#I refuse to call a trunk a boot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vunblr · 7 months ago

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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.

Lumberjack AU Masterlist

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

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Lumberjack!Bucky

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kisblle · 2 months ago

Text

Dark Paradise III

Word count: 5,730

Part One, Part Two Part Four

Pairing: Low honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: It's hard for you to properly communicate with him after eveything that has happened.

Tags: Angst, toxic relationship, smut, porn with plot, oral, low honor

Author's note: OKAYYY so I know I promised this chapter by the end of last week but I got a new job and I also did a little traveling for the holiday. However, this chapter is angsty but in a different way. I do want to say before anything that the NEXT chapter will reflect more on typical low honor Arthur than this chapter, so I guess look forward to that. Also the next two chapters are the ones I have most planned out, and will take probably longer to write so I will ask some grace on time too.

Sweat beads on Arthur’s brow, a few drops slipping down to rest on his upper lip as he leans against the thick trunk of an old tree. With a heavy breath, he peels off his gambler's hat and wipes the salty moisture from his forehead, his eyes drifting down toward Flat Iron Lake.

You’re there - in nothing but a light blue, polka dot dress. Your long hair is tied back into a low, loose bun, and your cheeks are flush from the heat. On your knees at the lake’s edge, you scrub a shirt against a washboard, a basket of laundry at your side. Arthur watches as you cup a handful of cool water and splash it down the back of your neck, trying to combat the heat of Lemoyne.

"I ain’t no animal. I’m not like you."

Your words from over a month ago at Horseshoe Overlook echo in his mind like a curse. He’d been cruel to you. Careless. Took you for granted in every possible way - and you’d held firm to your vow since. You hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t spoken his name. Like he was nothing more than a ghost that haunted you. And Arthur would be lying if he said your absence hadn't made made him feel a certain way.

Now, standing under the shade of that old tree, Arthur debates whether to speak to you or not. But what could he even say? Perhaps a confession of guilt? At the least an apology? Either way, he knew deep down you’d never have him again - and for once in his life, he understood. But maybe just speaking to you would make something right.

Maybe not for you.

But atleast him.

As a warm breeze pushes through Clemen's point, Arthur takes a final breath and pushes off the tree, boots sinking slightly into the soft ground as he makes his approach. Only stopping when he's a yard behind you.

The cowboy adjusts his expression, letting his Adam’s apple bob in his throat a few times before clutching his hat against his chest - thinking the slight gesture made his apology seem more sincere.

“Hey,” he calls, his voice deep and calm.

You turn, briefly, just enough to meet his gaze - brows furrowed, jaw cocked - and then, wordlessly, you go right back to scrubbing. Like he was never there, like a forgotten memory

He understood your cold response, understood why you had reacted that way but it still made his jaw tick. Not wanting to talk to him was one thing, but outright ignoring him like that was just mean.

Arthur lets out a short, bitter snort, as he rolls his eyes. The weight of your silence crushing down on him, forcing bitterness to erupt out of him like a volcano. “Ain’t even gonna let me apologize?” he seethes, a scowl deepening on his sun kissed face.

You pause for a second at his words - but you refuse to look up, refuse to give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin. Instead, you reach back into the woven basket, pull out a shirt, and return to scrubbing as if he wasn't even there.

Arthur didn't take this lightly, he lets loose a sharp exhale before charging forward, and then in a second, his heavy grip is on your shoulder, forcing you to turn to him. To atleast look him in the eye. “Goddamnit, woman, listen to me,” Arthur growls as your furrowed brow meets his. “I’m tryin’ to - ”

Before he can even finish you point your finger in his face, “I don’t want your damn apologies Arthur Morgan,” you snap, lips tight and firm as your nostrils flare.

Although your words are warranted - the venom heavily laced in your voice still stings the gunslinger.

But of course that is how it had to go. Nothing ever came easy for Arthur Morgan - not even a goddamn apology.

He lets his hand drop from your shoulder, stepping back with a slow shake of his head. The scowl on his face falls, now turning into a humorless, crooked smile that tugs at his lips. His fingers find the worn loops of his gunbelt, hip jutting out with amusement as his eyes fixate on you beneath the rim of his gambler's hat.

“So this how it gonna be?” he seethes, jaw tightening as he speaks, the weight of every unspoken thing between you two hanging in the muggy air.

You nearly laugh, scoffing at his response in disbelief. You search for the words to politely tell him to go to hell, but you’re cut off by the mountainous bellow of Dutch Van Der Linde’s war call.

“Arthur!” The gang leader shouts from deep inside camp.

But the gunslinger remains unmoved. Doesn’t even glance toward the man calling for him, instead his eyes stay rooted to you without another word. Just an ugly sneer.

“Master’s calling,” your tongue flicks, voice laced with sarcasm as your arms fold over your chest, a deep line forming between your brows as your lips curl into an angry pout.

Arthur lets out a low chuckle.

“Leas' he's callin' me cause I'm useful,” he sneers. “Only time you ever are is when yer' on yer' back”

You flinch like he's slapped you. Your breath catching, fists curling tight at your sides as your vision blurs with fury. Arthur just stands there silently, smug and unshaken like he's glad he's gotten under your skin.

But it doesn't take long for the silence to break as Micah Bell's heavy footsteps rear towards the lake's edge.

“Let’s go, cowpoke!” he hollers. “Dutch needs us on a job.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at Micah. Doesn’t look at you.

Just breathes deep through his nose, like he’s holding back a curse. Then exhales hard with one sharp huff, turning away fast and angry.

But you can’t help it.

“I hope you get shot!” you snap before his footsteps take him too far, your voice cracking with rage and frustration.

He stops dead.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even twitch.

But his voice cuts back through the air like a blade.

“I bet you do.”

...

After angrily wringing out your load of laundry, you return to camp with a basket of clean clothes in your arms, fumbling your way toward the clothesline. You start to toss garments over the line, muttering curses under your breath as you work, replaying the same scene in your head over and over.

On your tiptoes, a clothespin tucked between your lips, you’re interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps. Abigail Roberts approaches, arms folded across her chest like a shield. Without a word, she takes a garment from your basket and begins to help you hang the remaining pieces of clothes one by one.

“Lucky you got out of that before things got too serious,” she says casually, pinning a sock to the line as if she hadn't said anything at all.

You exhale as you angrily grab another shirt from the basket, eyes widening with a frusterated smirk as you attach it to the line. "Don't know what you mean," you reply, trying your best to avoid any conversation about your relationship with Arthur Morgan.

But Abigail doesn't leave you alone. Instead, she lets out a soft exhale, shaking her head as she picks up another garment from the basket. Her tone of voice becoming gentler as her eyes drift to her young son Jack, playing with a toy horse in front of Pearson’s wagon.

“I love my boy," her tongue clicks, eyes softening as she looks at him. "I really do,” she adds before turning to you, pausing for moment with a cotton shirt between her fingers. “But if it wasn’t for him.. I don’t think I’d still be here, livin’ like this.”

You nod, anger slowly fading at her warranted lecture.

You had known Abigail didn't want this life, didn't want to live a life on the run. Didn't really even want John Marston anymore despite the years of love and passion they shared before young Jack had made his appearance. And you couldn't blame her.

“This life our men live... it ain’t right. Ain’t moral. Ain’t what any of us should be stuck in,” she says, returning to the task at hand, her soft voice turning angry at just the mention.

“I know,” you murmur, pinning a sock to the line.

She stops for a moment, grabbing your wrist as her lips curve into a kind smile. “I care about you," she says. "And I mean this in the kindest way when I say don't let Arthur turn you into me."

You gulp, knowing deep down that Abigail was a much better person than you'd ever be. Your eyes break the gaze, staring down at the almost empty basket before responding. “Trust me - I ain't want anythin' to do with that man." Then, after a beat, your voice softens, eyes catching hers once more. “But you’re a good woman, Abigail. And Jack... Jack he’s a fine kid.”

Her lips curve into a kind smile, nodding once more at you before shuffling back into the heart of camp.

...

It had been several hours since Dutch and Micah returned from the job without Arthur. At first, you assumed he’d gone off to spend a few days in the woods like he often did after a job or an argument. But then you started to notice the hush conversations. Dutch pulling Hosea and the other men to the edge of camp to speak in private.

Hosea had looked furious - red faced, almost trembling as you heard him yell something unclear at Dutch before marching away in anger. You’d never seen him like that before, not with Dutch - not with anyone and your stomach started to sink as you sensed something was deeply wrong.

Yet, it wasn't until the sun fell below the horizon when you found the reason for the conman's outburst.

With only the faintest cracks of the sun beaming over Flat Iron Lake, Arthur’s young nag gallops into Clemen's Point, carrying the slumped, nearly lifeless body of it's owner.

The outlaw tumbles off his horse, hitting the ground with a mean thump. He was barely conscious, dressed in nothing but his union suit and gun belt, a wide bloodstain soaking through the fabric on his left shoulder.

You couldn't help but to stand frozen, watching from afar as Mary-Beth and Karen scream, rushing to him as Dutch jogs closely behind. Soon your eyes blur, only able to pick up bits and pieces from the situation at hand.

“.....I told you it was a setup, Dutch.....”

“......They got me, but I got away.....”

“.....Ms. Grimshaw, we need help!...”

You try to watch as Pearson runs to Arthur’s side, lifting him off the ground with the help of Dutch. The cowboy couldn’t stand on his own, pathetically sagging between the camp cook and gang leader as they drag him toward his tent, a trail of red blood sweeping behind him. Ms. Grimshaw quickly follows, muttering a slew of curse words under her breath as they dissapear beneath the canvas flaps of Arthur's tent.

...

Four days pass before you finally learn the truth: a cruel setup by the O'Driscolls, Arthur as bait.

You can’t shake the guilt - it bubbled deep in your stomach with each passing hour.

Somehow, it felt like your fault. Your last words to him - “I hope you get shot” - echos endlessly in your ears. Now, Arthur lies feverish in his tent, the infection from his gunshot wound dragging him in and out of consciousness for days on end.

From what the others say, he barely stirs. The fever gripping him tight. Every few hours, Ms. Grimshaw would do her best to clean Arthur's wound, disinfecting it with the harsh sting of whiskey. Once the pain had pulled the cowboy from his sleep, she would feed him a spoonful of Quinine to combat the fever. But from what the camp's matriarch knew, the sickness hadn't lifted.

And you hadn't gone in - hadn't visited.

It was hard to put your pride aside, with everything that he'd put you through.

But God, did you want to.

You wanted to kneel at his bedside, press your hands together, and beg God not to take him. You wanted to tell Arthur you’re sorry. That you didn’t mean it. That you don’t want him dead - not like this, not when your last words to him wished him death.

But as the sun sank below the horizon on the fourth day, you chewed at your nail beds, soft whispers of his condition spreading through camp like a plague. When you overhear Hosea mutter something about death, the words finally push you to your senses; knowing that it’s time to put your differences aside and pay a visit.

In the dead of night, you slip into his tent quietly. Ms. Grimshaw sits by his side on a stool, pressing a cool cloth to his burning forehead. She's silent as she stares up at you, heavy bags resting under her eyes from the around the clock care she had been providing for the last several days.

Arthur’s union suit clings to his waist, the top half is peeled away and the sleeves pooled at his hips. His bare chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. The wound on his shoulder is barely dried over, red and hot. His face is pale, soaked with sweat, lips cracked and nearly lifeless.

You should have come sooner.

Ms. Grimshaw looks up at you in sorrow.

“I can sit with him tonight,” you offer, eyes drifting between the cowboy and her.

She stands without protest, handing you a small brown bottle from the pocket of her dress before rubbing at her tired eyes. “Quinine every two hours,” she yawns more than instructs before approaching the tent flaps.

But something stops the old maid, turning to you and firmly, grabbing your hand. Suddenly she's more awake, eyes burning into you like the sun. “Give him something to live for," she croaks.

Your throat tightens as you nod, trying to understand what she meant.

But she dissapears behind the flaps before you're able to ask her to clarify, leaving you with nothing but the shell of a man you once knew.

You take her place beside him, his cot creaking with every shift of his body. You watch him for a long time, taking in every change in his breathing, every shiver, every furrow of his brow. Noticing the white in his face, and the hollow of his cheeks.

Tears start to pill in your eyes as you notice how prominent his rib cage had become in just the few days he's been down, his muscular frame withering away.

You bring your hand to your mouth, letting out a choked sob as you realize you barely recognize him.

…

Arthur Morgan never was the one to dream.

Always claimed he never slept well enough that he could.

But now, caught in the grip of fever.

His mind wanders.

…

It’s quiet. He’s small again. Just a young boy no more than four.

He feels the warmth of his mother’s arms squeezed around him, her voice light and bright like summer sun. She’s laughing, smiling down at him. His nose itches and he realizes she’s staring at a butterfly resting gently at the tip of his nose. He flinches, his soft, child hands brushing the insect off of himself in terror.

“Arthur,” his mother coos, tapping his nose with her finger, “don’t be afraid. A butterfly landin’ on you’s good luck.”

He looks into her eyes, that sparkle that once shined in his reflecting back at him like a mirror. But then the mirror cracks, and the memory distorts, and everything is black.

…

Now it’s Mary Linton.

She’s standing over him in the golden light of a warm summer’s eve as he kneels down infront of her. A small ruby ring resting between his thumb and pointer finger. She smiles. Leans in and kisses him.

He feels the love in his chest, the heat of her skin on his.

But the warmth fades too fast.

Suddenly, she’s crying. Begging him to leave. Telling him he's a bad man and she's marrying someone else.

Everything starts to dissapear, turning into nothing but ice, the memory leaving him with nothing but a chill.

…

Then you appear.

It’s when he sees you for the first time. A bustling city street. Milwaulkee.

You’re screaming, fighting back as a man yanks your bag out of your hand. Your braid whips over your shoulder as you turn, looking for help. Arthur runs before he thinks. Slamming the man into a wall. Beating him down without worry of reprocution and takes your bag back from him. He returns to you, handing you your bag and tipping his hat, blood still dripping from his knuckles.

Arthur had always been the one to go weak in the knees for a damsel in distress and you were no exception.

But it isn’t long before Hosea finds out that you’re alone, that you have no one to turn to.

And then time starts to bend.

…

You’re now wading barefoot in Lake Michigan. Lifting up the hem of your skirt as you step carefully over slick pebbles resting in the shallow water. You spot a Petoskey stone, holding it to the sunlight with a smile as you watch the light reflect over the glistening fossil. You grin, tossing the stone into your pocket before your head tilts downward, eyes scanning for more.

It was something about that toothy grin of yours on that specific day that had lit something warm in Arthur's cold heart. A feeling he'd never thought he'd know again.

…

But then the river fades, replaced with a wave of soft linen sheets instead.

That hotel in Blackwater.

You’re beneath him, lips parted, eyes wide, body trembling. He’s inside you, moving rougher than he should have. He didn’t know it was your first time - didn't know until he saw the faint tinge of red on the sheets the day after. He didn't said anything about it, he’d just wished he’d gone gentler knowing now what he did.

But you wanted him anyway.

...

Everything grows dim and unclear.

Shapes blur.

