted to catch the attention of the bartender.

You didn’t intend to try to bring anyone back to your hotel tonight, but damn if that man didn’t look good. He was leaned forward over the bar, palms splayed out on the sticky wood. His thick, Scottish accent was carrying over the other voices around him as he got more and more frustrated at being ignored. The bartender, your poor friend Feliks, continued to ignore him, bustling around the bar to serve the rowdy regulars who ordered in his native language, occasionally glaring at the Scot who threw his hands up in exasperation each time. It didn’t help as the night went on, the regulars were getting rowdier, pushier, shoving against him.

You looked down into your empty glass.

Fuck it

You approached the bar, sliding into the empty space next to the man and called out to Feliks for another drink.

“You’re losing a customer.” You joked to him in Russian, nodding your head to the Scot who guffawed when Feliks set another beer down in front of you.

“Tell him to leave a yelp review.” Feliks barked out, swatting the wandering hands of a patron who was reaching over the counter.

“Am I fucking invisible?” The Scot grunted, stiffening his shoulders as another person bumped into him.

“He doesn’t speak English.” You laughed, turning to face him. Finally, the Scot peeled his eyes off the bartender, glancing down at you. His eyes darted from one of your eyes to the other, to your lips, and back to your eyes.

You were an interpreter, and you could definitely interpret that look.

“What do you want?” You asked, glancing down at the beer he was holding.

“Same thing.” He answered, and you flagged Feliks down, who begrudgingly passed another beer your way. You slid it to the man, letting your eyes wander over his chest before meeting his eyes.

“You’re a ways away from Scotland.” You joked.

“Military.” He grunted, fiddling with the tab of the beer until it popped open, raising it to his mouth to take a long drink.

“Mm.” You hummed in response, resisting the urge to crinkle your nose. You definitely didn’t intend to take one of them back to your hotel.

“Like a man in uniform?” He asked, giving you a cheeky grin. You wanted to groan and roll your eyes, but if you were going to get laid before being in the middle of fucking nowhere for months, you had to take what you could get.

“I like when they take them off.” You said, lifting an eyebrow, hoping he could take a hint. The way his grin widened you knew he was picking up on what you wanted.

“Yeah?” He smiled, eyeing you over the can, fingers tightening on the tin as his gaze fell over the tight dress covering your body.

“Too bad you’re not in yours.” You said, running your hand up the hard muscles of his chest, resting it there as the patrons around you bumped your bodies closer.

“Still looks pretty good outta this, if you want to try it out.” He breathed, catching your waist in his hand and idly grazing his thumb over your hip.

And just like that, you’re letting him lead you through the crowded bar, out the door and to his car. A car that is much too clean to be used daily. You punch in the address to your hotel, tossing the phone down as it loads the ETA.

9 minutes.

You can work with that.

You wait until the gravel is crunching under the tires as he pulls out of the bar, driving through the dark, illuminating the interior of the car when it passes under the occasional street light. You unbuckle, and he glances over to you suspiciously until your fingers graze against his waist band. His eyes widen and his hands squeeze the steering wheel, shifting his hips to give you better access. You unzip his fly, fishing his cock out as it hardens in your grasp. You let a small smile fall across your face when he moans, working your hand up and down his thick length, the precum beading at the top.

“Condom?” You ask husikly, and he nods.

“Wallet.” He groans, bucking his hips into your hand.

You reach into his pocket, fishing out the brown leather wallet and opening it. Your eyes dart over the I.D

John MacTavish.

One condom.

“Just one, John?” You ask, holding it between two fingers with your eyebrows raised. You didn’t want to put this strangers cock in your mouth without protection, but god, it looked delectable. He smiled at you sheepishly, and you tucked it back in the wallet, tossing it on the dashboard. You returned your hand to his cock, leaning forward to press your lips against the shell of his ear.

“Make it count.” You whispered, giving his earlobe a playful nibble. He groaned, and you dipped your head lower, drawing your tongue across the mushroom head. You sucked him further into your mouth, jaw aching as it stretched to accommodate him. You could hear the squeak of the leather on the steering wheel as his grip tightened.

“Fuck.” He moaned, laying a hand tentatively on the back of your head, gathering your hair into his fist. You nodded, allowing him to move you freely up and down his cock, eyes watering when he bucked up, groaning as he attempted to fit all of him into your mouth.

“You’ve arrived at your destination”

He sighed when you pushed up against his hand, pulling him from your mouth with a pop. You led him up to your room, his hand resting on the small of your back, occasionally dropping lower to give your ass a squeeze. You opened the door to your room, tossing the key on the dresser and turning to face him. His hands were immediately on you, his length straining against the denim of his jeans. You reached for the hem of his shirt and he paused, pulling away from your touch.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, turning to face the dresser and digging under his shirt, pulling out a holster and laying it on top. He bent, pulling up the pant of his leg and unclipping another from his ankle and placing it next to the other. He reached into the other boot, pulling a knife out, laying it with his other weapons. He rose up, gauging your reaction.

“Two guns, a knife, but one condom?” You said sarcastically, shrugging the dressing off your shoulders and peeling it down your body.

“Use those more.” He joked, pulling his shirt over his head, his jeans and briefs quickly joining the discarded clothes on the floor. He pressed his naked body against yours, his hard cock trapped between your stomachs as he kissed you, tongue dipping into your mouth. You moaned as he backed you up until the back of your knees bumped into the bed. You sank into the mattress, expecting him to join you. Instead, he knelt on the carpet at the edge of the bed, gripping your hips and dragging you to him.

“What’re you-“ You started, gasping when you felt his tongue lap at the wetness that had pooled between your thighs.

“Thought I’d return the favor.” He said, drawing a long lick up to your clit, his hands wrapping around your legs and pulling them over his shoulders. You moaned, tossing your head back into the bed as you fisted his dark mohawk, grinding into his face with need.

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped as he dragged two fingers across you, pressing against your entrance. He curled them inside of you, thrusting gently as he focused his mouth on your clit.

“Oh god, please don’t stop. Fuck, John.” You moaned, and he groaned against you when you said his name. You squeezed your eyes tightly shut, bucking against his face as you felt your orgasm hit, clenching around his fingers. You sighed when you felt him pull back, opening your eyes as he rolled his one and only condom on. You scooted up the bed until your head hit the pillows, his body draping over yours, knees pushing your legs further apart. He reached behind your head, grabbing a pillow and placing it under your ass. Your lips twitched at the corner, fighting a smile.

This was a well practiced man.

He leaned forward, his dog tags jingling as they dangled by your face. You felt the tip of his cock press against your entrance, and his eyes met yours.

This was much more intimate than you intended.

You both groaned in unison when he pressed forward, his length causing you to tingle with a burning stretch that felt so good. He pressed his forehead against yours, panting. Your nipples hardened when the cool metal of his dog tags brushed against your chest, arching your back into him.

“Fuck, you feel good. So good.” He mumbled, drawing back a few inches before driving into you again, the top of your head gently bumping against the headboard with each thrust.

You weren’t into military men. In fact, you did your best to avoid them. You were in the military, you knew how terrible these men could be.

But holy shit, this man was working your body in ways you didn’t know it could be worked.

You wrapped your arms around his torso, dragging your nails across his back.

“Harder.” You begged, clasping one hand on the back of his neck. He grabbed one of your ankles, maneuvering your leg over his shoulder as he drove deeper, harder, smashing his hips against yours. But it wasn’t enough.

“More, please.” You pleaded, embarrassed at what this man was turning you into. He choked out a laugh, pausing his thrusts.

“What do you want?” He asked, using the opportunity to catch his breath. You placed a hand against his chest, pushing him back off of you, out of you. He stared at you in question, eyes darkening with lust when you flipped around, raising your ass to him and burying your face into the mattress. You felt his hands grip your hips, pulling you back onto his cock. You gasped as he pulled back, ramming into you again roughly. A small smack on your ass made you moan into the pillow, and encouraged by the sound, he did it again, harder this time.

“Better?” He asked, massaging the spot his hand had connected as he thrusted. You nodded, unable to contain the small whimpers that escaped your throat each time he surged forward and hit that delicate spot inside of you. Your ass tingled with each smack, followed by the massage from his calloused hand.

“Feels so fucking good, god I can feel you gripping my cock. I’m not going to last long.” He moaned, hips quickening as if to make a point. You nodded again, your eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion and pleasure as another orgasm overtook you.

“John…” You moaned out, for the first time wishing there wasn’t a barrier between you.

He groaned as you felt his fingers tighten against your hips, draping his body against your back, pressing his sweat drenched forehead against your shoulders blade as the condom filled with his release. He stayed like that for a moment before pulling out of you, the mattress creaking as his weight left it. You felt the comforter fall over your body, the faint rustling of clothes and keys filling the silence as you kept your eyes shut, body spent.

[vervainandspritz]

WHEN I TOUCH HER

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy sees Y/N some time after breaking it off, she doesn't seem to notice him.. or does she?

A/N: Interact with the stories you read! It's important. Who wants something more tonight?:)

~~

People surely noticed, looking over curiously as several blinders entered the pub. Not making a ruckus of sort, slipping between other people in the fairly big crowd.

Some joined others by the table, greeting with wide grins those they know so well. Others, like John and Arthur came up to the bar, so much bigger than one in the Garrison. Three barmaids worked behind the counter, skillfully pouring all kinds of alcohol for the men in need. Known well among the people of Birmingham, they didn't have to call over to the working women to get what they came for. One of the barmaids handed over a full bottle of the finest Irish whiskey, receiving a good tip as the younger man left it on the counter, pushing it towards her with a wink.

Y/N, one of the barmaids didn't notice any of the Shelby brothers just yet, focused on the orders and techniques she taught herself so well. Tips were pouring like never before that night, as the rich guests consistently ordered more and more. A woman with such abilities was surely never seen before in any local club around here.

Night seemed to be coming to a head as the crowd slightly dispersed, giving her a much more clear view on the whole, rather massive, room. To say she saw him right away would be a lie, but Y/N could feel an intense gaze on her hands and face as she worked, cleaning up the glasses and wiping the counter down before finally looking up.

The man she avoided for over a month, more or less successfully stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched her from across the room. Despite the fact that this place was bursting at the seams, his gaze didn't falter as he watched her expression change, one much more bitter than the whiskey he held in his right hand.

”Fuck” Y/N sighed under her nose, internally rolling her eyes as she saw in her peripheral vision him slowly approaching.

Not giving him a chance to speak to her, Y/N turned around, wiping all the shelves behind her, keeping herself busy with anything, just so he wouldn't speak up. Involuntarily, the corner of her mouth raised slightly hearing his sigh of annoyance behind her back.

”Y/N” Thomas said, sitting on one of the stools. He wasn't surprised with the way she was acting, not really, knowing the situation he put them in some time ago. ”Y/N” He repeated, a little louder before dropping the glass onto the counter, causing her to huff before finally facing him.

Taking in the sight of him, already sitting by the counter, Y/N realized he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.

”What the hell did I do to see you here today, Shelby?” Came out of her mouth as a greeting, her tongue effortlessly sharp as always before she cocked her eyebrow. ”Don't you have whiskey in your own pub?”

Tommy looked at her for a moment, nodding lightly with an amused smile, causing her anger to simmer even harder.

”Came to see what all the noise's about, yeah?” He offered, pushing his empty glass forward, as in a silent order for a fill up. Without missing a beat she turned it upside down, slamming against the wood in front of him.

”Unfortunately we're closing soon. Find your way out, would you?” She said, smiling so nicely in such a fake manner, Tommy internally winced.

Letting out a sigh, he got up from his chair, leaning forward on his arms.

”Don't be like that,” He insisted, looking her in the eyes.

Tommy knew how this... The whole situation looked. Without knowing the details, it was messy and he was an asshole. Like always. When usually it didn't bother him much, Tommy couldn't shake this off. So aware of what was going on in her head about him.

”Like what?” She hissed, unable to hold back the anger she held in her fear for so many days now. ”You made your choice, now don't you dare come around in a state of boredom telling me what to do!” She stated sharply, a little louder than intended which brought the attention of one of her coworkers, Diana.

She came closer, tossing the rag aside as she eyed both Thomas and Y/N, before reaching out to touch her shoulder.

”Everything alright, hun? Is this man bothering you?” She offered, narrowing her eyes without dropping his gaze.

Hearing it, Tommy smirked lightly, highly amused with how... Fitting this environment was to Y/N's combative personality.

Are all of them that feisty?

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she ran a hand through her hair.

”No, Diana, it's fine he's just... A bloody idiot, he is.” She said, glaring at him before adding. ”But he's no threat. I'm fine. Get behind the bar, would you?”

After hearing an affirmative answer, Y/N grabbed a pack of cigarettes from under the counter, walking around it and heading through the door. Tommy stood there for a moment, with his eyebrows raised in surprise. Only when Diana narrowed his eyes at him, contempt clear as day in her eyes, he rolled his own before following after Y/N.

She didn't go far, as a cloud of smoke awaited him right by the entrance, in the slightly darker side of the building. Moving closer Tommy lit his own cigarette, the air around them much different as the scenery changed. The reality heaving on his heart as he saw her hardened face.

”Y/N just let me say something, aye? If after that you decide you can't be arsed to talk to me, I'll leave.” He offered, the previous confidence and cockiness in his voice now gone. A long silence followed the echo of his low, husky tone while Tommy awaited her answer, standing nearby, yet not close enough.

Her hand was super still, eyes blank as she stared ahead for a moment.

”I simply don't understand why you're bothering me now, Shelby. It's been a couple weeks and you're suddenly back like a bloody boomerang.” Y/N made sure her voice was steady and confident as she spoke, knowing that she would be able to read her eyes, so the poor lighting was an advantage she was happily using.

He walked back and fourth a couple steps, smoking the cigarette before throwing it on the ground, stepping on it with the heel of his black, leather shoe.

”Campbell sent her to the Garrison. She came and sang, lied to us lot sayin' she's from Ireland.” Thomas finally spoke up, taking a step forward and keeping just the minimal, necessary distance he knew she needed. His eyes locked on her as best as he could in the dark, feeling her gaze as she hears his words. ”But Polly knew, saw her by the cut with 'im. Wore a hat, thought it would be enough to fool us.” a dry chuckle left his lips. ”After a couple meetings she started spilling, believed I felt the same. Kept talkin' and I needed to have the full view before the races.” The explanation slowly started.. having sense. But not enough to calm her nerves fully.

”No need to explain it all, no it's in the past.” She said, focusing on the black material of his tie, not looking at his face. ”You've had a long time to tell me, hell, to warm me you'd go 'round with a blonde on your arm, but you didn't. Now it's– not important.” Y/N said, involuntarily stuttering by the end of her sentence.

It was all... Hard. Hard on a different level. Before it all came to a head, it was all uncertain as well. He'd come, take her places or fuck her over the counter. He'd tell her things, but never enough to make it special. Keep his arm around her shoulders in the pub but never call her his. Y/N wasn't sure what was happening between them back then, but she liked it. Felt good around the man with blood on his hands and dimples in his cheeks. The casual flings turning into something she held dear to her heart, without trying to make it hard on him with confessions.

...but then she came around, taking all his attention. Leaving Y/N feeling like nothing important, like an underwhelming fuck he'd want to forget about.

Not calling, not talking, not coming to see her.

So she moved past it, and now he was back, suddenly scooting closer and getting ahold of her hands as she finished her cigarette, ripping her out of the dark thoughts.

”He was watching you. Knew about us, I couldn't risk them taking you to jail. Not after Arthur came back barely walking.” His voice was stern, more desperate now as he saw what seemed to be indifference in her eyes. ”Look at me, Y/N” He asked, quieter, and this worked.

It always did when he talked to her gently, using the soft tone he hasn't used with anyone else. So she looked, seeing the sadness in his eyes.

”I'm looking, Thomas. It's a lot.” She admitted, her teeth nipping on her lower lip nervously.

”I know.” He responded, leaning down for a better look on her eyes. ”Today were the races. I was supposed to take her with me so she'd sing all the missing bits into my ear.” Tommy added, his voice growing husky, breathing more ragged.

”Why the hell would you tell me that now?” She asked, frustrated with his weird tactics, jealousy gnawing on her throat. Thomas smiled lightly, not noticeably seeing it.

”Because I didn't take her. Made sure she's gone for good.” Y/N's eyes widened in surprise, her eyes meeting his as she searched for the truth. He was honest. Another step closed the distance between them, his firm chest pressing lightly against her own before he leaned forward, caging her between the wall. Calloused fingers gripped her chin, tilting her head up so she wouldn't look away.

Oh, how he missed the way she looked at him. These deep, expressive eyes he grew to yearn after whenever she wasn't around.

”Because when I touched her...” Tommy whispered, moving even closer. His warm breath touching her lips and chin. ”It felt like I was cheating on you.” His forehead came to rest against hers, feeling how she slightly relaxed against his body. ”I couldn't risk putting you in danger just because I so desperately need you around, Miss Y/L/N. You must forgive an old fool, eh?” His low voice slightly muffled, as his lips moved against hers in the incredibly close proximity they found themselves in.

Y/N chuckled, hearing him. The tears in her eyes remain hidden from his watchful gaze only because of the awful lighting by the pub.

”You're awful, Shelby.” She finally breathed out, leaving a small kiss, almost a peck on his lips before pushing her arms beneath his coat, wrapping them around his torso. ”Hug me, Tommy” Y/N asked quietly, touching the terrain they never explored before. The simple intimacy with no sexual undertones.

Surprisingly, Tommy couldn't imagine a better ending to this encounter as his arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her face into his neck.

Resting his chin on her head, Thomas knew he was the real winner, regardless of the race results.

[hughes-your-daddy]

showing up

pairing: hughes brothers x hughes sister reader x trevor zegras

summary: you make your broadway debut but three people are missing

finally, you’re debut of elle woods in legally blonde on broadway. you take a deep breath hearing the orchestra play the final number, ready for curtain call. you had friends and family in the audience tonight and now was the first time you would be able to see them after the show.

you hear your cue from the stage manager, before running onto the stage right front and centre hearing the audience cheer and clap. you scan the crowd spotting your mom and dad next to trevor, you burst out into a grin before noticing the three empty seats next to them.

your smile drops for a millisecond before remembering you’re in front of a crowd before you take your bow, motioning for the rest of the cast to join you in a group now before heading off stage, waving to the audience.

you make your way quickly to your dressing room trying to hold back the tears, before slamming shut the door. you can’t help but let the tears fall, mostly out of sadness but a little it out of anger. you always showed up to their events, matches, ceremonies yet they didn’t even bother showing up for your broadway debut, one night out of their whole life, that’s all you asked for.

you quickly wipe your tears, realising your still in costume and makeup before, slipping off your clothes and hanging them up. quickly slipping on some sweats and a hoodie, you sit at your vanity and quickly remove your makeup before heading down to wigs.

giving a quick smile to your wig technician, you let them take out the pins, removing your wig and mice pack before sending you off for the night.

you head back up to your dressing room, some of your friends saying congrats as you go by. you quickly pack up your stuff and slip on a coat and a woolly hat, before sliding on your backpack and heading out to see everyone.

you sign out at stage door before exiting seeing a crowd of people, who cheer at the sight of you. it brings back some happiness for you as you go along the barrier taking some pictures and signing play bills before your spot your family and trevor.

security let them pass to be with you, trevor coming over to you straight away.

“you were incredible baby.” he whispers, before he pulls away, pressing a quick kiss to your lips and holding out a bouquet of flowers for you.

“thank you.” you smile at him but by the look on his face, he knows exactly what your thinking.

“oh my little girl.” ellen coos, pulling you in for a hug followed by jim.

“hi mom, dad.” you smile, your dad holding on a bit longer.

“they wished they could have been here.” he whispers before you pull away.

“i don’t wanna talk about them.” you say, looking down before security usher you all into a cab to head back to your apartment.

“y/n honey.” ellen starts, “i booked a restaurant tonight, but would you rather us maybe get takeout?” she asks, you look up at her from your flowers sending her a small smile.

“i’m sorry.” you say tearing up. trevor’s arm tightens around your shoulders, a few silent tears falling.

“don’t be sorry sweetie, we’re so proud of you ok? i think takeout would be perfect.” jim says, a small smile appearing on your face.

“yeh, takeout sounds good.” you say giving a sad laugh.

you get to your apartment complex and jump out the cab, trevor grabbing your bag before heading up. you unlock your apartment, heading inside and dropping everything by the door. they had already dropped all their stuff off at your apartment since they were staying with you so everyone went off to get changed.

you lead trevor into your room, flopping onto the bed with a massive sigh. trevor moves across the room quickly stripping of his shirt and trousers, pulling on some sweats and a training camp tshirt, before flopping down beside you.

“you really were incredible tonight, can’t believe my baby is a broadway actress.” trevor smiles, leaning on his elbow, his other hand brushing his thumb along your cheek.

“thank you for coming.” you sigh, rolling over to bury your face in his chest. he falls back, cradling the back of your hair. yous lay like that for a few minutes, grounding each other before you pull yourself up, looking trevor in the eyes.

“why didn’t they come?” you ask and he looks at you, trying to find some words, “you don’t know.” you nod, getting up, but not moving far before a hand on your wrist stops you.

“hey baby, come here.” trevor calls, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his legs, his hands wresting on his waist. your arms move to link together behind his neck, fingers messing with the hair at the bottom of his neck.

“baby, look at me.” he taps your waist, causing you to life your eyes up to meet his.

“all i know is that they couldn’t get away from their schedules, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love you ok?” he says and you can’t find a response.

“i drop everything for them.” you quietly let out, before breaking out into tears. trevor pulls you onto his lap, rubbing circles on your back as you cry into his shoulder.

“shh, y/n, breathe for me baby.” he soothes, gently swaying you. your cries dim down to sniffles when you pull away wiping your nose, trevor’s hand coming up to wipe your cheeks.