A voice echoes.

Then a light.

A face.

Your face.

Eyes glassy.

You’re crying as you press a spoon to his lips. He tastes something bitter - Quinine. And then, suddenly, he knows.

He’s not dreaming anymore.

His lashes flutter, muscles weak as he fights to stay conscious. You’re not Miss Grimshaw. It's you. You’re here.

Not a dream.

Taking care of him.

Even after everything.

Even after what he said.

What he did.

Even after you told him you hoped he’d get shot.

And something in his chest lurches.

He swallows the Quinine slowly, watching you with clouded eyes. You make sure he takes every drop, brushing sweat from his brow with trembling fingers as if you'd never see him again.

Arthur blinks again.

His lips part, but no words come. Just a weak breath.

Is this heaven?

Because you look like an angel.

But he knows it’s not.

Can’t be.

Arthur Morgan would never make it to heaven.

…

You pull back the spoon, eyes locked on Arthur as he stirs from his fevered sleep. His gaze is glassy, unfocused, but there’s no mistaking he’s conscious.

“Arthur,” you whisper, your voice thick and trembling, hovering just inches above him.

His hand lifts slowly, shaky but purposeful. His fingers find your hair, weaving through it like he’s never touched you before - like he’s not sure you’re real.

“Angel,” he breathes - just that one word - before slipping under again.

Tears spill freely down your face, dropping onto his flushed cheeks as you watch him fade. Not waking up even as you whisper his name.

He only shivers.

His breathing turns shallow, each inhale weaker than the last.

All the violence, all the danger Arthur Morgan’s faced - and it’s a fever that might finally take him.

You were never the praying type. Not anymore. Not after everything.

But that doesn’t stop you from sinking to your knees at his side, folding your hands tight over your chest like they’ll hold your heart in place.

You don’t know who you’re speaking to - just that you need them to listen.

Spare him.

You know he’s not a good man. You know he’s done things.

But you love him.

God, it hurts to even think it.

But it’s the truth.

“Please,” you whisper, looking up to the point where the tent’s seams meet overhead. “Please don’t take him.”

Another sob tears from your throat as you collapse forward, arms folding over his hips, your face buried in your elbows. You cry until the sound leaves you. Until your body gives in.

And you drift into the dark.

...

Not an hour passes before you stir, eyes raw and swollen. You don’t see it first.

You feel it.

His fingers, soft and deliberate, sifting gently through your hair. Thumb and forefinger rolling a lock between them.

Your head turns slowly.

He still looks wrecked - pale, sweating, barely alive.

But he’s awake.

His eyes are open now. Faint, but focused. Watching you. Waiting.

Like you’re the only thing holding him here.

“S’beautiful,” he murmurs, the words fragile but clear.

He’s still dying.

But something inside him is lit. A spark in his eye you'd only seen in rare circumstances.

A reason.

“Give him something to live for,” Grimshaw had said.

You didn’t understand what she meant at first.

Hope or support?

But Arthur Morgan wasn’t a man of soft sentiment. He didn’t thrive on sweet nothings or gentle promises.

No. You knew him better than that.

What he lived on was much colder.

Pleasure.

You had known him well enough that he thrived on it, knew him well enough to know that's all he thought of you anyway. Too many nights where thats all you were to him anyway; a pair of legs to penetrate and pair of lips to spread.

And as much as it hurt you - knowing deep down that's all it ever was with Arthur Morgan, you would take him one last time if it meant giving him something to live for.

Your body moves before your mind is able to catch up, you’re guiding his union suit down - not roughly, not hesitantly - but with purpose. Until the fabric rests low at his knees, and the weight of his cock is bare to the warm air and your breath.

He doesn’t stop you.

His expression doesn't change - still tired, still aching - but his hand tightens softly in your hair.

Not to urge your mouth towards him.

Just to feel you. Let you know he likes it.

Your lips part, and you take him into the warmth of your mouth, slow and careful, letting him feel every inch of your devotion. His eyes flutter shut - not from pain, but from something much different.

His body is weak, but he stirs beneath your touch. He swells between your lips, breath hitching, low moans escaping with each trembling rise of his chest. Sweat beads along his brow, gaze staying rooted to you - as if your lips on his member was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

The only thing to keep living for.

He swears it’s the angel. The one kneeling beside him. The one pulling him back from his dreams with the sweet flick of her tongue.

He doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve you.

But in this moment, he’s never felt more of a reason to stay alive.

If not for pleasure.

Then to be able to love on you the way he always should have.

Your lips tighten around him, saliva slickening every motion as you work him slowly, deliberately. A mess of tears and need and something too deep to name.

Half the tears from the ache in your throat everytime his tip hits.

The other half from everything else.

You probably look ruined. Broken.

But Arthur’s never cared for perfect.

And all you wanted was to give him somthing to live for.

The cowboy rests his head on his cot, eyes focusing on the folds of his tent.

How did he get here.

How did he get so lucky.

Is this what living really felt like?

With you?

How had it taken him so long to realize that you're all he's ever needed.

And now that he was dying, it was like the cruelest joke - because only now did it feel like he had something to live for. Something clawing at him, begging him to stay. Something that made the sickness feel like a fight worth enduring. Something to hold onto, to try - desperately, pathetically - to make right.

And with one final tremble, one last ragged breath, Arthur spills into your mouth. You don’t pull away. Can’t. You stay there, clinging, lips trembling, face a mess of tears, snot, and spit. You swallow because you want to keep even this piece of him. Because it feels like it just might be the last part of him you'll have.

You look up at him just as he looks down at you. His eyelids heavy, skin pale, breath rattling through him. And it destroys you.

But instead of crumpling, instead of folding in on yourself, you rise to your feet. Climb into the space beside him and press your head to his good shoulder.

You don’t know if he passes out again.

You don’t ask.

Because you don’t care.

You’ve stopped whispering to the sky, to some indifferent god with no face and no mercy.

You’re whispering to him now. Directly.

“Don’t die,” you sob into him.

“Please.”

...

The morning light bleeds weakly through the tent’s seams, casting a ring of light over the wreckage of the night before. You’re still wrapped around Arthur, one leg slung over his, making sure you were far away from his wound. His healthy shoulder is your pillow, his scent clinging to you like a hound. You'd barely were able to sleep - too afraid he'd stop breathing, too sad to even get a good nights rest.

The tent flap rustles sharply.

Mrs. Grimshaw enters.

She stops dead. Eyes lock on Arthur first - bare chested, sweat slick, and unmistakably pantless - then on you, draped over him, lips raw, hair a ruin. You blink up at her like a guilty animal, still dazed in the aftershock of want and grief.

It takes her two seconds to understand. Maybe less.

She doesn’t speak at first - just inhales sharply, jaw clenched so tight it might shatter. Then her voice comes, sharp, “Get up. Now.”

Guess you hadn't known what she meant by give him something to live for after all.

You barely have time to flinch before she’s dragging you out of his bed, your clothes disheveled, shame dripping off you. Her scolding cuts like knives - forgetting more than two doses of Quinine. What were you thinking, what in God’s name possessed you to crawl into bed with a man half dead?

But you’re barely hearing her.

Your eyes are locked on Arthur.

He hasn’t moved.

Still unconscious. Still burning up. His chest rising, barely.

And you just stand there, arms wrapped around yourself like they might keep you from falling apart. You stare at him, guilt and longing eating you alive. Knowing that last night had felt like clinging to life - but this morning, you see the truth.

His life isn't in your hands anymore.

And maybe it never was.

...

It takes Arthur two full weeks before he can even look at himself in the mirror. When he finally does, all he sees is a ghost of the man he used to be. His nose wrinkles at his reflection, eyes scanning his unkempt beard, the greasy tangle of his hair. He was never one for pomade, never cared for a fancy slicked mustache either - but this… this was just gross.

If it weren’t for the way his shoulder was braced in that makeshift sling, he would’ve shaved it all off just to feel something clean again. Just to feel like he had some goddamn control over atleast one thing in his pathetic life .

But Mrs. Grimshaw had benched him. No jobs. No exertion. Nothing but rest. Which is where he finds himself now - sitting on a dented bucket in nothing but his blue union suit, watching the world go on without him. Staring blankly out over Flat Iron Lake, watching lake bass swim at the edge of the dock.

And then he sees you.

At the shoreline, bent over that damned washboard. The sun dancing off your skin. Your skirt lifts just slightly with the breeze, but it’s the way your arms move that makes something in his heart sink.

God, he’s sick.

Not just from the bullet hole healing in his shoulder - but sick from the weight of what he’s done to you. Every cruel word. Every game. Every moment he played you small just to feel big. Just to remind you who held the reins in whatever realtionship he shared with you.

And still you’d come to see him, after everything.

And he hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t. Not even if he tried.

He’d dreamt of a lot of things in that bed - his mother, Mary Linton, the old days - but none of them reached him like you did. None of them touched his soul and asked it to stay.

You did.

You, the goddamn angel who kissed life back into him.

And now, weeks later, he still hasn’t said a word. No apology. No confession. No thank you. Nothing. Just this unbearable ache in his gut and the slow realization that he wants you - not just in the dark or in his bed, but really, fully. As yous to him as him to yours.

With a sharp breath and a groan, he pushes himself off the bucket. His heart fluttering in his chest in a way it hadn't since the first time he laid eyes on Mary Linton.

His bare feet touch the damp grass, soft and cool, and he crosses the shore behind you. His voice is low, uncertain, and as rough as gravel.

“Hey.”

You turn.

Your smile is tired, but kind. A sadness lingers in your eyes - one that hadn’t been there when he first met you. One that he knows, with a gut deep shame, he put there.

“Hey,” you softly grin, pain lacing your voice. You set a pair of slacks aside and wipe your hands on your skirt, standing to face him.

Arthur looks at you like you’re holy. Like he’s never deserved to be in your light again but wants to stay anyway. Your hair glints in the sun, and he’s never seen anything so painfully beautiful. It hurts to look at you knowing all the pain he's caused.

But he does anyway.

“I just…” he starts, then falters. “I just wanna talk. Bout what happened in the tent. All those weeks ago.”

You huff softly, the breath more sad than amused. Your eyes break from his, falling to the sand. “Don’t worry....I know.....We ain’t nothin’ serious.”

The words gut him.

Like a hunting knife to a deer's flesh.

His expression twists - not in anger, but something worse. Something wounded. He reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it gently.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I ain’t want that either.”

You exhale, lips tightening. “No, Arthur… it’s okay.”

“It ain’t,” he says quickly, his voice laced with quiet desperation. “It ain’t okay. I treated you like dirt. Like you didn’t matter. And that -that’s somethin’ I’ll never forgive myself for.”

His voice cracks, thick with feeling as you stare at him with eyes as wide as a doe.

“When I was dyin’, I couldn't stop dreamin' of you. And then you were there. Like God sent you down to drag me back from who know where.” His eyes burn into yours, full of everything he never said. “And you did. You saved me.”

You try to pull away again, try to guard the last piece of your dignity, “Arthur…”

“Please,” he breathes, trembling. “Just listen.”

He steps closer, fingers still curled gently around yours. “I wanna a better man and I want to tell you I’m sorry."

He pauses, swallows hard. “I want you next to me at night. I want you on my knee by the fire. I want you mine.”

Your heart is screaming - screaming caution, screaming pain. But the ache in your chest won't let go of him, not when he’s standing there like this. Honest.

“I want you to be my woman,” he says, voice breaking. “But more than anythin’… I want to be your man.”

Your breath hitches, and you falter. There are a thousand reasons to walk away. A thousand scars he gave you that lay on your skin.

But your hand lifts to touch the bristle of his cheek, knowing that theres still that string that attaches to your heart to his. Knowing in someway it'd always be there.

“Oh, Arthur…” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He pulls you in gently, his good arm curling around your hips. Taking his lips to yours as he kisses you in a way he never has. It wasn't hungry or painful, it wasn't full of lust or need, passion or anger.

It was a soft, a promise of something better.

And yet, as you pull away, hand still in his, your eyes catch movement from the corner of your vision.

Abigail Roberts.

Her eyes are narrow, arms folded tight across her chest, concern etched in every line of her face. She watches, unmoving, before she gulps and walks away. Shaking her head as if it was a warning.

Leaving you with Arthur, and the ghost of every consequence still to come.

Tagging: @zae-heeyyy @photo1030 @ibelyss

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan #red dead smut #arthur morgan fanfiction

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rainingfknhard · 20 days ago

Text

Man in the Woods ; Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

˖ ࣪⭑ part one

˖ ࣪⭑ wc: 1.1k

˖ ࣪⭑ not proofread bc it’s late and i’m tired

You weren’t much of an outdoorsy person. But you were trying to become one. You realized, finally at age 25, that taking care of your body was good, no matter how much you just wanted to stay home and play some games on your computer.

You grabbed your backpack, filled with all your gear, like snacks, water, an emergency blanket, and bear spray hanging off the side for easy access, just in case. Slipping on your hiking boots and slinging your bag over your shoulder, you checked yourself out in the mirror by your front door.

You looked cute, but you knew by the end of your hike you’d be covered in dirt and sweat, with your high bun looking more like a rats nest. But that didn’t matter. You looked, and felt, good now, so you were excited to hit the road and get started.

This was a new hiking trail for you. It was about an hour drive, and the difficulty was a little harder than you were used to, but you felt ready to push yourself. Normally, your friend would accompany you, but she got called into work last minute and you had already mentally prepared to go.

Once you arrived, you saw there wasn’t any cars parked. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been an omen, but you were never too good at picking up on things like that. You just hoped you could follow the trails safely and make it back home tonight. m

You popped in one headphone, and started off on your journey. Online, it said this trail takes about 8 hours roundtrip, so you were locked in for a full day of hiking.

»»»»

This trail was kicking your ass. You’d been out here for 5 hours, and you weren’t even halfway through. You were absolutely exhausted, wanting to just quit now, but you refused.

You remembered the empty lot this morning, and now you understood why. Dark grey clouds rapidly formed in the sky, with a slight drizzle starting to paint the treetops. You ventured off the beaten path, just by a bit. There was a fallen log a few meters away and you just needed to rest for a moment.

You placed your bag down, and sat on the trunk, breathing heavily. So heavily in fact, that you didn’t even hear the footsteps behind you, until there was a gloved-hand over your mouth, preventing your scream from escaping.

“Shh, shh. Quiet now.” A husky, British man spoke. You attempted to thrash around, but the arm that wasn’t over your mouth engulfed your body, shoulder to shoulder. “Stop it.” He held you tighter in order to hault your movement.

You quickly remembered your bear spray, and silently hoped right now this man was a bear, because you think you’d be less scared.

You were just in reach. You yanked it from your bag, and right as you went to press down, the man detained it from you, grabbing your arm and holding it behind your back.

“Didn’t I just say ‘stop it’? I’m not gonna hurt you.” His grip loosened ever so slightly, and with your free hand, you elbowed him in the groin. Unfortunately for you, he must’ve been wearing protection because he didn’t even flinch.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.“ He reiterated, with more urgency this time. “I need to know what you’re doing on this trail. This is private property.” He waited a few seconds before adding, “If I take my hand off your mouth, you promise to behave?”

You nodded, knowing now there was no way of getting out of this

“Good girl.” He grabbed the bear spray out of your hand. “Now, what are you doing on this trail?” He released you.

When you turned around to look at this man, you wish you didn’t.

He was tall, and clad in tactical gear, with a mask covering everything but his eyes. He had a gun on his belt. You internally panicked, forgetting how to speak.

“Well?” He grunted.

“I.. My friend. She recommended it. I wanted to go on a hike.”

“This is private property. Was bought years ago. Not allowed to use it.” His voice was gruff and stern.

Well, now you knew why there was no cars parked...

“I’m sorry- I didn’t know. Please, I’ll leave now just don’t hurt me.”

“Already said I wasn’t gonna hurt you.” He spoke before you could even finish your last word.

You stood there in silence, as he looked over you. The rain was starting to pick up, with the sounds of thunder clamoring above you. Lightning struck in the nearby distance, making you flinch.

“C’mon. Can’t let you leave in weather like this.” He grabbed your bag, opening it up and scrounging through it.

“Hey!” You tried to stop him, reaching forward to snatch your bag away, but as he turned to face you more eyes looking into yours, it spooked you, so you stopped.

“I just need to make sure you don’t have any weapons.”

“You have weapons. You have a gun!”

“This is private, military, property. You’re a trespasser. I could just call the police and have them handle it. Or.. you listen to me, follow me back to my shelter, and you can leave when it is safe out here.”

“..Okay.”

It was another mile walk back to his.. house? Was it his home? It was a small, dirty log cabin; the same size as a New York City apartment. There was nothing around it. You hoped and prayed that he wasn’t some fucked up serial killer, but you didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Get struck by lightning on the way to your car and have the cops arrest you, or follow this very obvious in-the-military man who you tried to spray with bear repellent, to which he invited to his shelter.

“Sit.” He pointed to his couch, and you followed his orders. He took the chair next to the sofa and pulled out his phone. “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong?”

He breathed out heavily, “Storms not gonna be over til tomorrow morning. Fuck!” He slammed his phone down, and he seemed irritated at something else, other than the storm.

“I can leave now if you want me to. Just please don’t call the cops. I really didn’t know this was private property now! My friend was supposed to come with me, God, I’m going to kill her when I get back—“ You tried word vomiting your way out of this situation.

“No. I can’t let you leave. I’m honestly surprised I found you before anyone else.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“The others.. “ He hesitated, finding the correct words to express the situation. “The other men I work with would not have been so understanding of your ignorance.”

Your heart sank. “As in?”

“As in they would’ve shot you without a second thought as soon as they saw you.” He looked at his boots as he leaned back in his chair.

Your breath got caught in your throat. “And why didn’t you?”

His gaze lifted to your worried eyes, “No idea.”

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley cod #simon riley smut #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader

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luuvprincess · 3 months ago

Text

✰࿎7࿎✰

Sierra

"So what exactly are we doing here?" I asked Jey as we pulled to Trin and Jon's house. Jey hadn't told me anything just told me to pack bag for 4 days and that he was picking me up. "I'll let Trinity tell you since it was her idea." He says as turns the car off. He gets out first as his sons got too and I get out myself.

"I'm gonna be honest im scared for what yall have planned." I said as I walked to back of car as he pulling out our bags. "Don't be scared."

"Hey yall!" I hear Trinity yell. I turned around seeing her and Jon and they're kids standing on porch. Jon and trinity started walking down towards us as Jeyce ran over to Jayla and Jayden leaving Jey to carry the bags in alone.

Jey shook his head at jeyce as he closed the trunk. "This boy and damn baby what the hell you pack?" He asked.

"You didn't tell what exactly I needed to pack for so I just picked a little bit of everything." I said as Jon and Trinity stop in front of us. "Hey girl you look cute." Trinity said as she pulled me in for tight hug I hugged her back with a little squeeze. "Hey Uce." She said as then hugged Jey as I hugged Jimmy.

"Hey Jim."

"Hey Cece, uce you need help?" He asked as we all watched Jey struggling a little.

"Hell yeah your nephew ain't shit for leaving me and this girl I don't know what the fuck she packed something told me I should have went over and pack her shit myself." Jey says. I rolled my eyes at him as I shake my head.

"So Trinity what are we doing anyways Jey told me you were gonna tell me." I said.

"We are going camping boo so I hope you packed some boots!" She yelled all excited.

"Who's camping?" I asked. "We are girl it's gonna be fun relax. I rented us a RV and this time we are gonna actually be able to some fun family activities." She said as she looked at the twins. I also looked at them as they gave us thumbs up cheesing hard.

"Yea relax ma it'll be fun. No phones, just us the trees, and some wild animals that live in woods." Jey says.

"Joshua you are not funny." I said.

We walked into the house, the kids were somewhere around the house I followed Jey to the room we'd be staying in tonight since we're leaving until tomorrow.

"So we're leaving around 9:30, 10 so be up." Trinity yells from the living room.

"You knew that had you told me what we were doing I'd say no that's why you didn't want to tell me." I said immediately turning my attention towards Josh.

"Yea I knew your ass would have said no, but I want you here." He said.

"Joshua you know ion do the woods." I said as I folded my arms. "Baby it's just 3 days you acting as if it's a week in woods." He said.

"Eww 3 days in woods. I better be getting this cookie ate or something." I said.

"I can make something work." He said with a smirk.

"I can't believe yall about to have my ass in the woods I gotta call my mommy and tell her I love her." I said as picked my phone.

"Your dramatic Sierra." He says before he walked out the room just as my mom picked up my call.

"Hey baby." She said.

"Hey mommy guess what?" I said.

"What's sup honey?" She asked. "My boss and his family got me going camping mom, you know ion do camping." I said.

"Cheer up honey it'll probably be fun." She said.

"Mom the last I went camping was when I was ten and

Saint and uncle Jameson chased me and Candace around in big foot a costume and till this day I still refuse to go camping." I said.

"Well looks like that will be changing soon." She said. I then hear someone in the background which sounded like my brother.

"Who's that talking?" I asked.

"Who's that on the phone?" Saint asked as poking his head in the camera. "Ah shit is that my big headed little sister." He said as he took the phone.

"Eww boy you ugly as hell." I said.

"If I'm ugly you ugly too we look alike little sis." He says.

"My man says other wise but later mom love you." I said.

"Love you more sweetheart, Saint gimme my damn phone boy." She said.

"Hey hello where's my I love you big brother and when the fuck you get a boyfriend again." Saint says. I playfully rolled eyes.

"I love you Saint I gotta go duty calls." I said.

"Love you too sis be safe miss you and don’t think we ain’t done with this conversation." He said. I rolled my eyes.

"I miss yall too later." I said ended the call.

I let out a sigh as I got off the bed walking downstairs as I joined Trinity the kitchen not seeing Jey in sight. "Hey boo." She said.

"Hey where the boys?" I asked.

"Out back they finna cook on that grill." She says.

"Good I'm hungry." I said. "Girl me too but aren't you excited for this road trip?" She asked.

"Honestly no last time I went camping my uncle and brother traumatized me chased me around in a big foot costume." I tell hers

"Oh well that's scary I can see why you wouldn't to go camping now." She said trying her hardest not to laugh but she couldn't hold. "Haha ahh I'm sorry it really not funny I can only imagine you running around trying to get away from them."

"It's fine at the time it wasn't funny but now that I'm older and I know big foot don't exist it's funny to me now." I said laughing with her.

"What y'all in here laughing about?" Jimmy says as him and Jey walked in through the back door.

"About time I get chased by big foot when I was 10." I said.

"You know big foot ain't real?" Jey asked coming up next to me. "Yea I know he's not real Boohda and my uncle decided it was good idea to chase me my cousin in a big foot costume and that was the last time I went camping and reason I'm not a fan of camping now."

"It's okay bae I'll keep you safe." He said kissing my cheek making me blush. I turned hiding my face in his chest.

Omniscient

1am

Sierra woke up feeling Jey just now getting to bed. Him and Jimmy had decided to play the game before bed. "It's about time you came to bed." She muttered as she cuddling into his chest. He chuckled placing a kiss on her forehead. "I wasn't go for long." He said.

"It's one in the morning i came up here at 10 that's 3hrs you left me in this cold ass bed alone." She said. "Ight baby my fault." He said as tighten his arm around the her. "I get a personal cuddle bear, I'm in love." She said causing to let out another chuckle. "I love you too." He says.

"Is that so?" She asked. He sighed flipping them over so that he was hovering over her. She gasped as he grabbed face so she could look him in the eyes.

"You gonna keeping questioning my answers girl? I done told you countless times before Im the one that's in love with you Sierra, I see a future for us." He said.

"You hear me?" He asked.

"Yes I hear you Joshua." She said.

"Nah ion think you do." He says. "But I'm finna show you ass I'm deadass about you and about us...turn over for me and you take this off too. He said pulling at his shirt she was "barrowing".

Her eyes brows arched into confusion as she looked at him. "C'mon mama, don't act like you don't know what's finna happen." He said.

"I know your crazy but hello your kids, your brother, Trinity and your niece and nephew are literally down the hall." She said. He leaned down kissing her neck leaving hickeys in few places.

He knew he was finna get cuss out tomorrow when she sees them but he ain't care he’ll deal with that tomorrow.

"Josh seriously." She wishpered yelled slightly pushing him back. He sighed kissing her as he ripped her shirt off. She broke the kiss gasping at his action. "You clearly made your mind." She says flipping over on her stomach.

"Mhmm All you gotta do mama is be quiet...lift ya hips up a little." He said as reached over grabbing a pillow she lifted her hips up as he slide the pillow under her. "You feel comfortable mama?" He asked.

"Yes daddy." She said. He smirked as he began leaving a trail of kisses from her neck down her back down to her causing her to moan. He gave her as a little smack. "You not listening already mama." He said.

"Sorry daddy."

"You love me baby?" He wisphered as he got close to her ear. "Yes." She murmured. His hand wrapped around her neck as he pulled her in for a hungry sloppy kiss.

"Fuck you sexy." He groaned as he pushed his arosusal on her plumped butt. She tried her best to quietly moan his name.

He sat up pulling himself out his shorts. He spread her open with one hand sliding himself in her wet auora. Both of them letting out a soft quiet moan feeling each other.

"Fuck baby this pussy wet as hell." He groaned in her ear as he began moving. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. "Fuck." He groawled.

"J-jey." She whined. He grabbed her hair pulling her back. "You like that we could possibly get caught don't you mama?" She let out a soft moan in response.

"Mhmm yeah you do." He says with a smirk. "You so naughty baby."

"Fuck." She whimpered as his tip hit her g-spot. "Right here daddy."

"Right there mama?" He asked. She nodded her head eyes rolled to the back of her head as she bit down on her bottom lip. "Look at you pretty girl." He said.

Her walls started clutching around him making him let out a deep but quiet moan his hands grabbed on to her waist as he began picking up his speed. The room filled with the sounds of soft moans and groans, the sound of their skin slapping against each other was Jey sure that Jim and Trinity heard them.

As for kids he kids felt bad but at same time didn't after thinking back on how many times he's been woken up out his sleep to them all fighting and brickering at each other.

"Uhn uhh move that hand mama."

"F-fuck slow d-fuck I'm coming daddy." She cried out.

"Wet this dick up mama, cum on your dick." He says giving her ass a smack.

"Oh fuck jey." She moaned as she milked him. He continued to fuck her through her orgasm as he chased his high.

“Fuck this my pussy?” He asked.

“Y-yes Jey.” She muttered.

“Can daddy nut in his pussy?” He asked.

“Yes pleasee.” She begged. His strokes started getting sloppy. “Fuck baby I’m finna nut…ah shitt fuckk.” He grunted as his shoot warm seed in her.

“Fuck god damn baby.” He says as pulls out. His dick covered with their juice. “You good pretty girl?” He asked.

“Mhmm.” She mumbled as she began to fall asleep. He chuckled kissing behind her ear. “Imma go get you towel to clean you up don’t fall sleep baby.”

He got up walked the bathroom he grabbed a towel wetting it a little and went back to the room to find her passed out. He shook his head walking over to her and cleaned her up. He as few leaned down kissing her forehead.

“I love you baby.” He said then got in bed himself.

“WAKE YALL FREAKY ASS UP!” Jimmy yelled as he banged on Sierra and Jey’s door. Sierra groaned putting her pillow over her face. “AYE UCE get up dog.” Jimmy said as continued to bang on the door.

Somehow this man was still sleeping. Sierra sat up remembering that Joshua ripped her shirt off last night she used the blanket to cover her chest as she rubbed her eye. She looked to her side as she looked at Josh.

“Joshhh.” She groaned shaking him out his sleep.

“Mmm.” He groaned swooshing her hand away.

“Wake up so we can get ready.” She said. They both eventually got up and went to the bathroom. “Can get me my pills from my bag please.”

“Which pocket is it in?” He asked.

“In the left pocket.”

He came back in the bathroom with her pills handing it to her. While he used the bathroom she took her pills.

“Joshua Samuel Fatu why?” She said groaning as she seen her neck that covered with fresh hickeys. “Joshhhh!” She whined.

“W-oh I forgot I did that.” He said with a smirk. She rolled her eyes grabbing her tooth brush and began brushing her teeth.

Sierra throw on some leggings a spaghetti strap crop-top and a grey hoodie with her grey and white dunks that hey got her.

Jey throw on a Nike hoodie no shirt and a pair of his famous hoochie daddy shorts with his black and white dunks and Nike hat.

Once Sierra saw what he was wearing she immediately felt got wet in her panties. They made their way downstairs grabbing some food.

After everyone ate they checked their bags and made their they had everything the needed for the trip before hitting the road.

Tag list 🏷️💗: @uceyliyahh @mselenalovebug @theusotwinzcom @isabella-2025 @dstark-0706 @4milly @zillasvilla @charmed-dreamssss @sheaabuttaababyy @levissslutt

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axelsagewrites · 2 years ago

Text

Bjorn Ironside*Captured

Pairing: bjorn x f!rival!reader

Kinktober Day nineteen: choking with Bjorn Ironside – you may have been captured by the enemies, but the punishment Bjorn gives you is starting to feel like a reward

Word count: 1818

Warnings: bjorn capturing you, imprisonment, fighting/sparing, not extreme violence though, making out, fingering, very slight nipple play, semi public sex, p in v sex, choking, teasing, size kink, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

You could feel his eyes on you, but you refused to turn around and meet them. His feet dragged against the dry dirt ground till he was able to lean his tree trunk of a body against a wall, his gaze still hot on your skin.

“Well, well, well,” his lips taunted, and it took everything in you not to try kick at him but with your hands tied behind your back you knew it was a lost cause. Maybe if you managed to grab his axe but no, not yet “What do we have here?” you could hear his feet begin to drag again.

The tree was hard against your back, inescapable with how they had bound your wrists behind your back before leashing you to its trunk. As Bjorn walked to stand in front of you, your eyes moved to look at an empty patch of ground, his boots in the corner of your eyes.