“now give me a smile pretty girl, it’s your debut.” trevor smiles, pressing his forehead to yours, a small laugh coming out. “how about we head out, order some takeout and watch a film yeh?” he asks and you nod, getting off his lap, before wiping your eyes and taking a deep breath.

you lead him out to the living room where your parents are waiting, changed into some comfier clothes. you settle next to your mom, tucking your legs under yourself, before trevor sits next to you, arm going around your shoulders.

your dad orders the takeout, just some chinese food from a local restaurant and turning on some random film, which you end up falling asleep during, considering how tired from the show you are.

the next morning, you wake up, wrapped in trevor’s arms who’s still asleep. checking the time you see you can lounge for a little longer before having to get ready and head to the theatre.

you turn around cuddling into trevor’s chest, the movement waking him up.

“mmh, morning baby.” he says, morning voice in full effect.

“morning.” you smile, seeing his eyes flutter open and meet yours. he leans down giving you a soft kiss before pulling away and flipping yous over, so he’s on top of you.

“look whos clingy today.” you laugh, feeling him smile into your neck.

“well i’m gonna be lonely today until i see you tonight.” he mumbles, pulling his head out of your neck to rest in between your breasts.

“you have tickets for tonight right?” you ask, seeing as he booked as many nights as possible until he has to head back to anaheim.

“yes ma’am, what can i say? i’m your biggest fan.” he smiles, kissing up your neck to meet yours lips once again, pressing deeper this time for a minute before you pull away.

“as much as i love this, and you. i need to get ready.” you sigh, trevor rolling off of you to let you go.

you quickly shower, throwing on some workout leggings and one of trevor’s hoodies before packing your bag for the day including snacks and your massive water bottle.

trevor follows, also getting ready as he’s gonna explore the city whilst your gone. you walk hand in hand to the theatre, giving him all the secret food spots you love found the past couple of months living here. you get to the theatre going round the back to stage door, before he pulls you into a hug.

“i love you, good luck for tonight yeh?” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your head before your lips.

“mmh, i love you. i’ll see you later.” you smile before signing in for the day.

it’s a pretty usual day, apart from receiving some gifts for your opening night, going through vocal and physical warmups before heading for some private singing sessions.

you also do some press for the show, making some videos and tiktok’s to be uploaded before it rolls around to 5pm, meaning it’s time to get ready.

you do your wig prep, putting in pin curls and securing your wig cap before starting makeup. you make sure to powder the hell out of your base, as it was nearly coming off yesterday before finishing by with some setting spray and heading down to wigs.

they add the mic pack to your wig cap, securing the mic on your forehead before placing on the iconic blonde elle woods wig. you thank the team before heading up and getting in costume.

you continue doing some vocal warmups once in costume before hearing the beginners call, heading to stage ready for your entrance.

the show went great, possibly even better than yesterday and for the second time you’re waiting side of stage for your cue to go on for bows. you smile knowing trevor’s waiting out the for you and run on at the stage managers cue.

you smile, instantly seeing trevor in the front row, right in the middle, sending him a little wave before bowing, and motioning for the cast to join you.

that’s when you notice it.

jack, luke and quinn, sat alongside next to him. you bow as normal, not letting the audience notice your shift in emotion and head off stage once again to your dressing room.

what the fuck? showing up a day late to the biggest day of your life, it would have been better if they had just stayed home.

you do your normal routine, costume off and into comfy clothes, makeup off and wig off before going back up to your dressing room to grab your stuff to head out.

you push open your door, just to freeze in place. your three brothers stood waiting.

“y/n you were once-“ quinn starts but you stop him.

“no, no. you don’t get to just show up here after you promised you’d be here for my debut.” you say looking between each one, seeing their faces drop.

“we’re really sorry, we got caught up in new jersey.” jack says, looking down feeling very guilty.

“doing what?” you ask, crossing your arms, waiting for a reply from one of them.

“playing hockey?” luke says hesitantly, before you scoff, pushing past them to grab your stuff.

“it’s always hockey.” you say, throwing stuff into your bag, “hockey this, hockey that, hockey all the fucking time.” you shout before you give up leaning on your desk, tears falling.

“bugs, come here-“ quinn starts again and you just snap.

“stop it.” you shout turning around and pushing his hand away from your shoulder.

“you don’t get to do this,” you start, wiping your cheeks before looking at each of them, “i drop everything for you guys. i come to games, award shows, hell, i even moved my birthday because it fell on your draft jack.” you bitterly let out, watching each of them look at the ground.

“i asked for one night, that’s all. i couldn’t care if you jetted back off to wherever you need to be afterwards, i just asked for you to come see me perform, and you’d can’t even do that?” you asks, seeing luke look up, tears in own eyes.

“i love you guys yeh? your my brothers, but it makes me feel real shitty when you’re missing this stuff. to see three empty seats in the theatre when you were supposed to be there. yous didn’t even message.” you say, your voice wavering as you give up being angry at them, the sadness hits you.

“y/n im so sorry, we’re really sorry.” luke fumbles before crashing into your body, hearing him let out soft cries on your shoulder.

you freeze for a minute before wrapping your arms around your younger brother, realising how guilty he feels.

“i’m really sorry.” he keeps repeating, as you hear his breathing pick up.

“hey lukey, you gotta breathe for me.” you say softly, feeling his breathing start to match yours. you always felt closest to luke even though you were furthest away in age, being born in between quinn and jack. when he was born you instantly felt the need to protect him, from the horror of the world. now seeing him like this, you begin to feel like you were too harsh on him.

“i’m sorry, for saying that-“ you start, quinn cutting you off this time.

“no,” you hear him sniffle himself, “no apologies, what you said was true, we haven’t been here for you like we should have.” quinn says, luke pulling away to look at you.

“yeh, quinn’s right. w-we should have been here.” he says, still catching his breath. you look between him and quinn seeing the guilt in their faces, before noticing that jack hadn’t said anything.

you look over to him, seeing his head down low.

“jack? are you ok?” you ask hesitantly, seeing him lift his head up, eyes red.

“you don’t hate us do you?” he says quietly and you quickly move over to hug him tight.

“i could never, as much as yous annoy me,” you let out a small laugh, the others doing so as well, “but that doesn’t mean i’m not upset.” you say pulling away and wiping a tray tear from his cheek.

“you have every right.” jack says a sad smile on his face. you send him one back before turning to look at quinn, seeing him hands in his pockets not sure as to what to do.

“come here.” you laugh, opening your arms for quinn to hug you.

“you really were incredible,” he whispers, tightening the hug, “can’t believe my little sisters a broadway star.” he smiles, causing you to pull away and laugh.

“hey, you guys better watch out, yous aren’t the only superstars now,” you smile, the others laughing, “how about, we head back to mine and have a movie night yeh?” you ask, arm still around quinn’s shoulder.

“oh, we got you this.” quinn quickly says moving out of your hold to grab a small gift bag. you take it from him, revealing a small box.

“we each got a gift from mom and dad on our draft days. you know, me cufflinks, jack watch and luke suit. so we wanted to get you a little something.” quinn explains watching you open it to see a small necklace, a small diamond in the middle.

“wow, this is really sweet you guys.” you smile, before luke butts in.

“flip it over.” he says excitedly, you shoot him a confused look before doing as told, seeing ‘Q,J+L’ engraved on the back.

you hold back happy tears, smiling “i love, really.” you say before pulling them in for a group hug.

“but really now, we should head home, i’m so tired.” you break the hug.

they nod, luke grabbing your backpack before you make your way out, deciding to skip stage door today and head straight home.

the car ride was filled with all three of them gushing over every part of the show, before pulling up to your apartment.

you walk inside dropping your stuff at the door seeing trevor stood at the kitchen island, opening boxes of pizza.

you smile walking over, wrapping your arms around his waist.

“hiya baby.” he smiles, arms wrapping around your back, “incredible as always baby.” he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before you look up resting your chin on his chest.

“i’m gonna head to bed, i think you need this night with your brothers.” he whispers, thumbs gently rubbing up and down your back.

“thank you.” you whisper back, kissing him on the lips this time.

“i’ll be there whenever you’re ready ok?” he asks before grabbing his stuff and retreating to your room.

“pizza and movie?” you ask them, the three nodding with smiles. they quickly head off to get changed, while you take the pizzas over to the living room and setting up the tv.

they all come out, dressed in sweats and hoodies, joining you on the sofa. luke immediately joins you at your side, quinn on the other while jack lays next to luke.

luke’s head falls onto your shoulder as you feel the emotional exhaustion that he’s going through.

you bring up an arm pulling him in around his shoulders, feeling him finally relax it seems.

“i’m not angry, i promise.” you say, rubbing his back comfortingly.

“i know, i just feel guilty, it’s horrible.” he mumbles, looking down.

“i know.” you say, resting your head on top of his.

yous end up watching some disney film, completely destroying all the pizzas. luke quickly falls asleep, understandably after the last couple of hours he’s had. once the movies finished, you notice quinn has also fallen asleep, so you check jack who quickly heads to the kitchen when you look at him.

your brows furrow as you carefully peel yourself away from the other two to follow jack. you walk in seeing him leaning his hands against the counter, head down.

“jack?” you say gently, seeing him quickly look over his shoulder before turning back, wiping his face.

“oh hey bugs, just um, getting a drink.” he fumbles, looking for a glass before you stop him, hand in his wrist.

“jack, tell me what’s wrong.” you say stern but softly, causing him to turn and look at you, eyes red raw, most likely from crying and rubbing them.

“i just,” he starts taking a breath, “i feel like i failed as a brother. you know, you’re my older sister, i’ve looked up to you my whole life yet, i-i feel like i’ve been the most horrendous brother.” he breaks down right infront of you.

you immediately take him in your arms, his sobs breaking the silence through the apartment. you cradle the back of his head with one hand, the other bobbing his back as he bends down to your small figure, burying his face in your neck.

“you didn’t fail me jack, i promise.” you say, taking a minute to ground yourself before speaking, “do you know how proud i am of you?” you ask, pulling him up to look at you.

“everything you do, i couldn’t be more proud of jack and that tells me i did my job as an older sister,” you smile seeing a small appear of him face, “sure i was upset you didn’t come yesterday, but you came to see me today,” you smile, wiping his cheeks with your hoodie sleeve, “and trust me, i am very lucky to have three brothers who would do that for me.” you say, jack taking a deep breath.

“and you know how i know that you didn’t fail?” you ask and he shrugs pushing his hair back out of his face, “because you feel like this.” you say and he lets out a small laugh.

“it’s true, if yous didn’t feel guilty or sad then id know you didn’t really care but i can see that you do care, probably a little too much.” you smile, causing him to hug you again.

“we really love you y/n.” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“i love you guys too,” you smile, before untangling yourself from his arms, “but we need to blow up some beds for you guys cause mom and dad are already set up in the guest room.” you say, him nodding before following you.

he wipers his face one more time as you make it to the living room, seeing quinn stacking pizza boxes, luke laying across the couch still asleep with a blanket tucked around him.

“he’s out like a light huh?” you say, moving across to brush some curls out his face.

“thought it would be best to leave him to sleep, energise a bit for tomorrow.” quinn smiles, pulling you into a hug.

“what’s tomorrow?” you ask, moving your head to look up at him.

“i’ve booked us a full day of activities as it’s your off day tomorrow.” quinn smiles, kissing your forehead before moving to put the pizza boxes in the trash.

you move across the living room, pulling out a double blow up bed, setting the small air pump to work seeing it work.