“My, my, your quiet now little one,” his voice gritted through your ears like a father taunting his child. He even crouched down as if to speak to one, his elbows resting on his knees as his eyes bore into your skull, “Too afraid to even look at me,”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you spat out before you could think. A small chuckle escaped his throat, “Your men fight dirty,”

“My men fight like men,” he said, as if he’d called the sky blue, “Not my fault you weren’t good enough,”

“Five men against one? Hardly seems fair,” you laughed, finally meeting his cold blue eyes. “Especially when they come into my tent when even the moon had left the sky,”

“You should have had someone on guard,” he said, standing up as if he was going to walk away.

You scoffed at his antics making him pause, “You ambushed me. Me against you? I’d be gone before you found where I stuck my knife,”

Bjorn laughed this time, a deep laugh from the pits of his belly as he sauntered back to you, “Really little bird? You think you could fight me? Me?” he repeated, gesturing to himself as he laughed which only made the fire in your belly grow hotter, “Tell you what little one. I untie you, we fight, I win, I tie you back up assuming you’re not dead by the end of it,”

You rolled your eyes as he crouched back down in front of you, “And if I win?”

“If you win,” he said, gesturing out with his hands as he looked around, “you are free. I will give you whatever it is your little heart desires,” he said, poking his finger into your chest prompting you to kick his knee to push him away.

Bjorn scowled as he caught his balance, standing over you like a hundred-year-old tree. His scowl would scare most but you just glared up at him, waiting for him to untie you, “Do we have a deal? Or do I need to fight you with no hands?” you asked, cutting off his scowl.

Silently he moved behind you, slicing the ropes making you jump to your feet, turning to face him, “My weapon?” you asked, holding out your hand.

Bjorn smirked, “I said nothing about a weapon little one,” he said before lunging at you.

While Bjorn was large and could probably split someone in half if he wished you were fast. So fast you dodged his lunge, his punches, and his kicks. As he ran at you again you ducked under his arm, running to a nearby branch. You took hold of the cold wood in your hand, pulling yourself up then swinging yourself back, kicking him full force in the chest as he ran for you again.

He was sent spiralling to the ground, a loud thump echoing his fall as a low growl came from his throat. The only thing you’d commend him on is the fact he’d yet to reach for his axe. As he ran for you again you almost got past. That was till his hand caught your hair, sending you spiralling towards the ground.

You rolled out of the fall, an ache coming from your head, but you had to keep going. You grabbed another branch, almost ready to kick again when a large hand wrapped around your ankle. You couldn’t help the squeal as Bjorn pulled you from the tree, sending you back to the dirt, this time moving to cage you in with his arms as he hovered on top of you.

“Your quick,” he panted, trying to catch his breath, “I’ll give you that. But not quick enough,” he teased, leaning down with a smirk.

When you tried to move his large hand wrapped around your neck, gripping the sides of your throat, “I’m not done with you little one,”

“What?” you spat, your hand grabbing at his wrist, “You gonna kill me? Seems like a waste of a good fight,”

“Oh no,” he said, his face moving down even closer, “I had a much better idea in mind,” he said, his hand moving from your throat to your hair, pulling your face up till your lips were brushing, “After all we have a lot in common you and I,” he said, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Like what?” you spat, trying to act like there was not a strange feeling washing over your stomach like butterflies in a cage.

Bjorn chuckled softly, “Like the fact all you can think about is me fucking you senseless,” he teased and for the first time you felt your throat grow dry and the words leave your mind, “Aw cat caught your tongue again? Let’s see if I can find it,” he said and before you could react his lips were pressed against yours.

His kiss was rough, and his chapped lips moved against yours in their own kind of battle. You couldn’t help but kiss back. You told yourself this was for survival, to escape, but the pang between your legs knew it was more than that as your arms reached up around his shoulders to pull him closer.

Bjorn groaned as he grinded his bulge against you and you gasped into the kiss at his size, “What’s wrong little one? Never been with a real man?” he teased.

“Shut up and kiss me you idiot,” you said, reaching for the nape of his neck to pull him back in but you gasped when his hand went back around your throat, “I- “

“No,” Bjorn said, cutting off your stutters as his hand reached for the waist band of your trousers, “I am in charge. Me,” he said, ripping the fabric down your leg, his hand still grasping your throat, “You don’t tell me what to do, got it?” he asked, and you did your best to nod without tightening his grip.

His grip loosened slightly, allowing you to breath in deeper but still enough to hold you down as his fingers slipped between your thighs. “So wet for me,” he praised, running a finger up your slit making you shiver.

You gasped when you felt his ease two fingers in, your hips instinctively bucking for more friction as Bjorn chuckled at your antics, “Such a desperate little thing,” he said, his lips crashing back down on yours as his fingers began to curl inside you. you moaned into the kiss as he moved his thumb over your clit, massaging your bundle of nerves as he fucked you on his fingers.

Bjorn enjoyed each noise, each whimper and whine, as his fingers worked slowly to untie the knot building in your stomach. Just as your body began to twitch, on the verge of your peak his fingers slipped out, a loud whine coming from your throat, “Not yet,” he warned, pulling his own trousers down slightly, “You’ve not earned it yet,” he said as he slipped his hard cock out from the fabric.

You only saw it for a moment, but it was thick, its tip red and angry as he moved to line himself up with your hole. He pushed it in slightly as you bite your lip to deal with the girth stretching you out. It was almost a relief when he pulled it out but less so when a loud tear ripped through the air, and you saw he had torn your top layer to get to your shift. You scowled as he pulled the flimsy fabric down, exposing your breasts to the cold air making your nipples perk up instantly.

He cupped your breast, his thumb flicking against your nub making you bite back a moan, “Such a pretty sight,” he praised, “Can’t make you fall apart you around my cock,” he added, thrusting in suddenly making you gasp as you stretched to take his size.

His eyes screwed shut as he sunk his length in, his head falling into the crook of his shoulder, “Feels so good,” he mumbled, his grip around your throat tightening as he began slow deep thrusts making your toes curl, your hands moving to grip his shoulders, nails sinking into back.

“Fuck,” you cursed, wrapping your legs round his waist making him hit new spots as your eyes rolled back, your peak quickly rebuilding.

His hand slipped between your body, his grip on your throat lessening slightly as his fingers found your clit, rubbing harsh circles on the sensitive bud. You didn’t care who might walk by or try disguise the moans coming from your mouth as you finally hit your peak you’d desperately been chasing. You felt your walls squeeze around him, your toes curling, as your orgasm washed over your body like a tidal wave.

“Fuck,” Bjorn muttered, his hand moving from between your bodies to beside your head. He pushed himself further up, his eyes scanning your frame as his thrusts suddenly sped up. You gasped, still riding out your orgasm as his pace sped up as his eyes focused on your bouncing tits, “Such a pretty little thing,” he grunted, “so fucking tight,” he gasped as your legs pulled him in deeper and he saw a new spark behind your eyes.

It didn’t take long for his own peak to hit and his seed to spill inside you. gasping and panting he let go of your neck, instead using his hands to steady himself above you as his eyes met yours, “Be honest,” he said, his voice hoarse, “you were planning on running when I’d finished weren’t you?” he asked.

You couldn’t help smiling lightly, a chuckle leaving your lips, “Maybe we are alike,” you teased, glancing down at the state you were in, “but I’m afraid I don’t think I could run if I tried,”

“Good,” Bjorn said, leaning down to place a last rough kiss to your lips, “I have far better plans for us,”

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stylesonfilms · 6 months ago

Text

ink & innocence - 6

word count: 5.2k

The morning of the trip started with a familiar sense of annoyance for Harry.

He had thrown the black duffel bag into the trunk of his car with more force than necessary, muttering under his breath about how he had been roped into this. Sure, he'd agreed, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it. The bag wasn't packed with much. Some t-shirts, a couple of flannels, a spare pair of boots, toiletries, but it was the other items that mattered. His journal sat neatly tucked between the folds of a sweatshirt, a pack of sharpened pencils beside it. That was the one thing he refused to leave behind. Whatever this trip turned out to be, Harry would at least have that to retreat to. His fingers grazed over the leather before zipping the bag shut. His hands squeezed themselves in a fist, feeling the comforting weight of his rings on his fingers as he took a breath.

When he arrived at Zayn's house, the RV was already parked out front. Its size loomed obnoxiously, painted in muted tones of beige and green that looked as tired as Harry felt. He pulled into the driveway, taking a moment to gather himself before stepping out. His boots crunched against the gravel, and his face was set in its usual scowl. He wasn't in the mood to talk, and he certainly wasn't going to play nice.

The others were already there. Zayn stood by the driver's side, grinning wide as he waved. "Finally! The man of the hour!" he called out, earning nothing more than a flat stare from Harry, who brushed past him and climbed into the passenger seat without a word.

Aspen, meanwhile, was sitting in the back of the RV, tucked beside Kirsten on one of the bench seats. She hadn't expected Harry to show up, though she supposed she should have guessed. Zayn had a way of convincing people to do things, even when they were as gruff and closed off as Harry. Still, the sight of him, broad-shouldered and intimidating even as he slouched into the front seat, sent a ripple of something through her.

She didn't have much time to dwell on it. Kirsten was sitting close, her arm brushing Aspen's as she leaned forward to adjust her bag. The closeness was stifling, though Aspen wouldn't dare say anything about it. Instead, she kept her hands folded in her lap, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. Isobel was chatting away on the opposite bench, filling the small space with her usual bubbly energy. It wasn't like she was shutting Kirsten out. She had done nothing wrong. If Aspen could open up to anyone besides Isobel, it would be Kirsten. But a rumble in her stomach always stopped her before she should. The girl wasn't the boss of anyone.

The RV itself was nicer than Aspen had expected, though it came at a cost. Isobel had mentioned the price earlier with a wince, blaming their last-minute planning. Still, it had everything they needed for the trip—plenty of seating, a small kitchenette, even a bathroom. Aspen had claimed a top bunk for herself earlier, thinking it would be a good escape when she needed some time alone.

Earlier, on the ride over to Zayn's, Aspen fidgeted with the hem of her jacket so much that Isobel had to grab her wrist and force an answer out of her.

"What is it?"

Aspen sighed a small one through her pouted lips. "I dunno... Just. Can I have the RV bed? I don't really feel like the tent part of camping. You know it's hard for me to sleep if it's not at home." Her answer was a squeak, just a sliver off from the truth of why she wanted to sleep inside. But Isobel didn't seem to notice her friend's fib. She just gave her hand a squeeze as her car rolled into Zayn's open garage. "Of course, but you have to spend time with us. Please?"

Aspen nodded, though they both knew her books would get her attention the most. The truth was that she made a smart little inference. Zayn would have Isobel and if, knowing Zayn, Harry was there, so would Kirsten. And after the night of the little hangout, she had a bad feeling pooling in her that they would occupy each other. And she would just rather not be there to see it.

As the RV rumbled to life and pulled out of the driveway, the atmosphere inside was a mix of excitement and tension.

Up front, Zayn fiddled with the radio as he navigated the suburban streets. "So, Harry," he started, his tone casual, "what's the over-under on you actually enjoying this trip?"

Harry didn't look up from where he was scrolling through his phone, his jaw tight. "Don't push it." Zayn laughed, clearly not deterred. "Come on, mate. Fresh air, campfires, fishing—what's not to like?" Harry grunted, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery. He didn't bother answering, and Zayn eventually dropped the subject, switching to humming along to the music instead.

Behind the curtain, the dynamic was different. Isobel had pulled out a bag of snacks and was offering them around. Kirsten accepted a handful of trail mix, leaning back against the seat with her usual confidence. Aspen shook her head when offered, her voice soft. "I'm okay, thanks."

Kirsten glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "You sure? We've got a long drive ahead."

"I'm sure," Aspen murmured, turning her attention to the window. The passing scenery blurred into greens and blues, the occasional house or field breaking up the monotony. She liked the quiet. It was easier than trying to keep up with Isobel's chatter or Kirsten's bold energy.

Still, she couldn't entirely ignore the presence of Harry up front. His broad shoulders filled the seat, his head tilted slightly as he listened to Zayn talk. He wasn't smiling—she doubted he ever smiled—but there was something about the way he carried himself, so self-assured and unbothered, that made it hard to look away. She quickly dropped her gaze, her cheeks warming at the thought.

The three-and-a-half-hour drive stretched on, marked by the occasional pit stop and the rhythmic hum of the RV.

Zayn kept the energy light, cracking jokes and pointing out landmarks as they passed. Harry remained stoic, his responses clipped when he bothered to respond at all. In the back, Isobel had managed to rope Kirsten into a game of cards, the two of them laughing over their hands. Aspen watched quietly, her book resting in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in ages.

Eventually, Kirsten leaned over, nudging her lightly. "You okay, Aspen? You've been awfully quiet."

"I'm fine," Aspen replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just... tired."

Kirsten didn't push, turning back to her cards with a shrug. Aspen exhaled softly, grateful for the reprieve.

As the RV rolled closer to their destination, the air inside grew warmer, the sun climbing higher in the sky. Harry shifted in his seat, glancing over at Zayn. "How much longer?"

"Another hour, give or take," Zayn replied, adjusting the air conditioning. "You holding up okay, grumpy?"

Harry shot him a look that could curdle milk but didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back, his eyes drifting shut as he tried to tune out the noise. He wanted to look back. Instead, he opted for the rearview mirror. His eyes caught gaze of Kirsten shuffling cards and passing them out between her and Isobel. Then, he saw Aspen.

It was hard to see her, as she was cornered into the side of the sofa behind Kirsten. He was thankful her nose was in her book, though. Harry's eyes flickered back to the card game, and it was then that Kirsten met his eyes through the mirror with a small smile tugging on her lips. Harry looked away, pretending to simply not see.

In the back, Aspen finally opened her book, though she couldn't focus on the words. Her thoughts kept wandering, her gaze occasionally flickering to the back of Harry's head. It was going to be an interesting trip for sure.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Aspen was the last one to step off the RV. It was warmer here, which she was grateful for. Clung to her body was a cute, simple outfit. She wore a brown long-sleeve shirt, which ended right below her belly button. She wore a pair of denim shorts, a little looser in their fit, paired with brown Blundstone boots. Her brown hair fell into two side braids, and she wore one of Isobel's beanies atop her head.

Isobel was the opposite, it seemed. A white band, practically, covered just enough of her chest and torso along with ripped shorts that were short. But of course, Aspen thought she looked beyond good. She only ever admired Isobel's confidence to wear things like that, not that it was a bad thing to wear. It was just something Aspen herself wouldn't feel comfortable in.

The sun's warmth soaked deep into Aspen's skin. It was nice to get out of the chilly air that she had been trapped in since summer came to an end. She loved when the sun was out. When she was just a little girl, she spent as many hours as she could during her free summers in her front or backyard digging into her mother's flower bed or just laying with the little ladybugs in the grass.

Her brown eyes skimmed the area. There was a narrow dirt path that the crew followed to reach the coastline. It wasn't awfully grassy, the tan gravel peeking through significantly more. The lake water didn't waft too terrible of a smell, which she was grateful for. The water stretched for miles in each direction. She assumed that Isobel or Zayn picked one of the edge spots for their getaway. It was nice and private, which she didn't mind at all.

While everyone else busied themselves with setting up their tents before it got too dark, though it was only noon, Aspen carried out the lawn chairs one by one from the storage beneath the RV. There were the three standard black ones, but Isobel and Aspen had matching pink ones. They had actually found them in perfect shape outside of the sorority building with a sign mentioning they were up for grabs. Aspen, of course, was against it. What if someone had put some awful chemical on them to make strangers sick?

Against better judgment, though, Isobel shrugged her friend off and tossed them over her shoulders before they continued their walk. The girl refused to let Isobel's behind touch the seats before she could give them a good rinse down—and so she did the very next day.

There was a makeshift campfire, stones laid out in a circle. That's where Aspen opted to set up their chairs. She even took it upon herself to go the extra mile and secure the seats down into the gravel with metal rods connected to a string on each leg of the chair.

"Hey!" Kirsten called out, waving as she left the crowd of people to see what the girl was up to. Aspen flashed a small smile as she stood, looking at her work. Her chair was set up on the end next to Isobel's, and she assumed Zayn would fill the black seat to the left of his girlfriend.

"Hi, Kirsten. How did your tent go?" Her eyes peeked around her friend's frame to one of the only tents actually successfully set up.

"It's up, let's just hope it holds. Speaking offfff" Kirsten grinned, poking Aspen's arm, "do you want to be my tent mate? When a puzzled look flashed on her face, Kirsten laughed and spoke up again. "Iz and Zayn are sharing, and Harry is way off in the corner in his own tent. I figured you and I could share," she quipped.

A breath that Aspen didn't even know she was holding in came out. "Oh, um. That's kind, Kir," she mumbled shyly, brushing the loose front pieces of her hair behind her ear, "I... think I'm going to take the camper's cot in the RV. I have issues sleeping as is when it's not at home, and I don't think gravel would suit me." Why had she been so nervous that Kirsten and Harry might've shared a tent? Where did she even get that idea?

Kirsten made a faux sound of disappointment but nodded. "Maybe next time?"

"Yeah! Next time." Aspen smiled before Kirsten was off to pull the rest of their supplies out from the storage.

Within the next hour and a half, everyone found their comfortable places. The tents were set up, two of them close together but Harry's a little farther out. Aspen busied herself in the RV to put her duffel bag at the end of the top bunk. There were three other empty ones, but unlike her, they had no issue being outside. It didn't make her feel as left out as she thought she would. Something about having her own space made her smile. She could read, listen to her music, do whatever she wanted. Of course, they'd be coming in and out for bathroom breaks or to heat up their food, but it wasn't an issue. She just didn't want to sleep out there.

It wasn't hard for Aspen to find herself a secluded area to read. There were a few big rocks she could sit on, but also a more sand-like gravel between the rocks and the water if she wanted to sit. Tall trees separated her from the group, a winding trail leading to and from between the trees. She could still hear her friends when they laughed a little loud or called out for her, but it was private enough to be her own.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

From his seat around the campfire, Harry's eyes darted all over the place. A beer was in his hands, which would be followed up with tequila and coke in a red solo cup after. It was dark now, the only light illuminating from the portable lamps, their fire, and the inside of the RV. Harry took the seat next to Zayn, sandwiched between him and Kirsten based on the layout. The only two that had been missing from the group were Isobel and Aspen, who went to go change after the boys had.

Harry could just barely see around the corner of the RV where the door was propped open and Isobel stood with Aspen. His eyes looked around to Zayn, then to Kirsten, both buried in their phones before his attention was caught again. Aspen had ever so slightly came into his full view. Instead of the outfit she wore when she came, which Harry mentally scolded himself for not getting a look at properly, she was in a pair of light blue sleep shorts with darker blue stars scattered over. Frilly socks hugged just above her ankle, and her feet were kept warm by her slip-on Uggs. Harry couldn't get a good look at her shirt, only able to see the thin straps of the white tank top and how it clung to her body.

Isobel handed Aspen a navy blue 'Kinder Planet' hoodie to slip on. The girl had been complaining that she didn't bring a warm enough coat, and even by the fire, she'd run with chills. Isobel, of course, made the sacrifice but made Aspen promise to properly pack the next time this happened. She was thanked with a warm hug from her brunette friend, and a smile cracked on both their lips.

The two made their way to the campfire, Aspen with a book tucked under her arm. Zayn held out two beers, one for Isobel and the other for Aspen. "Care for a drink?"

Aspen shook her head politely, her braids swiftly moving against the hoodie as she did. She sat with her legs tucked partially under herself and laid the book flat on her lap. "No, but thank you." Aspen didn't drink. No drinks, no smoking, no kissing, no... nothing. But Isobel always insisted she wasn't a prude. (Though she felt like she was.) It just never piqued her interest.

When she noticed everyone had some sort of drink, she slouched further into her chair. She looked everywhere but straight ahead, where Harry sat. Maybe she was just paranoid in her own verse, but she swore she could feel his gaze lingering on her every now and then.

"My God! And then, when he showed up, the whole class had pulled the same shit on him. He never saw it coming!" Isobel cackled out. Laughter followed close by the rest of the group. Aspen would waver in and out of the conversation, her fingers tapping against her book. She had always been shy and kept to herself. It wasn't a habit that she meant to be disrespectful; she truly was listening; she just couldn't muster up the words sometimes. It made her too nervous, and the burn would creep up to her neck and face.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Everyone had ran through their final bathroom breaks and they finished up the meal-prepped pasta dinner that Isobel took time to do. Aspen was tucked on the sofa in the RV with a small reading light on, keeping that part of the cabin dim with light. She was about ten chapters into the book she started, and she swore it had been more fun than tonight. She hoped tomorrow would be better, Isobel suggested going for a walk alongside the lake. That would kill some time, she thought. When lamps started to flicker out outside by her friends', and Harry's, tents, she couldn't help the small smile that crept up on her face. Maybe she would be the first person to take advantage of the hot, full water and take a shower. So, she settled for that. She connected her phone to the little pink JBL speaker in her bag that Isobel got for her a while ago. She tapped shuffle on her playlist, and the first song started to play, nasty by Ariana Grande.

Although Aspen would never have personal relations to what the song entailed, it was a catchy beat that caught her body in swift movements. It was just a fun song to listen to despite the certain words and phrases that would cause a shiver of embarrassment to run down her spine. Aspen took another look around the empty camper and the burnt-out lamps before she allowed herself to let loose a bit. The music caught her hips in a swaying motion while she rummaged for underwear to wear after her shower. She had planned to just wear what she had on now, since the articles were still clean. The lyrics bumped in her mouth through a hum, her cheeks flaring at the lyrics she knew were to come.

Aspen slid the hoodie Isobel lent her over her frame and set it on the arm of the couch, leaving her in just her tank top. It wasn't anything too revealing, not being Aspen's route, but if you looked close enough, you could definitely catch the curve of her breasts in them and how they sat and how the cold wind had its... effect.

"I just wanna make time for ya',

Swear it's just right for ya..."

She must have missed the click of the RV door opening, because she certainly would not forget Harry walking in.

"Like this pussy designed for ya',

Ten outta five on ya'..."

"Kirsten? I'm--." Harry paused his sentence. To his surprise, it was Aspen inside.

Kirsten and Harry made small chit chat through the night some time after Aspen retreated to the RV for the night. One thing led to another and another one of their nights was in the heat of the talk. Kirsten came tapping on is tent to let him know she'd be using the restroom before she came in. And like a school boy, that's what Harry felt like, he decided it would be fun to sneak up on her as a part of a tease.

He was certain that it was the alcohol talking, now, about the idea to catch Kirsten. She must have gone to the restroom near the end of the camper because Aspen was inside. That was obvious to Harry now.

Aspen squealed and quickly turned around, her hands nervously slamming over the speaker to conceal the very obvious sounds of the music. Her cheeks grew an awful shade of red as she looked up at Harry, across the camper, with a heaving chest. God, that was terrifying.

Oh, and Harry definitely noticed. It wasn't like he tried to. (Maybe, he told himself.)

"Sorry, I didn't--."

"It's fine.," Aspen squeaked. Her breathing slowed but the rise and fall of her breaths were still noticeable. Her toes curled in her socks in nervousness under his gaze. She was praying he would just leave.

The moment between Harry and Aspen hung in the air, awkward and heavy, as if the tension could solidify and fall to the floor between them. Aspen’s face was still red, her lips slightly parted as though she might say something else, but the words never came. Harry’s gaze flicked from her flushed face to the small speaker she was still gripping, its soft pink light a stark contrast to the shadows in the dimly lit RV.

“Right,” Harry muttered, his tone clipped, as he took a single step back toward the door. His green eyes lingered on her for just a fraction of a second longer before he shook his head and turned, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Aspen didn’t say another word, her posture shrinking further as the door clicked shut behind him. She exhaled shakily, her fingers trembling as she scrambled to turn off the speaker. The sudden silence that followed was deafening, and the memory of his sharp eyes and stoic expression lingered long after he’d gone. She was mortified, unsure if she should be more embarrassed about being caught singing or the fact that Harry, of all people, had been the one to see her so unguarded.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry stepped out into the crisp night air, his boots crunching softly against the gravel below. He glanced up at the dark sky, where the faint twinkle of stars seemed muted by the heavy cloud cover. A slight chill ran through him, but it wasn’t the cold that was bothering him. Something else gnawed at his thoughts; something he wasn’t ready to name or confront.

What the hell was that? he thought, running a hand through his curls. His palm lingered at the back of his neck, the heat of embarrassment— or maybe something else— pricking his skin. He could still hear the faint echo of Aspen’s soft humming, the sway of her hips just on the edge of his memory. But that wasn’t why he felt this restless irritation clawing at him. No, it was something more than that—something he refused to dwell on.

Shaking his head, Harry stuffed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and began walking toward his tent. His strides were deliberate, each step crunching louder in the stillness of the camp. His cold, stoic exterior masked the churn of thoughts that clashed in his mind. She’s just shy, he told himself, dismissively. Quiet. Boring, really. What would Zayn call it? Bookish?

But the image of her red cheeks and wide eyes as she scrambled to shut off the music lingered despite himself. He clenched his jaw. Doesn’t matter. She’s nothing. Kirsten’s the one you’re supposed to be thinking about right now, not--.

His thoughts halted abruptly as his steps carried him past Kirsten’s tent. The faint glow of her lamp illuminated the soft canvas, casting shadows of her moving inside. She must have been getting ready for bed, or maybe waiting for him. He stopped for a moment, hovering just outside the glow.

Kirsten had been clear earlier in the evening when she mentioned she’d stop by his tent if he didn’t find her first. Her suggestive tone had been hard to miss, and normally, Harry would have welcomed the easy company. But tonight, there was a gnawing discomfort in his chest that he couldn’t ignore. Something about her invitation felt heavier than it should’ve been, as if acting on it would only worsen the unsettled feelings he already had.

He took a step forward, the edge of his boot catching on a loose rock. His eyes flicked toward the shadows moving within Kirsten’s tent, and his brow furrowed. She’s expecting you, his mind chided, though his feet remained rooted to the ground. Another step forward, and he paused again, a sharp exhale escaping through his nose.

It wasn’t about Kirsten, he realized. Not entirely, anyway. It was about the hollowness of it all— of the fleeting connections, the surface-level distractions. He was tired. Not physically, but in the way that left his chest heavy and his thoughts a tangled mess. And for the first time in a long time, the easy distraction of another meaningless night didn’t feel worth it.

With a final glance at the soft glow inside Kirsten’s tent, Harry shook his head and turned sharply on his heel. His strides carried him to his own tent, where he yanked open the flap and slipped inside without so much as a glance back. The zipper of his tent echoed loudly in the stillness of the night, sealing him into his small, solitary space.

Inside, Harry dropped heavily onto his sleeping bag, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he braced his elbows on his knees. His eyes fell on the black duffel bag he’d brought, the corner of his journal just visible from where he’d tucked it away. A sigh escaped him, heavy and laced with something he couldn’t name. His hand reached instinctively for the journal, but he hesitated, fingers curling into a loose fist.

The memory of Aspen’s startled face flickered in his mind again, unbidden. Her embarrassment, the soft flush of her cheeks, the way she seemed to fold into herself as if she could disappear entirely under his gaze. It shouldn’t have stuck with him, but it did. He shook his head and pushed the thought away, dragging his hand down his face.

It was going to be a long night. His teeth caught hold of his lip ring, lightly tugging on it as he reached for his book and pencils.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry didn’t plan on it. He didn’t plan on speaking to Aspen that first night, didn’t plan on seeing her like that in the RV, didn’t plan on brushing off Kirsten’s attempts to meet up, and he certainly didn’t plan on sketching her in his journal.

But there she was.

It wasn’t something he realized at first. His pencil had been moving across the page, almost thoughtlessly. The crisp night air around him was quiet save for the faint hum of activity from a few tents over, but Harry had tuned it all out. Sketching had always been his way to unwind, to detach from the world for a bit, and tonight had been no exception— or so he thought.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke his focus. It was subtle at first, but enough to draw his attention. His head snapped up, his expression hardening as he prepared to tell Kirsten he wasn’t in the mood again. But the words caught in his throat, his mouth slightly ajar, when his gaze flicked back to the open page in his lap.

His green eyes widened, scanning the lines and shadows he’d unconsciously brought to life on the page. His stomach twisted, an uncomfortable tightness gripping his chest as realization dawned on him. It wasn’t just any sketch, it was her.

Aspen.

Curled up in her chair at the campfire earlier that evening.

The details were painfully accurate, from the loose braid that framed her face to the slope of her button nose and even the subtle lines of her fingers as they nervously toyed with the edge of her book. Harry’s hand froze, the pencil hovering inches from the paper as he stared at what he’d done. It wasn’t just some absent-minded doodle squeezed into the margins of a random page. It was a full sketch, taking up the entirety of the sheet with precision and care. Every detail felt intentional, as if his subconscious had guided his hand with a clarity he hadn’t known was there.

What the hell is wrong with me? Harry thought, a cold shiver running down his spine. He was stunned, not only by the fact that he’d drawn her, but by how natural it had felt—how he hadn’t even realized what he was doing until it was too late.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the zipper to his tent being pulled down until the fabric rustled.

“I saw your light on, and—.” Zayn’s voice cut through the silence, but the words came to an abrupt halt when his dark eyes landed on the journal in Harry’s lap. His gaze darted from the page to Harry, and his expression shifted to one of disbelief, tinged with amusement. “Hold on. Dude, is that—.”

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, slamming the leather-bound journal shut with enough force to make Zayn flinch.

The sharpness in his voice left no room for argument, but Zayn, being Zayn, couldn’t help himself. “Is that Aspen?” he asked, the edge of a teasing grin pulling at his lips.

“It isn’t,” Harry growled, his tone low and dangerous as his green eyes narrowed. He leaned forward slightly, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the closed journal as if to shield it from Zayn’s view. “It’s a tattoo design for my four PM next week.”

The lie rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, but Harry could feel the heat rising to his face. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to appear calm and unaffected, though the tension in his posture betrayed him.