“i’m gonna make some tea, you want any?” you ask, jack shaking his head no, before you move back through to the kitchen, seeing quinn already standing, stirring some tea.

“hiya bugs.” he smiles, taking out the spoon and holding the mug out to you. you take it with a small smile, leaning back against the counter.

“you feel guilty.” quinn says, sitting on the counter opposite you, pushing his hands into his hoodie pocket, hood up.

“yeh a little, both my younger brothers have broken down in my arms because of what i said.” you state plainly, taking a sip to break eye contact with quinn.

“it’s fine to feel guilty, but every word you said was very much justified.” quinn nods, as you feel tears spring back to your eyes.

“i didn’t even give yous a chance to explain though, like what if yous had a legitimate reason to not be here and i just exploded on yous.” you say, placing your mug down to wipe some fallen tears from your face.

“if you really want to know,” quinn says jumping down from the counter. “i flew in to newark to meet jack and luke, who hadn’t told me they were playing a match, because they forgot to speak to their coach. i didn’t come by myself because they were my ride over here.” quinn says, pulling you into his chest, “we’re all equally to blame, i could gotten the train or a taxi but i didn’t because i was being selfish, too tired from the flight.” quinn simply says as you hear him sniffle.

“i’m just glad yous are here now.” you say looking up to see some fallen tears on his face.

“me too bugs.” he smiles, kissing the top of your head again before pulling away, “but if i remember correctly, you have your boyfriend waiting oh so patiently for you to go to bed.” quinn laughs, as you pull away to pick up your mug.

“goodnight quinny.” you smile before leaving to say goodnight to jack and luke, who’s now half awake.

“hey, breakfast on me in the morning. i know a really good spot.” you smile pulling out tons of blankets and pillows for them to use.

“goodnight, love yous.” you smile as they return it before heading through to your bedroom.

you walk in seeing greys playing quietly on the tv, trevor asleep with a book laying on his chest. you smile, quickly placing your mug on the small cabinet beside your bed before walking around to his side, grabbing the remote to turn the tv off before sliding in a bookmark into his book and placing it on the cabinet beside him.

you move back around to your side of the bed, quickly stripping your clothes, leaving you in your underwear before slipping under the covers.

you cuddle up to trevor, feel him stir awake slightly

“it’s just me baby.” you whisper seeing his eyes flutter open.

“mmh, i was tryna stay awake for you.” he mumbles, pulling you closer, arms tightening around your waist.

“it’s alright.” you smile, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“how’d it go with them?” he asks, gently moving his hands up and down your back.

“good, we’re all good.” you smile, before he presses a kiss to your lips, your arms snaking around his neck.

“i love you.” he smiles into the kiss.

“i love you too.”

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Mine (All Mine)

Request: None A/N: Please enjoy some short smut and possessive!cooper. Nothing important otherwise :) Tags: Fallout, Cooper Howard, Cooper Howard x F!Reader, Cooper Howard x You, Ghoul x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-Typical language and violence, attempted SA, P in V sex, Cooper licking blood, 18+ MINORS DNI! Summary: Cooper doesn't share what's his, and he sure as hell doesn't let anyone take it by force.

Word Count: 2.4k+

(Gif Credit to @victoryrifle)

“Keep walkin’!” 

You stumble over the rusty leg irons binding your feet. The slave trader yapping in your ear proceeds to shove you once again, but you bite your tongue. 

Nothing could ever just go according to plan. 

Running low on both Vials and sustenance, you’d led a hacking Cooper into the nearest town. It was desolate, but what town wasn’t in this age? You weren’t planning on staying long anyway; you just needed to get Cooper somewhere relatively safe and barter with whoever happened to be running the pharmacy that day.

Too bad the entire town was run by Slavers, up to and including the old Mister Handy running its dingy medical outpost. You were sedated and down before the inkling to fight ever came along, left to wake up in a wood cage with your hands and feet bound. 

You went hoarse from screaming pointlessly at your captors. Your wooden prison was sat carelessly in the open, unbearable heat beating down. The whipping wind ensured that sand found its way into every crevice. There was no doubt your skin was scorched from the sun.

And they left you there, until the sun set and you could hear the roar of a raucous crowd from the town center. 

Cooper was back there somewhere, probably having hacked up a lung in the empty shell of a house you’d broken into on the outskirts of town. You were careful to board the door back up when you left, and hoped no one had retraced your steps. 

“I said move! You fuckin’ deaf?” A Slaver grabs you painfully by the ear and yanks. “Bein’ deaf drops your price.”

The other women you’re chained to - in a single file line behind you with very little slack on the chains - cower in fear. You glare at the man and decide headbutting him is the best course of action, knocking your skull into the soft part of his nose. 

“Wish I was so I didn’t have to hear you run your mouth.”

The Slaver cracks his most-likely broken nose back into place and smirks. “Maybe I’ll buy you myself. Teach you a damn lesson.”

He turns away then, letting the rest of the guards lead you down a narrow alley between two buildings. Creaky wooden stairs greet you, and you step up them without hesitation. If nothing else, you’d give the Slavers no sense of satisfaction by putting fear on display. 

The town square has been converted into a makeshift stage and audience area, where tens of people sit, stand and holler as you’re all led on stage. They all hold small signs with numbers, and it doesn’t take you long to realize it’s an auction. 

They start with the woman farthest to your left, yelling out how many caps they deemed her worthy of. It continues down the row until the auctioneer, who you realize had four eyes total on his face, stops in front of you. 

“Mint condition, this one is.” He yells into the crowd and slaps a firm hand onto your shoulder. “How many caps for her?”

You try to keep up with the people throwing numbers out, but there’s too many faces and not enough ambient light to see them all. Eventually the auctioneer moves away, and you’re left to stand there. The other women are given the same treatment, until each of them is labeled with a price and effectively sold to the highest bidder. 

The auctioneer makes an announcement about cap exchange as the crowd is dissipating, but you’re still bound in chains. Your eyes dart around, looking for any unbecoming figures that come towards you. Men meet with the auctioneer one by one, and are slowly allowed to leave with their prizes. The women are a mix of cryers and defiers, some simply accepting their fate with tears in their eyes while others scream and thrash as they’re dragged off. 

You look to the auctioneer when it’s only you left, trying to figure out what was going on. One slaver makes his way to you, grabbing at the iron cuffs  to unlock them. 

“Nah, man. Leave her cuffed.”

The slaver in front of you grins at the one who’d spoken. Coincidentally, the same whose nose you’d broken minutes ago. He steps into your field of view, and you realize he wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d buy you. Ice-cold terror flows through your veins at the helplessness of being cuffed, but you refuse to show it.

“Nasty, huh? Just how I like 'em’.”

Broken Nose grabs you by the collar and yanks you close enough that you can smell the teeth rotting out of his mouth. “Oh, I’m gonna like it. That’s for sure.”

In what is probably a poor choice, you spit in his face. Just like the headbut, it was impulsive and split-second. You don’t regret it, but you realize it’s not a great idea. Regardless, you weren’t about to go down without a fight. 

Unfortunately for you, now he’s not worried about damaging goods before a sale. The slaver backhands you, and the force sends you tumbling to the ground. You’re struggling to your hands and knees, tangled in ridiculously long chains and fumbling with your cuffs. Broken Nose kneels in front of you and grabs you by the neck. 

“Need a lesson in manners, huh?” He growls. 

You take your first good look at him. He’s probably ten years older than yourself, with yellowing teeth and greasy black hair that hangs in a stringy manner around his face. The bridge of his nose is bruised, yellow and purple all over. Dried blood is still caked around his mouth. 

“Fuck you.” 

He finally snaps, and grabs a hold of the chains. You’re dragged off the stage and pushed into the darkness of the alleyway. One fist latches into your hair, and the other replaces itself around your throat. 

“We’ll start here.” He shakes you, bringing your face within centimeters of his. “When I say something, you fuckin’ listen!” 

You’re on the ground before you know it, and large hands grab at the old leather belt around your waist. You kick and thrash to the best of your ability while bound, screaming like a banshee. The slaver manages to pin you down and crawl over top, one hand fumbling with the zipper of his pants while the other holds your cuffed wrists down. The sound of belts jangling encourages you to fight more, and you thrash upwards. He might be bigger than you, but he’s a sloppy fighter and lets one of your wrists slip free. 

Without hesitation, you swing the iron cuff and chain as hard as you can into his face. 

“Agh! You’re a dead bitch, you know that?” He stumbles to the side, leaning against a building for support and clutching his now-bleeding forehead. His pants hang loose, dirty boxers on display.

You’re on your back, covered in both your blood and his. Your chest heaves, and you stare down your would-be assaulter. 

“Y’know, I missed that last exchange.” A familiar drawl echoes from the back of the alley. “You mind repeatin’ it, boy?”

The Slaver snorts. “You want some? Go ahead and try. She’d be better off in the fuckin’ ground.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d have to try.” Spurs clank down the empty alleyway from behind you, “Somethin’ tells me she’d come willingly.”

The Ghoul stands firm in his place, hand hovering over his gun like an old western standoff. Your head drops to the ground in relief. The slaver, though, looks more and more irritated by the moment. He glares at the Ghoul who’s now only a few feet behind you.

“Fuckin’ ghoul.” Broken Nose growls, and pulls a pistol. “Why don’t you get lost?”

Cooper takes a few more steps forward, sidestepping your body. The Slaver keeps the gun level with him. “‘Fraid I can’t do that.”

“Oh yeah?” The slaver gestures wildly with his pistol. “Why’s that?”

The Ghoul darts forward like a puma, ducking the shot that’s fired at him. You see a knife glint in the dim light, and hear it cut through flesh. 

“‘Cause nobody touches what’s mine.”

A flash of heat shoots through you in spite of the circumstances. You watch Broken Nose fall to the ground, barely alive as blood gushes from a gash across his neck. Cooper’s knife drops from his hand, falling to blood-stained dirt. He turns to you slowly. 

“You alright?”

He’s covered in blood, obviously pissed off, and has never been more attractive. 

“Fantastic.” You breathe. The fiery determination and blatant possessiveness on display by the Ghoul shoot bolts of want straight to your cunt. 

The Ghoul steps over Broken Nose’s legs to get to you. His eyes are dark, but do a once over to check you for injuries. 

“He touch you?” Cooper’s drawl is thick. So much so that it almost twists his words into a snarl. 

You push yourself to sit up. “Not anywhere delicate.”

Cooper hums and uses your chains to pull you up. Your legs are sore from kicking, and arms raw from the cuffs. “Whatta ‘bout this?”

You look down as he reaches to you and fiddles with the unfastened belt. His hands linger at the button of your jeans, tugging at the fabric. 

“Oh, he tried.” You shiver as Cooper’s fingers  dance over the skin of your stomach. “But I wouldn’t let him.”

His leather gloves fist into your shirt and yank you close. You trip over the chains and fall into his chest. 

“Damn right.” His breath washes over your ear. “Nobody touches you like that but me.”

You’d be lying if you said wetness didn’t gather between your legs faster than a speeding bullet. Cooper’s eyes jotted town towards your dangling belt once more before he used your bounds to spin you back against the wall. One of his knees jammed between your thighs, and his hands landed heavily on either side of your head. 

You wet your lips as he hovers mere centimeters away. The Ghoul’s eyes are transfixed on your chest and stomach, where your white tank top is bared and covered in red stains. He lowers a hand to brush up your stomach, between your breasts and through rivulets of crimson. It’s immediately stuck into his mouth, and you moan shakily as his tongue darts out to taste your attacker’s blood. 

Cooper turns his head and spits. “Slavers always taste foul.” 

You readjust yourself on his knee to send pleasant waves of heat to your core. “Cooper Howard?”

He looks down at you, hat brim drawn low on his brow and desire burning bright in his eyes. There’s a bulge visible just below his belt that makes you salivate. 

“What could you possibly want, darlin’?” His marred face leans in close, lips brushing your ears. Teeth nip at your earlobe, “Couldn’t be to fuck right here in the open where you was attacked by some other fella, now is it?”

Now, you know that sentence should give you pause. 

However, this world is fucked beyond belief. 

You whimper out your answer, and the Ghoul continues his steady ministrations down your neck and in that sensitive spot behind your ear. With your hands bound, you can’t do much more than tangle your fingers in his shirt and hold. 

When he resurfaces, your neck is wet with saliva and sweat.

“I’ll take care of you, babydoll.” He purrs. “Right here, right now. You just gotta do one thing for me.”

You fist your hand in his shirt, but are surprised to find the cuffs slipping away after he fumbles with them for a moment. A quick glance shows him pocketing a key, but you’re too worked up to focus on one thing for too long. 

“What do I gotta do?”

You really don’t mean to sound so desperate, but something about Cooper always has you heated and dripping as soon as he initiates anything intimate. 

“Just tell me.” He grunts as you tug at his belt with newly freed hands. “Who do you belong to?”

Oh, you’re fucked.

“You. Fuck, I belong to you.” You gasp as you free him from his pants. “I want you to use me to get off.”

A scarred hand wraps tight around your neck and forces your head upwards. “Damn straight.”

It takes no time to yank your pants low enough for him to enter you. You’ve flipped so your front side is pinned to the building, legs spread. Cooper takes long, slow thrusts at first before picking up the pace. Large, strong hands hold your hips steady. You brace yourself with your hands, moaning in time with his thrusts. He’s stable throughout, only growling pet names into your ear when you let out a whine. The Ghoul begins to stagger when he’s close, and it’s not long before you feel his release coating your walls and dripping out onto the dirt. 

You don’t realize how unstable and sore your legs are until he’s sliding out of you, filthy noises following. His cock pulses against your swollen slit before you fully collapse. 

“Easy now.” Cooper catches you, one hand attempting to fasten himself back into his jeans, “Seems that we gotta go back to camp, huh?”

Your mind is alight with want for him, and you whine in his absence. “Coop, please.”

“Oh no need to beg, sugar.” He fixes your pants as well, “I plan on taking good care of you when we get there.”

Back at camp, he fulfills his promise and more. 

You beg and plead for your release, and it’s granted with enthusiasm. 

And after it’s done, you both ache for sleep, to rest sore muscles and heal new bruises. Some from fights, and others from passion. A blanket of stars coerces you to shut your eyes, and you’re helpless to resist. This night could have ended much differently - namely, with a bullet in your head- so you think about how grateful you are to have the legendary Ghoul at your side, protecting you on your shared journey for the truth. Willing to fight through his own suffering and dependencies to keep you safe in spite of his rocky exterior. 

You like to think he’s a big teddy bear, but you didn’t dare put it out into the world while in his vicinity.

The thoughts are fleeting, and you fall into oblivion while tucked into the side of vengeance itself. It’s a place many others, even in this hellscape of a Wasteland, wouldn’t dare to get near. 

The big, bad Ghoul.

And he’s all mine.

thanks for reading, much love ❤

Read More: Fallout Masterlist

[doe-eyeddreamgirl]

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐆𝐔𝐘

Benjicot Blackwood x reader

Ben was known for his brutality, receiving the name Bloody Ben from his opponents, but in your hands, he turns to putty. 💌 Based on a tiktok I saw where Ben was shy in the books

Looking that good while swinging a sword is cruel.

It’s borderline criminal how his biceps flex when he lurches forward. The way his eyes glint when he sees the first drop of blood and the absolute beast he becomes when he strikes down on his opponent sends a shiver down your spine.

Lowly grunts fly from Benjicot’s mouth countering his rival’s loud groans. The sound of metal clashing vibrates through the open air, atmosphere. Despite the fighting happening at the moment, it is clear to see that Ben is the better fighter— his harsh blows and agility unmatched. One last exchange has Ben’s foot flying to the center of his competitors armored chest, sending him flopping backwards straight onto his ass.

Applauds were immediate from the small crowd that had formed around the sparring match.

Underneath the attention, Ben flushes, waving at those around him embarrassedly.

You grin, heart full as Ben stares at his feet, approaching the steps where you reside. Leaning against the railing, looking down at him, you can’t help the taunt that slides off your tongue, like poison disguised honey. “Good job, Benny.”

His doe eyes look up at from the steps, the sweetness of your voice easing the tremble in his bones from his post-fight high. Boys have had their jaws broken for using that nickname, but he would never do that to you. Not you. Never you.

When you say it, it makes his blood run hot underneath his skin. Just being in your presence is a thrill, ten times over when compared to fighting. Trying to respond, he clears his throat, hand clenching the handle of his sword as he tries to untangle his tongue and respond to you without making a proper fool of himself. “I— thank you, uh, my lady.”

Ben clamps his eyes shut in shame.

Hunming melodically, you take a peak at the swarms of people behind you, chatting idle. As most know, hesitation was not in your nature. Without a second thought, you snag an empty pail of water. Taking a step down to become eye level, you tilt your head innocently, shaking the bucket on your wrist. “Would you mind escorting me to the well? I’m supposed to fetch some water and I’d much prefer not to do it alone.”

“Oh,” he says, almost disappointed by your offer. At least he gets to hang out with you! he thinks. When you raise a calculated brow, your words dawn on him. “Ohh, of course, my lady,” he blushes, offering an arm.

Your hand grips the meat of his bicep as you saunter past his beaten opponents and warriors unto the path to the woods. The walk isn’t far, daylight guiding your way to the tree line rather than a lantern on your wrist.

Sneaking around with Benji was becoming commoner and commoner. His presence shifting from a want to a need.

As you grow older, the risk of you two being betrothed to another becomes slimmer, seeing as your parents had solidified their place in his court so any rumors that may circulate your virtue no longer mind you.

The silence is comfortable as the pair of you are overtaken by a forest of dark green. Branches snap underneath your feet. Ahead you see two noble women talking together, and walking your way. When they walk past you, they giggle.

One look at Ben and you can see his anticipation rising— his cheeks flushed red, finger rhythmically tapping against his steel chest, and the swift glimpses he takes at the side of your face.

“We’re not alone,” you snide. Benji’s eyebrows furrow and he shoots a look behind him. He opens his mouth to refute, but the words are swallowed by your tongue when you grip his chin and pull him closer.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t restrain the whimper that shrivels up his throat. His hands fumble against your soft skin as your hands push his chest, his back slapping against the bark of a tree.

While your tongue fights for dominance, Benji’s fights to get the taste of you out of your own mouth.

There’s something so addictive about you that Ben doesn’t quite understand. He had felt this way his entire life yet he had only just began to have the grace of kissing you this year.

A stupid part of his thought it would dim this overwhelming feeling to be near you, sedate the heart which you had already stolen, but instead, it heightened it.

Courage, similar to the one he gets from alcohol— when he first was brave enough to kiss you — powers him to grip the curve of your waist and slam your body into his. Your moan encourages him to flip you, your back pressing into the tree.

His hand finds a way under your skirt and the pads of his fingers dig into your exposed thigh, pulling it to meet with his hip bone. He doesn’t want any space between you. He wants you two to be one. Forever intertwined. He really needed to propose your betrothal.

He smells like moon water, blood, and sweat. It only makes you tug his hair harder.

Not far from you, a throat clears.

As your heart momentarily stops, Benji’s lips are separated from yours in an instant.

A boy not much younger than you, awkwardly stands, his cheeks pink with embarrassment for coming across your endeavor.

Before you can blink and before the boy can even speak, Ben has the tip of his sword to his throat, the edge of the silver pressed onto his Adam’s apple. “Get the fuck out of here,” Benjicott sneers, “Or do I have to make you?”

Shaking with fear, the boy shakes his head, eyes wide like a deer and dashing like one when the sword is off his throat and seethed back into Ben’s holster.

Then, he turns to you, a cocky smile on his lips as his hands move to grip your hips. “Now, where were we?”

Giggling, your hand pushes his cheek away from your face, making him stumble in his footing. He pouts, watching as you step off the tree and pull a leaf from your skirt. You tilt your head at the leaf before giddily biting your lip and pulling Ben back in by the collar. His eyes light up, expecting another kiss, but when he closes his eyes, all he feels is your fingers filtering through his hair.

His eyes flutter open when you smack a wet kiss on his cheek. Ben watches you walk away, skirt swaying. Leaves crunch underneath you as you continue down the dirt path to the well, basket throttling in your arm as you disappear and reappear between trees. Dumbly, he touches the spot where you kissed him.

The tip of his finger catches a crunch by his ear. Swiftly, he grabs the object. The leaf looks small and withered in his palm. He can only imagine how much of an idiot he looked like with a brown leaf tucked in his hair— the same space where you usually bury his gifted flowers in your own hair.

“Come on, Benny!” you call out, your sultry eyes finding him from just a glance over your shoulder.

Ben is quick to follow because who is he to oppose you?

ima be honest, i don’t what the fuck this is. this shit is so bad

not edited or proofread ❌ lowkey i refuse to believe in Davos Blackwood so…

Had this in my drafts. Leave me alone if this makes you want to throw up.

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 006. the phenomenologist.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: they exchange emails. i repeat. they exchange. emails!!! potential double update because the next part is 80% finished, hehe <3 i also wrote this chapter when i was on painkillers (and i still man) so if i sound like a DUMBASS in some parts i. it was not on purpose i swear. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Lunchtime rush has taken over the cafeteria. You sit tucked into a corner with Kira and Ilias, your tray pushed halfway aside, your drink sweating onto the wood between you.

Kira’s been nursing her tea for the past ten minutes, eyes half-closed, listening more than speaking. Her food sits untouched. Ilias, meanwhile, is attacking his fries like they insulted his ancestors. There’s a kind of intensity to it—surgical, almost reverent.

“Did they change the oil in these?” he mutters. “They taste like shit.”

You glance at him. “Then stop eating them?”

“Don’t tell me how to process pain.”

Kira snorts.

A clatter near the door draws your attention—trays, muffled apologies, the scuffle of shoes against tile. You glance over. Mydei and Phainon stand just inside, scanning the crowded room with the mild disappointment of people who’ve made peace with the fact that they’re not going to find a quiet spot.

There are no empty tables left.

Mydei catches your eye first. His gaze holds yours, half a question in it. Before you can think better of it, you lift your hand slightly in a wave and gesture to the open space on the bench beside you.

“There’s space here,” you say.