Zayn raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to press Harry when he was on edge. When Harry was ticked, he had a tendency to get a little... loud. “Alright, man. Whatever you say.” He held up his hands in mock surrender, the beer in one hand sloshing slightly as he moved. “Just thought you might want one of these. Figured you’d still be up.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, his fingers drumming against the closed journal as he considered the offer. He wasn’t in the mood for company, or for alcohol for that matter, but he didn’t want to give Zayn any more reason to linger. With a terse nod, he took the bottle, his calloused fingers brushing against the condensation on its surface.

“Thanks,” he muttered, his tone curt as he twisted off the cap and took a swig.

Zayn lingered for a moment longer, his gaze flicking to the journal again before he finally stepped back. “Well, if you change your mind about hanging out, we’re just over by the fire. Don’t be a stranger.” The fire? When the hell did they start that up again?

Harry didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the beer in his hand as Zayn zipped the tent shut behind him. His tongue prodded the black metal ring from the inside of his lip. The quiet returned, but it felt heavier now, charged with an unspoken tension that Harry couldn’t shake.

He placed the bottle down beside him and stared at the journal for a long moment. His fingers hovered over the worn leather cover, itching to open it again, to study the lines of her face one more time. But he didn’t. Instead, he shoved the journal deep into his duffel bag, as if burying it would erase the image from his mind.

#harry styles #fanfic #one direction #zayn malik #niall horan #fanfiction #wattpad fanfiction #wattpad #louis tomlinson #harry styles fanfiction #smut #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing

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starsreminisce · 4 months ago

Text

SJM Romance Week Day Five Favorite Trope

Koi no Yokan

Word count: 4800 for @sjmromanceweek

Summary: When Elain saw Eris's red scarf, it triggered a memory of a red-haired fae who had once shown her a kindness she had never experienced before. Only then did she realize she had met her mate before their bond had ever snapped.

Read on AO3 or Continue Below

It was the red scarf wrapped around Eris’s neck that Elain couldn’t stop staring at. She barely heard the conversation—Eris’s irritated tone as he tugged the scarf loose, Rhysand’s low drawl as he led him into the office.

The scarf reminded her of another winter. Another life.

Back when her ears were still rounded. When threadbare clothes clung to her too-thin frame, her stomach growling from days of hunger. It was the winter she had schemed to cross the wall, to save her family. Feyre had come home with nothing, and Nesta spoke of Tomas taking them in. The forest had seemed endless then, the cold sharper than a blade, but Elain had been determined. If the Children of the Blessed were right, if the fae were truly so easily swayed by beauty, then she would use hers to save her family.

She shivered beneath her flimsy cloak, the trees creaking around her. Somewhere ahead, voices rose-deep, otherworldly. Fae. She froze, pressing herself behind the nearest trunk.

“Andras,” a deep voice, as cutting as the cold, instructed, “this is as far as I can take you.”

Elain’s heart pounded as she peered out from her hiding spot. Three of them with ornate masks. Too tall, too perfect to be human. One of them—a blonde male with ethereal handsome features—flicked his hand, and the second fae shifted into a massive wolf. Elain’s held her breath as the creature shook and then darted into the woods.

“Tam,” the third fae—the red-haired one with a beauty so precise it felt like a punishment—snapped.

But the blonde cut him off with just a look; his emerald eyes were cold, commanding. Then, with a jerk of his head, he was gone, disappearing amongst the trees and leaving the red-haired fae to follow.

The glade was quiet once more, thick with silence. There was only the faint whisper of branches in the chill breeze. The redheaded fae remained standing, jaw clenched as he stared after Andras, his hands curled to fists. One long weighted moment, it seemed almost as though he would give chase, but he did not budge.

Elain’s heart thundered in her ears; her breath was shallow and came fast. She had moments, mere moments before he, too, disappeared. Her mind racing, she fought through the haze of hunger and fear.

Do it.

“Wait!” she called, stepping into the open.

The fae turned, and her breath caught. He was beautiful in the way a wildfire was beautiful—impossible to look away from, but every instinct in her screamed to run. His sharp grin sent a chill down her spine.

“Well, hello,” he drawled, like honey dripping from a blade.

Elain swallowed hard. “Take me with you,” she said, her voice trembling even as she fought to sound brave. Her knees shook beneath her, but she forced her chin high, refusing to let him see her fear. “Take me, and I’ll do anything you want.”

His scarred brow arched, and his grin stretched wider, pulling the brutal mark across his eye into something cruel—mocking.

“Anything?” he purred, the word dripping with wicked amusement, as though savoring it.

Elain forced herself to nod, the cold biting her cheeks as the word slipped from her lips. “Anything.”

He stepped closer. Instinctively, she moved back, her breath clouding the air between them. His grin only deepened, sharp and vicious, as if her fear was the gift he’d been waiting for.

His boots crunched against the frozen ground, and she froze, the icy earth beneath her feet anchoring her in place. She couldn’t retreat further—not from him. His russet eye gleamed as he watched her, a molten light flickering there. He tilted his head, the motion eerily animalistic, his sharp teeth flashing in the fading light.

“Do you hate us?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, the words curling through the cold air like smoke.

She shivered as warmth radiated off him, her body betraying her resolve as she swayed toward him. His scent—rich and earthy, like roasted chestnuts—filled her senses. Her mind flickered to a memory: her father, smiling by the fire, pressing a warm handful of chestnuts into her palm. A time when she was safe. A time when she was loved.

“No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. Not him, anyway.

“That’s too bad,” he murmured, his breath brushing her lips. “Because that’s the only way I can take you with me.”

And then, just like that, the warmth vanished.

Her eyes flew open, the cold rushing in as if to punish her for the brief reprieve. He had stepped back, his head tilted as he studied her with narrowed eyes. For the first time, his grin faltered. Confusion flickered there, cutting through the cruel confidence that had been so effortless moments before.

“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself.

She blinked, her breath curling in the air between them. “Don’t understand what?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, her stomach growled loudly, the sound breaking through the charged silence.

“You’re hungry,” he said flatly, his voice unreadable.

An icy breeze passed between them and she shivered.

“And cold.”

“Please,” she said, her voice breaking, “please take me with you.”

For a moment, his expression softened, something like kindness threading through the sharp lines of his features. Then it vanished, replaced by something painful.

“I can’t.”

Elain’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t stop the words that spilled out. “Am I not beautiful enough for you to take me?”

The words burned her throat as she said them, humiliating and hollow. But what else did she have to offer? What else did she have left to barter?

He let out a bitter laugh, his head tipping back slightly. “Extremely for a human,” he said, “but that’s not what we need.”

She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into her palms. “I can be what you need.”

His jaw clenched, frustration flaring in his russet eye as he stepped closer. “I need you to hate us,” he said, his voice low and taut, like a cord pulled too tight. “I need you to hate us enough to kill me right now.”

The idea struck her like a blow to the chest. Kill him? She couldn’t—not because she wasn’t strong enough, but because the thought of harming him, of snuffing out this strange, painful kindness, made her stomach twist. The cruelty he wore like armor didn’t fool her. She could see the cracks underneath, the shadows of something far more human.

He knew it, too. The tension in his jaw eased, his russet eye flickering with something unreadable—something almost tender—as the metallic one whirred softly. His grin lingered, but it wasn’t cruel anymore. It was weary, resigned, a shadow of what it had been moments before.

With a quiet sigh, he pulled the red scarf from around his neck, hesitating for a moment as though deciding whether to go through with it. Then, slowly, he draped it over her shoulders, his fingers brushing against the cold skin of her collarbone.

“The least I can do,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, as though the weight of the gesture was something even he didn’t fully understand.

She clutched the scarf tightly, feeling the burn of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“Let’s find you something to eat,” he said, his earlier drawl replaced with something gentler.

“That won’t be enough to save my family,” she said, her voice trembling.

He considered what she had said. “No. But it’ll be enough to get you through today.”

He glanced around, his sharp gaze sweeping the forest before he took her hand. His grip was firm, and she stumbled after him, too cold and too empty to resist. The forest around them was still, the snow muffling their steps, but she barely noticed.

When they reached a clearing, he let go of her hand and knelt, his movements quick as he began gathering sticks. The clearing was small, ringed with ancient trees whose gnarled branches clawed at the sky, their shadows stretching long across the snow.

“Do you know how to build a fire?” he asked without looking at her.

She shook her head, her fingers too frozen to even try.

He lit it effortlessly. The small flame burst to life, crackling as it spread through the wood. She leaned toward it as she closed her eyes, her trembling fingers outstretched, letting the warmth seep into her skin. For the first time in hours—maybe days—she could feel her hands again.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone, the trees swallowing him. She stared into the flames, the flickering light dancing over her pale hands. Her stomach growled loudly, but she ignored it, guilt twisting inside her. What would Nesta and Feyre think if they could see her now, warming herself at a fae’s fire? Taking food from a fae that she knows she shouldn’t but desperate enough she had to?

He returned a few moments later, his movements silent except for the faint crunch of snow beneath his boots. A small rabbit swung from his hand, its body limp, its fur already matted. She looked up at him, her stomach clenching with hunger and guilt alike.

The fae took no notice of her hesitation as he prepared the rabbit, working with a quiet precision. When the smell of roasting meat wafted toward her, her mouth watered despite herself.

She shivered violently, pulling her knees to her chest as the cold seeped into her again. He looked at her, his sharp eyes softening as he moved closer. Without a word, he slid his arms around her, cradling her against his chest as if she were his to protect.

When he pulled her close, she stiffened, unsure if she could allow herself this comfort. But the heat of him—the solid, unyielding warmth—was irresistible. Slowly, she let herself sink into his chest, her head pressing against the soft fabric of his tunic. His steady breath rumbled through her, and the tension in her body began to melt, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now.

She knew fae were mercurial. Temperamental. Cruel.

And yet, he was the first to ever show her this brand of kindness.

She blinked hard, willing the tears to stay hidden. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry—not in front of him, not in front of anyone. But the fire was warm, and his arms were warmer, and something in her cracked. The tears spilled silently, unbidden, sliding down her cheeks as she burrowed closer to him, trying to hide the evidence of her weakness.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice soft against her hair.

“Why not?” she choked out.

“It’s breaking a heart I’ve forgotten I had,” he murmured, his voice raw, as though the admission cost him something. “You shouldn’t let someone like me see you cry.”

She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears. He was the most beautiful being she had ever seen. His mismatched eyes—one gleaming russet, the other whirring softly as though it could see through her—lingered on her with a strange mix of regret and something warmer, something softer.

Her trembling fingers rose of their own accord, tracing his jawline. She had never seen kindness on a face before. Fae faces were meant for cruelty, weren’t they? But as her touch skimmed the scar cutting through his eye, she realized how wrong she had been.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” she whispered. “It’s been a long time since someone was this kind to me.”

His lips parted slightly, looking through her through half-lidded eyes. “And it’s been a long time since I wanted to care for someone like this.”

Elain swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at his words. He shouldn’t have cared for her. She shouldn’t have cared for him. She thought she could use this to her advantage. Let him ruin her so thoroughly that he’d have no choice but to take her with him. It was a small, desperate hope—but it was enough to keep her upright.

And yet, as his thumb brushed her cheek and his warmth seeped into her frozen bones, another part of her whispered: this wasn’t just a lie. Some selfish, quiet part of her wanted to be held, wanted to be wanted—for herself, not for what she could offer. She didn’t know which part of her was worse.

But she couldn’t think like that—not now, not when her family was hungry and desperate.

“I thought the fae didn’t care,” she said softly.

“We don’t,” he replied, though his voice had softened, low and unsure. “That’s why I don’t understand… but you… you would have someone who does care for you.”

She did. But not like this.

Not in this open, quiet way this strange fae had shown her. Not when Nesta’s care was wrapped in anger or Feyre’s love came laced with resentment. Not even her father, who seemed to drift between worlds, half there and half lost.

Definitely not in the way he held her now—with his scarf wrapped around her neck, the rabbit roasting over the fire he built for her, his gaze on her like she was something precious.

And all of it given freely. All of it without asking for anything in return. Because he refused to take her with him.

Her breath hitched as his gaze dropped to her lips.

“My sister,” she said, trying to break the invisible pull between them. “She hunts for us, but this has been a harsh winter.”

“Is that why you want me to take you?” he asked, his voice a lover’s caress.

Elain bit her lip, and his reaction was immediate—his russet eye darkened, his gaze snapping to the movement as though it had struck him. She could feel the shift in him, the tension coiling tighter in the small space between them. He furrowed his brows, his focus never leaving her mouth, as if he were being denied just as much as she was.

“If she doesn’t come back with something tonight,” he said after a moment, “I’ll make sure you and your family will have something by the morning.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his promise settling over her. “What’s the cost?” she whispered, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

“No cost at all.”

The words fell between them like a lifeline, unasked for but freely given. Her throat burned, a thousand words threatening to escape—gratitude, disbelief, apology—but she swallowed them down, refusing to let them break the fragile silence between them.

She watched the realization dawn on his face, saw it settle in the slight furrow of his brows and the way his tongue swept over his lips, as though he were already anticipating how she intended to pay. And yet, hesitation lingered in his mismatched gaze, thin and taut, like a thread about to snap.

She had already spoken to him, had already been held by him. Now, food roasted over the fire, its scent curling through the cold air, waiting to be consumed. Would it be so wrong, then?

Her propriety was the only thing she had left—the final shred of status she clung to, the last remnant of the life she had once known. And she had already decided she was willing to give it up.

She was lowly now. She had been for a long time. Did it even matter anymore?

Could she let it go completely? Let it fall away like ash in the wind, if it meant convincing him? If it meant saving her family?

Even knowing she might fail?

“You do that,” he warned, “and I absolutely cannot bring you with me.”

Her breath caught. But there was still a chance he could.

She closed her eyes, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. She leaned in, hesitant at first, inch by inch, giving him every chance to stop her.

He didn’t move.

Her lips trembling as the space between them disappeared, as though the pull was stronger than either of them could resist. She hesitated, hovering so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Still, he didn’t move.

Her stomach twisted, a knot of fear and need tightening inside her. What if this was too much? What if it wasn’t enough? She couldn’t tell anymore—couldn’t think past the roaring in her ears, the ache in her chest.

It would be her first kiss.

The thought nearly stopped her. A piece of herself begged her to hold on to it, to keep this one part of her untouched, untainted. But another voice—a louder one—rose up, fierce and aching. She wanted this. Wanted him.

It wasn’t just desperation, not entirely. It was something deeper. Something she couldn’t name.

And he stayed there, so still it was almost painful, as though waiting for her to decide.

And so she did.

She leaned in the final inch and gave him the only thing she could.

A kiss.

It wasn’t payment. It wasn’t a transaction. It wasn’t about convincing him to stay or take her with him.

It was something she wanted.

The touch of his lips was softer than she expected, hesitant at first, but the kiss deepened as his hand slid into her hair. He tasted exactly as he smelled—roasted chestnuts, woodsmoke, and a sweetness she couldn’t name. It warmed her, wrapped around her like his scarf still tied at her throat, and made her feel things she hadn’t felt in years.

Safe. Wanted. Unburdened. Loved.

Her fingers curled into his tunic, desperate to keep him close. When a small, helpless moan escaped her lips, he groaned in response, pulling her tighter, deeper, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

She had been starved before, in more ways than one. But this—this was a different kind of hunger, something she hadn’t even known she could feel. She understood his desperation now, the way their hands clutched at each other, the way their lips pressed harder, seeking more. They were tasting something sweeter than they had ever imagined was possible.

But then he pulled away. His breaths came ragged, his chest rising and falling as if it physically hurt him to stop.

He rested his forehead against hers, his mismatched eyes fluttering shut. When he spoke, his voice was a broken whisper.

“You’ll ruin everything if I bring you with me.”

She didn’t know how she could ruin him when he already had.

His breath was shaky as he leaned into the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against the soft skin beneath her jaw. Elain sucked in a breath, the sensation unraveling her nerves, and leaned back, baring her throat to him as a breathless sigh escaped her lips.

She could feel the dampness pooling between her thighs, the ache coiling deep at her core, and her hips began to roll against whatever was pressing into her, seeking relief. The movement was instinctive, desperate, as though her body was responding to what she couldn’t admit.

Her head lolled toward him, and their lips met for a second time. This kiss wasn’t like the first—there was no timidness, no hesitation. It burned between them, consuming, as if they both knew they were stealing a moment that was never meant to last.

And yet, even as their mouths moved together, she felt it: a sharp pinch beneath her lower left rib, like a string pulled taut. She gasped softly at the sensation, but it didn’t stop her. If anything, it rooted her deeper in the moment.

It wouldn’t be a bad life, she thought hazily, her mind scattering as his hand buried in her hair. To leave her family behind, knowing they’d be taken care of, if only she could stay here—in his arms, for the rest of her days.

But then, he pulled away.

She saw it the moment their eyes met—longing and pain, a depth of feeling she couldn’t fully understand but that shattered her all the same. He looked at her as though their kiss had destroyed him, as though it had splintered something fragile and irreplaceable inside him.

“You can’t ruin this for us,” his voice hoarse, as if it was all he could manage.

And then he was gone.

The cold rushed in to replace him, leaving her unmoored, untethered. His absence hit her like a blow, the warmth of his body still lingering against her skin, the ghost of his lips still brushing her neck. She sank to her knees by the fire, clutching the red scarf he’d left behind as though it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The rabbit roasted over the flames, its scent mingling with the sharp winter air, but Elain barely noticed.

She blinked back tears, the ache in her chest heavy and unrelenting. She had come so close—so close to convincing him, so close to achieving her goal—and yet she’d failed.

Her stomach growled, sharp and insistent, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat. The guilt gnawed at her, sharp as the winter cold. Guilt because she was being fed while her family starved. Punishment because she hadn’t succeeded in securing more for them. Wariness because it had been a fae who had built this fire, hunted this rabbit.

Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the rabbit, then stopped. She couldn’t. Instead, she decided to save it for her father. He would need it more. He would need the strength to survive another day, another failure.

The fire crackled softly in front of her, its warmth doing little to thaw the frost clinging to her chest. She stayed there long after he vanished, staring into the flames, her fingers gripping the red scarf as though holding on to it might bring him back.

Elain blinked, the memory shattering like glass, leaving her floundering. The phantom weight of the scarf was still heavy around her neck.

And there it was. Hanging neatly by the door. An afterthought. Forgotten—yet waiting.

She felt it.

Her head snapped toward the sound of the door swinging open, and she sensed him before she saw him.

Lucien entered, his russet gaze locking on hers almost immediately. A ripple of awareness passed between them, swift and undeniable.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, she knew.

Recognition. Understanding. A truth she hadn’t wanted to face.

Her gaze flicked to the scarf, and the memory came rushing back all at once.

“It was yours,” she said softly, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them.

Lucien frowned and turned to follow her gaze. His mechanical eye whirred, narrowing in focus as though piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t realized existed. Then he froze. His shoulders stiffened, and something flickered across his face—regret.

“It was,” he said at last, his voice quiet.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes started to burn. Her fingers trembled, and her nails bit into her palms as she tried to keep the tears at bay. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget. I swore I wouldn’t forget him.

And yet she had.

Lucien’s lips quirked into a small, apologetic smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you’ll remember what I said to you.”

Her breath hitched. You shouldn’t let someone like me see you cry.

Her voice was a whisper. “A mate, you meant.”

Lucien hesitated, the weight of the word hanging between them like an unspoken vow. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a murmur. “I didn’t know then. But yes.”

Elain let out a shaky breath, her chest tight with the weight of his words. A mate. He was her mate, and yet he had left her. She felt the ache of it spreading through her ribs, too big, too much. She needed to feel something else. Something sharp. Something that would cut him the way he had cut her. She settled on anger.

“You left me,” she said suddenly, the words spoken as she thought of them. “You left me there.”

“I had no choice,” Lucien said softly, his eyes searching hers. “Tamlin needed Feyre. Someone like Feyre. We all did. You weren’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “You weren’t what he was looking for. But I made sure you were safe, Lady. I insisted. Once I realized who you were to Feyre, I couldn’t—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

She shook her head, her throat burning with the tears she refused to shed. “You didn’t even give me a chance,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hated the fae enough to do whatever it took, and you didn’t even let me try. I didn’t need to kill you. I could have killed any of Tamlin’s men.”

The truth hung in the air between them: for him. She would have done it for him.

Lucien flinched, as though her words had struck him like a blow. His shoulders sagged, the weight of her anger pressing him down. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

“But now I’m just someone who would have ruined it,” she said bitterly as they cracked, her pain sharpening into accusation.

Lucien’s jaw tightened, and his mismatched eyes flashed with something fierce—something she couldn’t quite name. The softness in his face disappeared, burning away like a candle’s flame flaring too high, fed by an unseen, simmering heat.

“Because I didn’t want to see you fall for someone who wasn’t me!” he snapped.

Her breath caught, his words landing like a blow. But she refused to let her own anger falter, refused to give him the satisfaction. “And now you would?” she shot back sharply. It wasn’t a question—it was an accusation, a challenge.

His face hardened, his golden eye whirred, the tension in his jaw sharpening until it looked as though it might shatter. When he spoke, his voice was low and bitter, but there was something hollow at the edges, something almost broken.

“I’m better at accepting it now than I was back then.”

The words cut through her, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of the quiet finality in them or the resignation that darkened his gaze.

He exhaled harshly and closed his eyes, running a hand through his now-molten red hair. He cursed softly under his breath, his voice little more than a growl.

“I have to go,” he muttered, his tone quieter now but still brimming with something unresolved—something raw.

He walked past her without another word, his footsteps soft and measured, though the tension in his shoulders made her want to call out, to stop him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

As he passed, she caught the whiff of roasted chestnuts, the same scent she remembered from another time, another place. The scent sent the memories rushing back, too sharp, too sudden—the warmth of a fire, the brush of lips that had tasted like safety, the weight of a red scarf settling around her neck like a promise unspoken.

The tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over, slipping silently down her cheeks. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, forcing herself to stay rooted in place even as her heart begged her to move, to follow him.

When her gaze fell on the scarf hanging by the door, its red threads frayed at the edges, a weight pressed down on her chest.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t forget—not the firelight, not the taste of roasted chestnuts, not the way the scarf had wrapped around her like a lifeline in the cold. And yet, she had forgotten. Time had blurred the edges of those memories, tucking them away in the quiet corners of her mind where grief and desperation lived.

But now, as she stared at the scarf, its color as vivid as the day he had placed it around her shoulders, the memory now fresh in her mind. She thought of what she had told herself then, being cradled in his arms in that snowy clearing: that it wouldn’t be a bad life for her, not if her sisters were taken care of.

And now—now, as the past collided with the present, she wondered if she had always been ready to accept the bond she hadn’t realized she had.

A bond that had waited for her, patient and unyielding, as though it had known she would need to find it on her own.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #sjmromanceweek2025 #sjmromanceweek

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burnwater13 · 3 months ago

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Din Djarin looking down at the work bench where his vambrace is resting with Grogu looking on. Image by me.

A puzzle or a mystery?

“Grogu? Have you seen my left vambrace? I was certain it was in my room last night. I can’t find it any where.”

Din Djarin hated saying those words, but he knew they had to be said. He had taken that vambrace off before he took his boots off because it had gotten caught up on his second layer and was pinching his arm. Typically he only took his boots off and the back plate when he was on Nevarro. The bed he had just didn’t work with the backplate and he hated sleeping in his boots. When he was out following up on a bounty fob, that was one thing, but in the privacy of his own home, in his own room? Nope.

His son trotted right over to him and shook his pale green head. Nope.

Dank Farrik!

“Okay. Well, help me look for it. It didn’t get up and walk away, so something must have happened to it.”

Yes, like it’s owner getting older and more forgetful. They’d spent a long time following that lead on an Imp Remnant in the far Outer Rim, practically in Wild space. Too many days without sleep. Too many nights without a proper meal. Too much time spent worrying about those Imps just trying to trap Grogu into coming to them. It had been a nightmare.

Add having to repair the N-1 again, again, to that mix and the Mandalorian was as exhausted as he’d ever been. Maybe he’d left the vambrace on his work bench? He hadn’t checked there yet because it seemed absurd that he would forget walking out to the shed that housed the bench and taking it off and leaving it there. He never left his armor anywhere but in the room he occupied when he occupied it.

He had honestly been surprised that Grogu had shook his head so readily. No hesitation. No thinking about it. No squirming. Those were his very well established tells for the small inaccuracies Djarin sometimes caught his son in. Grogu resented them being called lies, so they had agreed to refer to such misbehaviors as being less than accurate. Given that Grogu’s eyes had grown wide at the mere mention of the vambrace not being where it was supposed to be underlined his apprentice’s innocence. Grogu had been surprised that his dad had actually misplaced something as important as that piece of armor. Now they both had to find it.

“Grogu, do me a favor and go through my room. I’ve looked at the stuff in there too many times already. I might just be refusing to see it.”

Grogu nodded his head, his ears bobbling with the motion and trotted off to do as he was told. Din Djarin was glad that he hadn’t argued about the task or even tried to negotiate parts of it away. That often occurred when they were going over chores or bounty hunting assignments. A reflection that Grogu was just as concerned about the missing piece of armor as the Mandalorian was. Uff. Now he felt old.

Rather than focus on that feeling, Djarin began a systematic search through the rest of the cabin, including Grogu’s bunk room, the privy, the fresher, and all the cabinets and storage trunks they used to organize their belongings. Grogu came out to the main room and watched him do that part of the task. It was obvious that he hadn’t found the vambrace either.

“Okay. Thank you. Um… do you think you could find it with the Force? I don’t know if you can do that sort of thing, but if you could try?”

As soon as he said the word ‘Force’, Grogu had plopped down on the floor and assumed his meditation position. He closed his eyes. His breathing became slow and regular. Djarin could hear nothing other than the sound of his own heartbeat, which was annoying.

It may have been five minute or twenty five minutes later, the Mandalorian couldn’t really tell, when Grogu finally opened his eyes and waved to get his dad’s attention.

“You know where it is?!”

Wow. Why was he still so surprised that Grogu could do amazing things with the Force? He’d seen his son do all sorts of fetes that couldn’t have been done through plain strength or technological advantage. He should have been used to it by now.

Grogu waved for the bounty hunter to follow him and Djarin did just that. He followed Grogu out of the cabin, off the porch, around to the side his room was on and pointed at the ground. At first he didn’t see anything, even when he used his sensors and then he just lifted the helmet up enough so he could study the ground with his unaided human eyes and saw them. Footprints.

They didn’t belong to Grogu, or any human or other bi-ped the Mandalorian knew of. They looked like loth cat prints, except the cats retracted their claws when they walked. These definitely had claw marks. That meant the Kowakian Lizard monkeys weren’t to blame either. Based on what he saw, it looked like the critter had at least six legs, but there was no brushing of the ground to suggest a long tail, like a the fire lizards that they sometimes found near the lava flows.

Grogu pointed in a direction and Djarin nodded. Whatever the critter was it had headed toward the N-1 and the shed. They followed it’s trail as quickly as they could, although the Mandalorian knew it was hours old and the critter could be anywhere. That’s why his sensors hadn’t been particularly useful. The trail had actually gone cold.

Grogu pointed at the shed and waited for his dad to move. Djarin appreciated that. He had his side arm, but felt silly pulling it out. Why would a critter hang around the closed shed? His sensors still didn’t show any sign of it. He still had to lift his helmet to see the paw prints. Whatever.

Din Djarin stepped forward and opened the shed the door a sliver and peered into the dark space. Then he pushed the door all the way open and sighed when he saw his vambrace sitting on the workbench. Dank Farrik! He must have been so tired he just walked it out there and forgot to put it back on. He needed to get some rest.

He picked it up and slid it onto his arm and noticed a little bit of something flutter to the ground. Grogu trotted over to it and lifted it up using the Force and had it float over to his father. Just as Djarin was about to scold his son for wasting effort that way, he saw the item. It was a board dried leaf and it had writing on it.

“I noticed that your device had a problem and brought it out here to fix it. I hope you don’t mind. Thank you for leaving the extra helping of scrapings on the trash heap. They were delicious.”

What the heck?! Some critter had been at their trash tip and somehow realized his vambrace had a problem? And to make matters worse managed to gain entry into the cabin, into the Mandalorian’s room and retrieve it, leave the same way it entered and brought it out to the shed and fixed the thing?!

Now Din Djarin knew he was too tired. His mind must have made that all up. He handed the leaf back to Grogu.

“Tell me what that says.”

Grogu looked at his dad and sighed.

“Am friend. Fixed problem. Thanks food.”

“Grogu, I think I need a vacation.”

Grogu nodded his head thoughtfully.

“Yup.”

#grogu #din djarin #the mandalorian #star wars

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shiorihyugawrites · 5 months ago

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The Legendary Black Cat

Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Thirteen

The sun had barely risen, casting a soft golden hue across the training grounds. Levi stood with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the area. Erwin stood to his right, calm and composed as always, while Hange, on his left, looked uncharacteristically chipper for such an early hour.

Levi's patience was running thin. Selena was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. He hated lateness. It was disrespectful, undisciplined, and, above all, unprofessional. This wasn’t a game, and he had no intention of tolerating her antics, no matter how skilled she might be.

“Where the hell is she?” Levi muttered, his jaw tightening.

Hange chuckled, pushing their glasses up their nose. “Maybe she got lost. You know, it’s her first day and all.”

Levi shot Hange a glare. “She’s not lost. She’s screwing around.”

Erwin, ever the diplomat, raised a hand to diffuse the tension. “Let’s give her a few more minutes. She—”

A loud, dramatic yawn interrupted Erwin mid-sentence. All three of them turned their heads sharply, their eyes narrowing as they searched for the source of the sound. Levi’s gaze traveled upward, and there she was.

Selena was lounging in the branches of a tree, one leg draped lazily over the edge as she swung it back and forth. Her other leg was tucked beneath her, and her arms were stretched overhead in an exaggerated display of relaxation. She looked utterly unbothered, as though she had all the time in the world.

“Good morning,” Selena drawled, her voice laced with amusement. “Did you miss me?”