Phainon perks up like a dog hearing its leash jingle. He nudges Mydei forward with the edge of his tray, clearly done pretending to be patient.

“You’re sure?” Mydei asks, already sliding toward the end of the bench without waiting for a response.

Kira shifts slightly to make room, offering Mydei a small smile. “You’re not usually out here.”

You glance between them. “You guys know each other?”

“We share a class,” Phainon says, almost too quickly. “Philosophy.”

“Oh,” you say. “That sounds… interesting.” 

Kira stifles a laugh, shrugging. “It’s not that bad. Once you get past the dread.”

“We had to spend an entire week arguing whether perception is a primary act or a constructed one,” Mydei adds, glancing up. “Phainon wrote his midterms in poetic verse.”

“He rhymed ‘intentionality’ with ‘banality,’” Kira says.

“And you gave it a B,” he points out.

“She peer-reviewed it,” Mydei says, jerking her chin toward Kira.

You blink. “Wait—students grade each other?”

Kira nods, twirling the packet between her fingers. “Sometimes. It’s part of the methodology. Subjectivity and all that.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No, ontology sounds fake,” Phainon says without missing a beat.

“They sit behind me,” Kira says, “and keep having whispered debates over whether Merleau-Ponty would’ve survived group work.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Phainon says, solemn.

Mydei picks at the corner of his sandwich. “He might’ve thrived.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t mind them talking behind you?”

Kira shrugs. “I correct them when they’re wrong.”

“He finds it sport,” Mydei murmurs, flicking his straw wrapper at Phainon.

“I would die for neither of them,” Kira adds after a moment, “but I would cite them.”

“High praise,” Phainon murmurs, looking genuinely touched.

There’s a beat of quiet, the kind that usually signals someone’s about to break into a joke—except Ilias doesn’t. He’s staring at Kira like she’s hung up the moon, eyes soft, brow faintly furrowed in something like awe. 

You glance at him, then back at her. She’s busy poking at the ice in her drink, oblivious.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re hypnotized.”

“I am not,” he says, way too quickly.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m… admiring her academic rigor,” he adds weakly.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” 

Ilias groans and hides behind the menu. Kira, still completely unaware, crunches a piece of ice and asks if anyone wants to split dessert.

You're about to say yes, please, when a shadow falls across the table.

A flicker of awareness down your spine. Some instinctive ripple that tenses your shoulders before your mind even catches up.

You feel it before you see him.

Your head turns—too fast, on reflex. Eyes already landing on the figure passing between tables.

Professor Anaxagoras.

Your heart kicks once, too high in your chest. He’s not in his usual long coat. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, collar slightly open, and the book in his arm looks worn at the edges. The woman walking beside him—elegant, composed, and unknown to you—matches his stride like they’ve been walking in step for years.

She moves like a dream you only half-remember—gliding by his side, wrapped in soft earth-toned fabric that shimmers faintly when the light catches it, like morning mist through tree branches. Her voice, low and melodic, curls around her shoulders, spilling down her back in lazy waves, pinned with something that’s shaped suspiciously like gold-tipped antlers, and her scent—something like old paper and wildflowers—lingers long after she’s gone. There’s a stillness to her, a gravity that pulls your attention without ever asking for it. She doesn’t need to raise her voice or call for silence—she could just look up, and the room would fall into reverent hush. And when her mouth moves, you almost forget that she—

Ilias lets out a low whistle under his breath, not loud, but pointed. “Damn.” Kira glares at him.

You don’t respond. Can’t, for a moment.

Anaxagoras walks past without pausing, the conversation between him and the woman low and self-contained. You catch a word or two—nothing sharp, nothing you could hold on to. 

“Who was that?” Kira murmurs, eyes still following their backs.

Phainon, who hadn’t seemed particularly alert, straightens faintly. “Cerces,” he says, tone low but certain. “She used to guest lecture. Phenomenology.”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “She was supposed to take a position here last year. Didn’t.”

It starts like a pinprick, something almost too small to name. 

You glance toward the table where they’ve just sat—tucked near the back, partially shielded by a wooden column. 

She’s speaking, but her tone is too quiet, and Anaxagoras doesn’t look like he’s listening, so much as… enduring.

A slight shifting in your chest, a tensing in your jaw. Your gaze drifts—too often, too long—toward the corner table where Anaxagoras sits with her. Cerces.

Kira murmurs. “Are they… friends?”

“Not unless you count hostility as a form of bonding,” Mydei says without looking up.

“They hate each other?” Ilias asks.

“They disagree on principle,” Mydei replies. “She called his lecture on spatial memory ‘a diluted myth disguised as hypothesis’ once.” 

Phainon lifts his head slightly, blinking at the table. “Is that not flirting?”

You give him a look. 

Ilias snorts at your reaction.

Phainon shrugs, resting his head on his arms again. “Just saying.”

Anaxagoras isn’t smiling. Cerces never does, apparently. 

You glance back over to the corner booth, where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, barely exchanging words but clearly in some sort of intense standoff. She speaks with measured precision, and Anaxagoras listens—almost too intently.

Like he’s hanging on her every word.

For some reason, you can’t stop looking. You’re not sure why, but something about it bothers you. Anaxagoras, as unreachable as he is, sitting with someone else like that—it doesn’t sit well.

(Why doesn’t it sit well?)

You don’t even notice how your gaze hardens until Ilias speaks up.

“I thought you were the only one he bantered with,” he says suggestively, though there’s a sharp edge to his voice. It’s off-hand, but the tone feels pointed.

You snap your attention back to him, eyes flicking to Ilias, then to Kira, and finally to Mydei, who’s still half-focused on his andwich. It’s not what he says—it’s how it feels, like he’s digging his finger into a gaping wound in your chest.

“What?” you say, the word coming out a little more defensive than you’d like. "What do you mean?"

Ilias raises an eyebrow, eyes gleaming with a bit of mischief, but he looks like he’s holding back a comment. “Oh, nothing. Just that—well, I thought it was kind of your thing with him, y’know?”

Logically, of course, it’s not just you. It never was. Anaxagoras is a professor, and a professional one at that. He interacts with plenty of people. You were never the only one. But why does it bother you so much now? Why does seeing him there with Cerces feel like something you were supposed to have? Hell, you’ve only been his student for a couple weeks.

Then, from behind you, Phainon’s voice breaks the silence, casually chiming in. “You know, you and Anaxagoras would be a good match.”

Your head snaps around to him, eyes wide, caught completely off guard. You try to catch your breath, but your heart suddenly seems to be beating a little too fast. What did he mean by that? The words feel heavy in your chest, but you can’t quite explain why. You shake your head, trying to brush it off, but you can’t stop the small pang of unease that bubbles up.

Mydei, sitting beside Phainon, glances at him sharply, narrowing his eyes, but the clueless guy keeps munching on his food, completely unaware. 

Ilias brightens. “That’s what I’ve been saying!” 

Kira, meanwhile, shifts in her seat, a thoughtful smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “I can see it, actually,” she says, leaning toward you and giving you a look that’s half-encouraging, half-teasing. “You two would have that whole academic rivalry thing going on. Very couple energy.”

Her smirk grows as she watches you react. The comment is light, but you can feel the sting of it.

And of course, Ilias adds to it. His grin is too wide, too knowing. “Late-night debates and discussions on the meaning of the universe... sounds like a dream weekend to me.”

Your pulse picks up speed at the thought, and suddenly, you’re on edge, wondering why this is even a thing now. Your mind races with thoughts that you can’t quiet: why is it bothering you? Why is it bothering you this much?

Is it bothering you? 

You shift in your seat, trying to keep your face neutral, but the flush creeping up your neck betrays you. “It’s not like that,” you mutter, your words defensive, even to your own ears. You don’t know why you feel so worked up.

Ilias notices the shift in your tone, the subtle defensiveness in your voice. His grin widens, and he leans forward, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s stirred up.

You’re too aware of the heat rising in your face. “I’m not—” you snap, perhaps a little too sharply. “You’re being illogical. We’re students, he’s a professor. Our professor. And he’s not even my type—”

Ilias, clearly enjoying this, leans back in his seat with a dramatic flourish, one hand raised as if making a grand announcement. “You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I think I’ve figured it out.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Figured what out?”

“You.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air for just a moment, before leaning in closer, his grin mischievous. “I don’t think it’s Professor Anaxagoras himself. Oh no, no, no. You’ve fallen victim to something far worse.”

You cross your arms, giving him an exasperated look, but choosing to play along. “And that is?”

“You’ve fallen for his mind,” Ilias says, lowering his voice as if he’s revealing some deep, untold secret. “That black hole of academia. The more you resist, the more it pulls you in. You, my friend, are powerless against the seductive pull of his— of his lectures!” He pauses for dramatic effect, letting the silence linger. “It’s inevitable. You’re already caught in his gravitational field.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face, but it’s hard when he looks so pleased with himself. “Ilias, you really need to stop watching sci-fi movies. You’re starting to sound like—”

He ignores you, continuing on in full dramatic flair. “I’m telling you, it’s like you’re destined for this. Like some tragic hero—fated to fall for the untouchable professor.”

You squint at him. “Ilias—”

“Star-crossed lovers, of course that’s what you are.” He raises his hand dramatically, as if making a proclamation. “The one who must suffer in silence, tortured by their own growing attraction while the object of their affection remains completely oblivious!”

You stare at him, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Okay, Romeo, calm down. I’m not falling for anyone, especially not Anaxagoras. He’s our professor.”

“Oh, please,” Ilias scoffs, flipping his fries around on his plate. “That’s the classic denial phase. It’s always like this. First, it’s ‘He’s a professor, this isn’t real,’ and then it’s ‘Oh no, I’m just interested in his intellectual prowess.’ And the next thing you know, you’re writing him anonymous love ;letters about the meaning of life.”

You choke on your drink. “What?!”

Ilias leans back smugly, clearly relishing your reaction. “That’s the part I’m really looking forward to,” he says, completely unbothered by the chaos he’s creating. “The dramatic confessions of forbidden love. You’ll be at the front of the lecture hall, staring at him with those eyes—the ones you don’t even realize you’re doing—until one day, you slip and—bam!—an accidental ‘—Because I love you!’ in the middle of a class discussion.”

You nearly spit your drink out at the absurdity of it all. “Oh my God, Ilias, shut up. That is not—”

“Oh, it will happen,” he says confidently, nodding like he’s just cracked the code of your life. “I can see it now. ‘Professor Anaxagoras, I can’t live without your...philosophical insights...’"

Your face burns even more now, and you throw a napkin at him. “You are insufferable.”

Ilias catches it mid-air and theatrically wipes his brow, pretending to be exhausted by the sheer drama of his own predictions. “Oh, I know. But it’s all part of my genius,” he says smugly. “You’ll thank me when you end up in a tangled, academic love triangle involving forgotten artifacts and ancient texts.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “Not gonna happen.”

“You say that now,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ll be here when it all goes down. You’ll come crawling to me for advice on how to handle the tension.”

You eyes automatically glance over at the table where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, and without meaning to, your stomach tightens just a little. 

Ilias notices the shift in your expression immediately, his grin widening again. “Oh! What’s this? A little moment of clarity? I can feel it! Your heart’s racing, isn’t it?”