Levi’s eye twitched. “Get down. Now.”

Selena tilted her head, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Oh, Capitán, you’re so bossy in the morning. You should try smiling. It might do wonders for that grumpy face of yours.”

Hange burst out laughing, clutching their stomach. “I like her energy already!”

Erwin sighed but couldn’t hide the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Levi, however, was far from amused. His sharp gaze pinned Selena to the spot as he barked again, “I said, get down. Now.”

Selena ignored his tone entirely, swinging her leg a little faster as she leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “You didn’t say ‘please,’ Capitán. I’m not just going to come down for nothing, you know. You have to charm me first.”

Levi took a step forward, his boots crunching against the dirt. “Don’t test me, Selena. I’ll climb up there and drag you down myself.”

Selena feigned a gasp, placing a hand over her chest. “Oh, no! The mighty Levi Ackerman climbing up a tree for little old me? What an honor.”

Hange was laughing so hard they had to lean against Erwin for support. “Levi, I think she’s got you beat in the banter department.”

Levi shot Hange a glare that silenced them momentarily before turning his attention back to Selena. He crouched slightly, his hands resting on his knees as he fixed her with an icy stare. “You have ten seconds to get down, or I’m dragging you out of that tree.”

Selena arched an eyebrow, unfazed by the threat. “Ten seconds? That’s generous. You’re going soft on me, Levi.”

Levi didn’t respond. Instead, he launched himself into the tree with his ODM gear, moving with blinding speed. But by the time he reached the branch Selena had been lounging on, she was already gone, landing gracefully on the ground below. She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her pants as she smirked up at him.

“Too slow, Capitán,” she teased, her tone dripping with mockery.

Levi clenched his jaw as he jumped back down, landing silently in front of her. His sharp gray eyes bored into hers, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with tension.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Selena’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as she shrugged. “No, Capitán. I think this is fun.”

Hange stepped forward, clapping their hands together. “Alright, lovebirds, let’s get started! We’ve got a long day ahead, and I, for one, can’t wait to see Selena in action with the ODM gear.”

Erwin placed a calming hand on Levi’s shoulder, steering him back toward the training grounds. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. Selena, if you’re done playing games, it’s time to get serious.”

Selena saluted with exaggerated flair. “Yes, sir! Lead the way.”

As the group moved toward the gear station, Levi’s scowl deepened. This was going to be a long, long day.

He stood in front of Selena, holding the ODM gear with a stern expression. Behind them, Hange and Erwin watched with interest from a distance, knowing full well that this lesson would be entertaining for reasons beyond learning.

“Pay attention,” Levi ordered curtly. “This isn’t just a tool; it’s your lifeline out there. If you screw this up, you’ll end up as titan bait.”

Selena smirked, arms crossed over her chest. “Relax, Capitán. I’m a fast learner.”

Levi narrowed his eyes, unfazed by her usual teasing. “We’ll see.”

He began explaining the basics, holding up each piece of the gear as he detailed its function. Selena leaned in closer, her sharp eyes fixed on his movements, absorbing everything he said. Levi noticed she wasn’t just paying attention—she was studying the gear and him with the same intensity she likely used to size up her opponents.

“This is the main harness,” Levi said, holding up the central piece. “It distributes your weight and keeps the rest of the gear secure. If it’s not fastened correctly, you’re screwed.”

Selena raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a bad time.”

Ignoring her, Levi stepped closer. “I’m going to put this on you. You’ll get a better understanding of how it fits.”

Selena tilted her head, her smirk growing. “Oh? So hands-on, Capitán. I didn’t think you were the touchy type.”

Levi’s expression didn’t change, though his patience was visibly wearing thin. He stepped forward and began strapping the harness onto her. His movements were quick and efficient as he adjusted the straps around her shoulders and waist. Selena, true to form, couldn’t resist leaning just a little closer to him.

“You smell nice,” she remarked with a mischievous grin.

Levi didn’t respond, simply tightening the strap around her waist. “This isn’t a fashion statement. Focus.”

Selena chuckled. “Oh, I’m focused, alright.”

Moving to her legs, Levi knelt to secure the thigh straps. He pulled the leather tight against her toned legs, fastening the buckles with practiced precision. Selena, ever the troublemaker, moaned softly.

“Capitán,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “Your touch… it’s turning me on.”

Levi froze for a split second, his fingers still on the buckle. His jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “Are you done?”

Selena laughed, throwing her head back slightly. “Not even close.”

Hange, who had been watching from a few feet away, nearly doubled over in laughter. “Levi, I don’t know how you’re keeping it together. She’s relentless!”

Levi shot Hange a glare before focusing back on Selena. “You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice cool and sharp. “If you don’t take this seriously, I’ll personally drag you up a tree and drop you to test your instincts.”

Selena’s grin widened. “I’d love to see you try.”

Levi finished fastening the last buckle with a bit more force than necessary, standing up and stepping back. “Alright, smartass. Let’s see if you actually retained anything.”

Selena stretched, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted to the weight of the gear. “Oh, I retained everything, Capitán. You’re a very thorough teacher.”

“Good,” Levi replied flatly. “Because if you screw up, you’re doing laps around the training grounds with this gear on until you figure it out.”

Hange clapped their hands together, grinning. “I don’t know about you, but I think Selena’s going to do just fine. She’s sharp, and let’s be honest—Levi’s not the easiest teacher.”

Erwin nodded in agreement. “Let’s see how she handles herself in the air.”

Selena turned to Levi, the smirk never leaving her face. “Ready when you are, Capitán. But just so you know, if I do well, you owe me a reward.”

Levi crossed his arms, his sharp gray eyes narrowing. “The only reward you’ll get is not eating dirt. Now move.”

Selena chuckled as she adjusted the straps, following Levi toward the training grounds. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed, Capitán. I can see it in your eyes.”

Levi muttered something under his breath, ignoring her comment. But as he led her to the ODM practice area, he couldn’t deny the truth: Selena was already proving to be one hell of a handful.

…

Selena stood in the middle of the training grounds, the ODM gear strapped snugly to her body. The straps and harness felt like a second skin, and she adjusted them instinctively, already comfortable despite this being her first time wearing it. Around her, the scouts gathered to watch her first test: balance.

Levi crossed his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on her. “Alright, Black Cat. Let’s see if you can stay upright. The moment you lose your balance, you’re done.”

Selena gave him a playful smirk. “Oh, Capitán, you underestimate me already. I thought you’d know better by now.”

Hange chuckled, leaning against one of the nearby poles. “I’ve got five bucks on her doing it perfectly, Levi. Don’t disappoint me, Selena!”

Erwin, standing stoically beside them, simply nodded. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Selena stepped forward, standing tall despite the weight of the gear. She could feel the scouts’ eyes on her, a mixture of skepticism and awe. Mikasa stood with her arms crossed, while Jean and Connie whispered quietly, wondering if she could actually pull it off.

Selena raised her arms slightly, adjusting her center of gravity as she activated the gear. With a faint hiss, the gas released, and the cables shot out, attaching to the nearby structures. With a calculated tug, she launched herself off the ground.

For a moment, the world slowed. Selena bent her knees slightly, her body instinctively finding the right posture to balance the gear’s weight and motion. She hovered in midair, her movements fluid and precise. Not a single wobble betrayed her stance as she landed softly on a nearby post, standing upright with the grace of a feline.

The scouts erupted into murmurs.

“She’s already that steady?” Jean whispered to Connie. “That’s insane.”

Connie nodded. “I’m scared and impressed at the same time.”

Mikasa narrowed her eyes but remained silent, her skepticism tempered by Selena’s skill.

Levi, however, remained unmoved, his sharp eyes scanning her form. “Not bad,” he admitted grudgingly. “But don’t get cocky. Balance is the easiest part.”

Selena turned her head to him, her emerald eyes gleaming with mischief. “Is that your way of saying I impressed you, Capitán?”

“No,” Levi said flatly. “It’s my way of saying you’re not special.”

Hange, on the other hand, clapped enthusiastically. “I knew it! I knew you’d ace this! Look at her posture—it’s like she was made for the gear!”

Selena gave a mock bow from her perch. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Get down. We’re moving to the next test.”

Selena leapt gracefully from the post, landing on her feet as if gravity had no hold on her. She flicked her curls over her shoulder, giving Levi a triumphant grin. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“I’m not,” Levi replied, though the slight twitch of his brow betrayed him.

Erwin, ever the strategist, stepped forward. “Your balance is impressive, Selena. But the real challenge is maneuverability. Let’s see how you handle moving targets.”

Selena’s grin widened. “Moving targets? Finally, something exciting.”

As they prepared for the next stage of training, the scouts couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of respect—and apprehension—for the woman who had already proven she was far more than just an assassin.

…

Selena soared through the forest, the wind whipping through her freshly trimmed curls as she worked to master the ODM gear. The cables shot out, attaching to tree branches and trunks as she propelled herself forward. The initial thrill of flying was intoxicating, but the reality of controlling her movements quickly set in. She wobbled midair, barely managing to avoid a head-on collision with a thick trunk.

“Focus, Black Cat!” Levi’s voice barked from behind her, sharp and commanding.

Selena muttered under her breath, “Easy for you to say, Capitán. You’ve been doing this for years.”

Another wobble sent her careening toward a low-hanging branch. She yelped, bracing for impact, but suddenly felt herself yanked backward with a sharp tug. Levi’s arm wrapped securely around her waist as he redirected her trajectory, landing them both on a sturdy branch.

Selena clung to him instinctively, her legs wrapping around his waist and her arms looping around his neck. For a moment, her heart pounded in her chest—not from fear, but from the closeness of the stoic captain.

“Well, well, Capitán,” Selena drawled, her lips curving into a mischievous grin. “If you wanted me in your arms, you could’ve just asked.”

Levi’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest twitch of annoyance crossed his brow. “Let go.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Selena teased, leaning in slightly, her emerald eyes gleaming with amusement. “I think I like it up here.”

Without warning, Levi unceremoniously dropped her.

Selena let out a startled yelp as she plummeted toward the forest floor, but her instincts kicked in. Twisting her body midair, she managed to maneuver herself upright, landing gracefully on her feet with a slight bend in her knees to absorb the impact. She straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her pants, and looked up at Levi with a triumphant smirk.

“Nice try, Capitán,” she called up to him. “But you can’t keep a cat down.”

Levi leapt from the branch, landing silently beside her with his usual grace. His sharp eyes studied her landing, the faintest glimmer of approval flashing in his gaze, though his face remained impassive.

“You didn’t die. Good,” he said flatly. “But you’re still sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” Selena placed a hand on her hip, feigning offense. “I just survived you dropping me like a sack of potatoes, and that’s the thanks I get?”

“If you want a thank you, you’re in the wrong place,” Levi replied, his tone curt. “Now stop flirting and focus. If you crash into a tree, it’s your problem.”

Selena’s grin widened as she followed him back into the air. “Oh, Capitán, you’re going to miss me when I master this.”

Levi didn’t bother responding, instead launching himself forward with his gear. Selena followed close behind, determined not to let him see her struggle again. This time, her movements were more deliberate, her trajectory smoother. Though she was far from perfect, Levi noticed the improvement. She was a fast learner, as he had suspected.

From his perch on a nearby branch, Erwin observed the scene with a faint smile. “She’s adapting quickly,” he remarked to Hange, who was gleefully taking notes from below.

“She’s a natural,” Hange replied, practically bouncing with excitement. “And her dynamic with Levi? Absolutely fascinating!”

Levi, overhearing Hange, shot her a glare. “Less commentary, more focus.”

As Selena zipped past him, she called out, “Don’t be jealous, Capitán. Some of us are just born stars.”

Levi sighed, already regretting agreeing to train her. But as much as he hated to admit it, Selena de la Rosa was shaping up to be an asset worth the effort—if she could stop flirting long enough to stay alive.

Hours passed as Selena continued her training. She zipped through the air with the ODM gear, the cables shooting out and pulling her forward with precision. Her movements were mesmerizing—fluid, agile, and shockingly efficient. Levi, observing her closely, could not deny the truth that was becoming increasingly apparent: Selena de la Rosa was extraordinary.

From his perch on a nearby branch, Levi narrowed his eyes, analyzing her every move. At first, he had thought her showy flips and twirls were a waste of energy, but as the hours passed, he realized she wasn’t just showing off. Every spin, every somersault had a purpose. The momentum she gained from these movements allowed her to use less gas, propelling her farther with each burst. It was a level of efficiency that few scouts mastered—even seasoned veterans like him.

"She's wasting no gas," Levi murmured under his breath, impressed despite himself.

Selena swooped down, flipping midair and landing perfectly on a high branch with a feline grace that made her nickname all the more fitting. She smirked at Levi, her emerald eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Enjoying the view, Capitán?” she teased, flicking a stray curl out of her face.

Levi crossed his arms, maintaining his usual stoic expression. “You’re improving,” he admitted flatly, though his tone lacked any warmth. “But don’t get cocky. You still have a long way to go.”

Selena's grin widened. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a glowing endorsement.”

From below, Erwin and Hange observed her progress with growing amazement. Hange, clutching her notebook, was practically bouncing with excitement.

“She’s incredible,” Hange gushed, her eyes following Selena as she soared through the air again. “Her movements are so calculated, so precise. It’s like she was born for this.”

Erwin nodded, his expression thoughtful as he watched Selena maneuver effortlessly through the forest. “It’s not just her natural ability,” he said. “Her assassin training has given her an edge. She’s already thinking three steps ahead, even while she’s in motion. And look at her now—she’s adapting to the ODM gear in less than a day. Imagine what she’ll be capable of with weeks of continued training.”

Hange scribbled furiously in her notebook. “We were right to bring her in. She’s a game-changer.”

Selena landed near Levi again, her chest rising and falling slightly as she caught her breath. Despite the hours of training, she didn’t look the least bit tired, her stamina and focus unwavering. She sauntered over to him, her grin never faltering.

“So, Capitán,” she began, leaning casually against the trunk of a tree, “are you going to admit I’m a natural, or are you going to keep glaring at me like you just sucked on a lemon?”

Levi stared at her, his gaze impassive. “You’re decent.”

Selena laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Decent? Oh, please. You’re practically drooling over how good I am.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Levi shot back, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a movement so subtle that only someone as observant as Selena would have noticed.

Erwin stepped forward, his commanding presence drawing their attention. “That’s enough for today,” he said. “Selena, your progress is commendable. I made the right decision bringing you into the Survey Corps.”

Selena’s smirk softened into something more genuine. “High praise coming from the Commander.”

Erwin’s sharp blue eyes met hers. “Don’t waste the opportunity you’ve been given. Your skills are extraordinary, Selena. With proper training, you could help turn the tide in this war.”

Selena tilted her head, her expression unreadable as she processed his words. The hint of respect in her gaze didn’t go unnoticed by Levi.

As the group made their way back to camp, Levi lingered a moment longer, watching Selena’s retreating form as she bantered with Hange. Her skills were undeniable, her potential limitless.

For a moment, Levi allowed himself a rare thought: Erwin had gambled on Selena de la Rosa, and it seemed—for once—that gamble was going to pay off.

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