“No,” you mutter, looking away quickly, but the playful glint in his eyes makes you want to strangle him.

“You can’t hide it forever, my friend,” he says, tapping his finger against the table. “The romance is coming. The fated love between the professor and the student, like something out of a tragic novel. And when it happens? Oh, I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”

Kira, who’s been quietly listening to the whole exchange, smiles at Ilias in that quiet, amused way she does. For a moment, her eyes are soft, entranced by his antics.

Ilias doesn’t notice, of course. He’s too busy reveling in the thought of his own brilliance. “And when you’re finally ready to confess, I’ll be there. Right behind you, cheering you on. I’ll be your emotional support coach. Don’t worry.”

You groan, slumping forward. “Please stop.”

“Fine, fine.” Ilias leans back, clearly not done but pretending to be. “But you know the truth, deep down.” He lowers his voice to a whisper again. “You’re already halfway there. And when the sparks fly... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You fight to keep the smile off your face, but it’s impossible. “You’re unbelievable.”

Phainon, who’s been slumped halfway over his tray like a cat napping in a sunbeam, lifts his head at last, amused. He says lazily, “Ilias managed to build an entire three-act tragedy in the time it took me to finish my sandwich. I’m surprised.”

“Don’t encourage him,” you say flatly.

Phainon ignores you. “So what’s the title? Ode to a Lecture Hall Affair? Or A Treatise on Yearning, Featuring Poor Life Choices?”

“I like that second one,” Mydei says, without looking up. “Could be a bestseller if it comes with footnotes.”

Ilias snaps his fingers at both of them. “Finally. Some cultured taste.”

“You’re literally projecting an academic romance onto the person least likely to pursue such a thing.” Mydei deadpans, still not looking up.

“That’s how all the best ones start,” Ilias says with a wink. “Tragic self-denial. Emotional repression. That’s the good stuff. You think I want this story to be healthy?”

Phainon tilts his head at you, tone suddenly a little too calm. “So. Do you like Naxie?”

You nearly choke. “What?! No— …N- Naxie?” 

“Mm,” Phainon hums, as if making a mental note, completely ignoring the question in your tone. “That sounded like a lie.”

You sit up straighter, voice too quick. “It’s not a lie. I don’t have feelings for him.”

Ilias finally looks up with a beaming smile. “You only get that loud when you're trying to convince someone, and in this case, it is yourself!” 

“I am not loud,” you snap. “And I am not trying to convince myself of anything. There is nothing to convince myself of.”

“You’re so flustered right now it’s almost poetic,” Ilias says, grinning ear to ear. “Like watching  tower of logic collapse in real time. It’s beautiful.”

Mydei hums thoughtfully. “I wonder what Anaxagoras would say if he heard this.”

You freeze, throwing your head back to look at his table.

 Kira bites back a laugh. Ilias gasps dramatically.

“Oh please,” he says, clutching his chest like he’s just been shot. “If he heard this? He’d probably just blink in ancient Greek and then spend fifteen minutes dissecting the philosophical implications of desire as a failed mode of cognition.”

Phainon wheezes, practically howls at that, “And- and he’d do the thing,” he adds, his voice breathless, “Where he raises an eyebrow and smirks at you and then pauses for exactly four seconds.”

Kira giggles quietly. Ilias points like he’s struck gold, practically screams— “Exactly! The pause! The man weaponizes silence like it’s part of the syllabus.”

As if on cue, from the other side of the room, Anaxagoras shifts slightly in his seat—one subtle glance cast toward your table, recognizing the voice. Not long. Just a flicker of movement, but it’s enough. His eyes land on Ilias—still half-mid-monologue—then slide to you. 

He nods in acknowledgement. 

You nod back.

He smirks.

 And looks away.

Cerces doesn’t glance over. She sits serene and unaffected, like her presence was never meant to interact with the world around her.

You’re too aware of the sharp prickle under your skin. You feel wrecked, utterly wrecked, even after he looks away.

Ilias notices. Of course he does.

Your eyes widen at his face, and you contemplate dragging his drama-ridden soul into the nearest chalk circle and trapping him there with nothing but an introductory ethics textbook and a looping recording of Anaxagoras’ driest lecture on epistemological drift.

Or maybe you'd just pin him to a whiteboard and force him to define “romantic projection” in front of the class while Kira holds up increasingly incriminating flashcards titled Things You’ve Said Out Loud.

 “You’re not even subtle,” you mutter, eyeing him like you’re mentally selecting a power drill.

Ilias grins, unbothered. “Subtlety is for people who don’t have prophetic insight.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrects, reaching for another fry with the smugness of someone who just cast a match into a very flammable bush.

You make a low noise, possibly a groan, possibly the sound of his spirit exiting his body. “If you keep talking,” you say without lifting your head, “I will hex your shoes to squeak every third step.”

“I’ll do it,” Mydei says. 

Ilias throws his hands up. “You’re all just mad because I’m right.”

You glare at him. “I’m mad because you’re loud.”

Ilias points at you like he’s presenting a final thesis. “And yet—flushed cheeks. Shifty glances. Heightened vocal pitch.” He sets his hands down with finality, attitude dripping in his gaze. “The data is there. I’m merely analyzing it.”

Kira sips from her drink with the serene expression of someone watching a documentary on slow-burning disasters. “I think you should be very afraid,” she tells him lightly, smiling. “I think they’re planning your downfall.”

“Please,” Ilias says, waving a hand. “If they wanted me gone, I’d already be framed for something weirdly specific.” He raises his voice for the rest of the table, almost announcing, “Don’t be surprised if I wake up one morning and am suddenly framed for impersonating a tenured professor in order to smuggle a haunted relic into the archives!” 

Before Ilias can spiral into another dramatic reenactment of his imaginary academic crimes, a quiet hush rolls over the table.

You look up.

Professor Anaxagoras.

He stands just behind Ilias, hands folded neatly behind his back, a ghost of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth like he’d been standing there long enough to hear something he shouldn’t have. His gaze flicks briefly over the group, then settles on you—warm, sharp, and startlingly direct.

“I must admit,” he says lightly, voice like dry parchment curling in a fireplace, “that’s disturbingly plausible.”

Kira makes a sound—half choke, half squeak—and Ilias nearly drops his drink. Mydei straightens just slightly. Phainon blinks up at Anaxagoras like he’s not entirely convinced he’s real.

You forget how to breathe.

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow at you in mild inquiry. “When are you turning in your application?”

Your confusion must show, because his brow lifts just a fraction higher, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He waits.

You blink. “I’m not applying. Professor.”

It’s quiet for a beat too long.

His eyes widen—only slightly, but enough to notice. Then something more subtle shifts in his expression, as if the air around him has rearranged itself. He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing just a fraction. Then—unexpectedly—he smiles.

Not the cold, amused smile he offers to half-baked arguments in lecture, or the small polite one he reserves for administrative nonsense.

This one feels different. Quiet. Introspective. Like you’ve said something that has genuinely surprised him.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” he says, addressing the table but looking only at you. “A word.”

Kira glances at you, and Ilias makes a dramatic slicing motion across his throat like he’s already composing your eulogy. Phainon props his chin on his hands, watching with all the intensity of a wildlife observer about to witness a rare predator interaction.

Your heart kicks up hard, then stumbles.

 You stand slowly.

“Sure,” you say, not sure at all.

Anaxagoras steps aside, letting you pass, his presence folding into the space beside you with such unassuming weight that the rest of the world suddenly feels quiet.

Behind you, Ilias mutters, “He pulled the ‘a word’ move! I’m going to eat this fry solemnly, in case it’s the last one I ever share with them.”

Kira shushes him with a swat.

You walk just a few paces before he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

“You’re not applying,” he repeats. Not a question. A repetition for clarity. For the sake of confirming it aloud.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m not. I was never going to.”

That gets his attention. His eyes cut back to you, something almost imperceptibly shifting in his posture. “No?”

“Studies on consciousness isn’t my field of study,” you say, level. “And I’m not interested in pretending it is for the sake of a symposium.”

He considers that, expression unreadable. “A reasonable position. If a narrow one.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “I’m not sure being selective with my time is narrow.”

“Selective,” he echoes mildly. “Or avoidant?”

You exhale through your nose. “I just don’t see the value in wasting my time on something I don't care about in a symposium I don’t want to attend.”

He tilts his head. “Cerces is one of the most rigorous thinkers in the field. Even those outside her discipline benefit from her lens.”

You squint at him, not bothering to mask the skepticism in your tone. “I thought you didn’t agree with her methods.”

There’s the briefest pause, the lightest shift in his expression. Then, without missing a beat:  

“Disagreement doesn’t preclude respect.”

“Right,” you say flatly. “That’s what everyone says about their academic rivals.”

His mouth twitches at that—barely. “Have you been reading up on me?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in tone. His voice is playful—but there’s a glint of challenge there. You recover fast.

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “One of her students brought it up. Just now. In passing.” You clear your throat, glance away, and add on awkwardly, “—Professor.”

He doesn’t comment. Just watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“You might change your mind,” he pauses, “I’d like you to read a few papers.” He says with a finality.

You cross your arms. “You’re suggesting I read Cerces?”

“I’m suggesting, you examine the argument before rejecting the premise.” He lets the words settle for a beat. “I will send you a couple. You can draw your own conclusions.”

There’s a pause. One breath. Two.

You hesitate. “Fine.”

“I’ll need your email.”

You rattle it off without looking at him, the syllables falling out in practiced order, a thin attempt at professionalism. He offers his phone without a word, calm and unreadable, and you take it before you can think twice.

You type—carefully, trying not to fumble—but your pulse stutters anyway.

When you hand it back, his fingers brush yours.

Barely. A blink. A breath.

But it jolts through you like static, immediate and stupidly vivid. You freeze, absurdly aware of how warm his hand is, how close his attention suddenly feels even though he’s barely moved.

It was nothing. Just skin.

But your brain short-circuits like it’s something else entirely, and now you’re hyper aware of everything—the silence, the distance between you, the way your stomach tightens for no logical reason whatsoever.

You don’t look at him. You refuse to look at him.

He takes the phone back, and his voice is quiet. “I’ll forward them tonight.”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense your shoulders are. “Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out a little too soft.

You hate how your face feels warm.

“Thanks.”

He gives you a sharp nod, turning back already.

His eyes flick back to you once—just once—before he returns to the booth, slipping back into the conversation with Cerces like nothing ever happened.

You stay where you are, steadying your breath.

What the hell?

-> next.

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[draqu1a]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ A DANGEROUS DELIGHT . . .

— what kind? : SMUT — warnings : sexual&suggestive content ahead , viewers discretion is adviced , MDNI .

The silk of your dress feels impossibly smooth against your skin, a stark contrast to the way your nerves are buzzing tonight.

You smooth it down again, even though you know for a fact there's not a single wrinkle in sight. Tonight is a big night for Chris. A gala, making alliances with investors, potential partners and enough champagne to float a small yacht.

And you're here, glued to his side like a particularly fashionable parade.

"Just smile and nod, babe," he'd told you earlier while making final touches to his tie, it already being perfectly knotted. "I'll try not to leave you stranded for too long."

Liar.

He's been working the room for the last hour, a whirlwind of handshakes and forced smiles. You've lost count of the insufferable conversations you had to encounter.

Something about leveraged buyouts, something about quarterly projections, something about… you honestly tuned it all out after the first fifteen minutes of attending the event.

You’ve mostly been smiling, nodding, and trying not to spill your red wine on anyone important and possibly face a petty lawsuit.

You catch his eye across the crowded ballroom. He offers a strained smile, a silent apology etched onto the features of his stupidly perfect face face.

He’s trapped, you can see it. Trapped by obligation, by ambition, by the relentless demands of his empire and carrier path. A wave of frustration suddenly washes over you.

You knew what you were getting into when you started dating him – the late nights, the constant travel and business trips, the never-ending stream of social events and meetings.

But knowing it doesn't make it any easier when you're standing alone at an event filled to the brim with people important to the business society, feeling like nothing more than a decorative accessory for people to just gauge at.

Another blonde woman in a ridiculously expensive designer dress latches onto Chris, her laugh an annoying high-pitch, grating sound that sets your nerves on fire. That's it. You're done.

You turn and head towards the edges of the room, your heels clicking against the polished marble floor. You need air. You need a break from all of the socializing.

You need… Chris. But the real and genuine Chris, not the all polished, performative version he’s projecting for the benefit of the room.

You find yourself in a dimly lit hallway, lined with portraits of stern-looking men in powdered wigs. Perfect. You lean against the cool wall, close your eyes, and take a deep breath to cleanse your mind.

"Lost, darling?"

The voice is a low rumble, instantly familiar. You open your eyes to find Chris standing before you, his tie softly loosened, his eyes dark with something that looks suspiciously like hunger.

"I was starting to think you’d forgotten I existed," you say, your voice sharper than you intended.

He steps closer, stepping inside of your personal space. "Impossible," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw. "Besides, I always pay my debts."

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "I've been thinking about getting you alone all night."

A shiver runs down your spine. "Is that so?" you breathe, trying to sound nonchalant, but your pulse seems already be racing.

"Oh, you have no idea," he whispers, his hand sliding down your back, pulling you against him. The heat of his body seeps right through the thin fabric of your dress. "I'm going to make it up to you. Right now."

He glances down the hallway before going back to you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He grasps your hand and leads you down the hall right before stopping in front of what appears to be a heavy oak door.

He pushes it open, behind it revealing a small, empty room – probably a storage room.

He pushes you inside and shuts the door, the sound softly muffled by the thick wood. The room is dark and slightly dusty, the air thick with the scent of old wood and disuse. Perfect.

He doesn't waste any of the delicate time. He backs you against the door, his body pressing right against yours. "God, you look incredible tonight," he rasps, his hands roaming over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Chris," you gasp, your head falling back against the cool wood.

He kisses you hard, possessively, his tongue plunging into your mouth. You moan into the kiss, your hands clutching at his shoulders. He pulls back slightly, his eyes clearly blazing with desire.

"I want you so fucking bad," he growls, his fingers fumbling with the zipper of your dress.

"What about your guests?" you manage to say, your voice completely breathless.

"Man, fuck the guests," he says, his voice thick with lustful unsaid words. "Right now, it's just you and me."

He lowers his head and begins to kiss your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. You arch your back to grant him better access. His hand slides under your dress, finding the sensitive skin of your thighs. You gasp, your legs almost threatening to buckle.

He chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates right through your body. "Easy, darling," he murmurs lowly. "We don't want to cause a scene now, do we?”

He continues on with his actions, his touch becoming more eager, more demanding. You're hanging off the edge of something dangerous, something delicious.

But just as you're about to lose yourself completely, he pulls back, his breath ragged and features softly disheveled.

"As much as I want to keep going," he says, his eyes still dark with desire and hunger mixed together, "we can't risk being gone too long. People will start to wonder."

He kisses you one last time, a quick, sharp kiss that leaves you wanting, pleading for more. "But trust me," he whispers, his lips against your ear. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."

He straightens your dress, smoothes down his tie before he opens the door a crack, peering out into the hallway to make sure no one was around.

"All clear," he says. He takes your hand and leads you back into the glittering chaos of the ballroom, leaving you breathless, flushed and utterly desperate for more of his touch.

The rest of the evening passes in a complete blur of polite conversation and strained smiles, but all you can think about is the promise of what's to come when you two return home . . .

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . yappin claudia : i’m still figuring out how to work this app proper so don’t bash me 💔 @strnilolover taught me some cool tricks and the gradient text thingy, anywayy first fic here just dropped like a mic bitch .

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹🃜 . empty taglist for now ;(

[captain-hawks]

dry humping semi when he’s trying to teach you how to play the guitar

INTERLUDE. semi eita x f!reader — 18+, 1.4k, "guitar lessons," dry humping, thigh riding, fingering

your fingers feel clumsy as they attempt to stretch the width of the fretboard, the strings cool against your skin as you press down, metal meeting wood.

using the pick clutched in your other hand, you strum downward, though the positioning of your fingers holding the chord slips, and you only manage to drive the plastic over three of the six strings in the process.

there's a snort from beside you, and semi eita nudges your sneaker with his black boot.

"that's not—" he bites his bottom lip, amused. "here, let me just show you."

he runs a quick hand through his ash grey hair, pushing back the messy bangs falling into his eyes before motioning for you to scoot over.

thighs nearly flush, semi leans into you from behind in an attempt to adjust your hand placement, but the position's too award. his hands drift down your sides, and you let out a yelp of surprise as he unceremoniously drags you up until you're straddling his thigh.

"i'm in a skirt!" you protest, the short, pleated material doing far less for your modesty with your legs spread wide to balance atop him.

semi huffs out a laugh, and he doesn't sound the least bit sorry as his warm breath curls against the side of your neck.

"the rest of the band isn't dropping by tonight. it's just us," he murmurs reassuringly, gesturing to the rest of the empty practice space as if to prove his point.

-

to semi's credit, putting you in his lap does indeed allow him to guide your fingers at a more efficient angle. you manage to get through several chords without slipping, though you're not sure your fingers will ever find the innate dexterity to dance across a fretboard like the man sitting behind you.

which is fine, really.

you're content to look. to listen. to watch semi eita cast in a wash of stage lights, in vibrant reds and blues. in brilliant oranges and vivid greens. to see the sweat that drips down his face, his neck, that disappears beneath collar of another black, faded vintage t-shirt for some western grunge band.

you're content to watch the way he sways and moves, like the music is a part of him. like it might swallow him whole. to listen to the beautiful sounds that crawl up his throat as he leans his mouth heavily against a microphone, vocal chords drifting between husky, weathered verses and breathy, melodic bridges. to see the way his fingers peel across his guitar in time with thrumming bass lines and rhythmic drum beats.

to feel the way your heart ricochets in your ribcage when he meets your eyes in the crowd.

(it always feels like the first time, every time.)

"are you even paying attention?"

you can feel semi grin teasingly into the crook of your neck, and you realize the fingers that were guiding your picking hand have now abandoned their cause and migrated to the exposed sliver of skin between your rucked up shirt and the waistband of your skirt.

the rings that adorn semi's fingers are cool as they rest against you, and you squirm a little at the sensation.

"oh—" you're helpless to bite back the gasp that flits out past the back of your teeth unbidden at the bright spark of pleasure that ignites within you at the brief tease of friction.

the hand against your waist tightens just a fraction.

"mm?" semi asks.

he shifts his leg, just a little. just enough to pass it off as stretching.

just enough to have your cunt spasming as the lace of your panties meets his jeans once more.

you turn your head to look back at him, but he gently takes your chin in his hand instead, guiding your gaze back down to his bright red guitar.

"you're never going to learn if you keep getting distracted," he murmurs, thumb caressing the hinge of your jaw as he adjusts his hips ever so slightly.

heat throbs between your legs as his muscled thigh presses into you once more.

"i should—" you inhale sharply, starting to slide off of his lap, but he holds you in place.

"nobody else is coming here today," he tells you quietly, dragging his nose against the column of your neck. "i promise."

it wouldn't be the first time the two of you have done something like this—a hurried blowjob in a green room, his fingers up your skirt while pressed up against the side of his car in a dark parking lot after a show, his palm over your mouth while he fucks up into you in a dingy bathroom stall at a shitty, run-down venue.

semi likes the risk.

you like how certain he always seems to be that you'll never get caught.

so while it's borderline mortifying to imagine one of his bandmates waltzing into the practice space to find you riding semi's thigh on the beat up, green velvet couch that sits slouching off to one corner—

well—

"c'mon. you look so pretty with my guitar," semi whispers, lips a soft, promising caress along the shell of your ear. "i want you to sing for me, too."

you're not quite sure it can considered singing—the breathy, needy moans that start to tumble from your lips as semi clasps your hips and begins to outright drag you against his thigh.

you try to put the guitar aside again, but semi stops you before you can, hands returning to guide your own through chords once more as he continues to rock you atop him.

the pleasure ebbs and flows, dancing through your nervous system like hot bursts of electricity as your concentration oscillates between the firm, cool strings that give beneath your fingers and the hot and sticky ones you can feel collecting in the space between your swollen clit and your soaked panties.

"semi—" you whine, fingers twitching so tightly against the neck of the guitar that you're worried you'll snap a string or two as your cunt throbs after he subjects you to a particularly hard thrust of his hips.

"just strum that one last chord for me," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear.

you do your best, fingers but a hair-trigger away from acquiescing to the instinctual urge to reach back and bury them in semi's hair (to pull, to grind your ass back into the hardness you can feel fighting against the confines of his jeans and listen to the groan that drags out of him).

semi's open-mouthed kisses find the nape of your neck, and the pick slips out of your hands, quietly tumbling onto the carpet. you strum plainly with your fingers instead, though whatever bastardization your other hand has made of this chord is drowned out by your needy moan when he snakes a hand down your skirt and into your panties.

"that's my girl," semi breathes out.

he adjusts you, guitar still in your hands, but you find yourself seated fully in his lap now, legs spread even further than before.

without further fanfare, he pulls your skirt up and out of his way and tugs your panties to the side. he exhales when he feels how very little resistance his finger meets as he begins to slip it into your cunt, your slick, dripping walls taking him in eagerly as you're left gripping his guitar and bucking helplessly in his lap.

you're so fucking close already—

your pussy throbs as he quickly adds a second digit, nosing at your cheek until you turn to meet his lips in some messy approximation of a kiss while he begins to slowly thrust the digits in and out of you.

the sound is obscene.

filthy.

the last intoxicating bridge before tipping over the edge into a slick, hot breakdown of pleasure.

"this is my favorite part," semi murmurs.

he stretches his fingers inside of your tight walls before flexing them into a precise curl in time with the movement of his thumb stroking its way across your aching clit.

the pleasure inside of you explodes.

you writhe in his lap, moaning and gasping his name, and semi steadies the slipping guitar with one hand as he steadily finger fucks you through your gushing orgasm with the other until you go entirely boneless in his arms.

finally taking the guitar from you and leaning it up against the couch, he tugs your sticky panties back over, proceeding to rub them up and down your clothed slit until you bat his hand away from the overstimulation.

"you're a natural," he smiles.