#long reads

[awriterfaraway]

Write for your heart.

Not for a trend. Not for a loved one. Not for a director. Not for a reader. Not for a publisher.

But for your heart.

Your heart would ramble about all the things it was villainised for feeling.

And don't abandon writing. Because you'd be abandoning yourself.

[angel06babysworld]

7 Deadly Sins

frat!rafe x goldengirl!reader

Gluttony

Rafe doesn’t know how to stop wanting her.

Not when she shows up to the party in white. Not when she throws her head back laughing and the lights catch her glossed lips, her bare shoulders, her little tennis skirt that sways like it’s teasing him on purpose. Not when her hand rests on some other guy’s bicep for just a second too long and Rafe tastes acid behind his teeth.

She’s golden. In every way. Sparkling jewelry, expensive perfume, soft voice when she talks to professors, sharp tongue when someone crosses a line. She gets invited everywhere without ever asking. She gets whatever drink she wants without waiting in line. And Rafe—well, Rafe gets drunk off watching her.

Off wanting her.

He’s in his usual spot on the worn leather couch in the frat house living room, half-tanked on whiskey and something sugary she brought. There’s a smear of buffalo sauce on his ring finger, and he’s watching her like he’s starving. She doesn’t even know it, or maybe she does. Maybe she always knows. She looks at him once and his jaw clenches.

He wants her quiet and messy in his lap. Wants to ruin her lipstick and press fingerprints into her thighs. Wants her glowing and ruined for him only.

She passes by again—too close—and he grabs her wrist.

She raises a brow, amused. “You good?”

“No,” Rafe says, not even pretending. “You wearing that on purpose?”

She tilts her head. “What, this?” she says sweetly, doing a slow, innocent twirl in front of him, skirt flaring. “Didn’t know it mattered.”

Of course she knew.

He tugs her into his lap without another word, lets her shift and pretend she’s annoyed while she settles against his chest. She smells like peaches and something floral. He presses his mouth against her neck and doesn’t care who sees.

It’s never enough. Never just once. Never just a kiss. Not when it comes to her.

Because gluttony isn’t just greed. It’s obsession. It’s the ache that says mine mine mine every time someone else makes her smile. It’s how he pulls her deeper into his world just so he can feel full—for a minute. For an hour. Until the next time she walks away and he’s starving all over again.

Rafe Cameron has everything—money, parties, girls—but he’s still hungry.

And it’s always her.

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @lcversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby @rafesbabygirlx @cokewithcameron @drewrry @harubunnyyy @ellayahhs @lifeonawhim @usseraloo

[fawning4uu]

gravity, again

pairing ⭑.ᐟ charles leclerc x reader

warnings — angst, emotional cheating, regret, heartbreak, mature themes, quiet yearning, strained loyalties.

word count : 2k

a/n : half of the fic is inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's song "Don't Smile," as i’ve been obsessed with it lately. i’m still contemplating whether I should make the ending happy or not. but anyway, here’s part 3. enjoy! 🫶

part 1, part 2

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It’s been thirty-one days since the café.

Not that you’re counting. Not that you wrote it down or replayed it a thousand times. Not that you still sit awake some nights with the memory of his voice under your skin, saying your name like it was still his to hold.

You haven’t heard from him since.

No messages. No calls. Just… silence. The kind that settles into your bones like a second skin.

And still—he lingers.

You see him in quiet moments. The back of a stranger’s neck in a grocery queue. A crooked smile across a street. His name whispered in commentary on television, and your body tenses before your mind can tell it not to.

You wonder if he’s still with her. You wonder if she knows that he once told you he loved you with a mouth still swollen from kissing someone else.

You wonder if she ever asks where he disappears to when the Monaco night grows too quiet.

You wonder if he lies.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You’re in Paris again now.

A client meeting pulls you back. Back to the noise, the slow drip of summer winding down, the sharp pull of Rue de Buci where the memory of his hand on yours still sits heavy.

You shouldn’t be here.

You tell yourself you won’t linger.

But then your brother texts.

“Café tomorrow? Usual spot. 9am. Don’t be late this time.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The morning is pale blue. Cool enough that you wear long sleeves, even though you know they won’t help.

Your heart stutters the moment you turn onto the street. The café’s outdoor tables are already half full, the usual hum of soft chatter and clinking cups.

And there he is.

Of course he’s here.

Charles, seated across from your brother like it’s any other Thursday. Like he didn’t break you apart piece by piece with his silence. Like he doesn’t still live under your skin. His sunglasses are pushed into his curls, a black t-shirt clinging to him like it wants to make you hurt.

He looks up as you approach.

And the second your eyes meet, your body betrays you. Something inside you slips loose.

“Morning,” your brother says, sipping his coffee, oblivious or pretending to be. “Finally decided to show up on time.”

Charles says nothing.

You slide into the seat beside him. Carefully. Like distance still matters.

He smells the same. Clean, warm, ruinous.

You don’t look at him again. You don’t have to.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The conversation is stilted. Your brother fills the space with small talk. Racing, transfers, some story about their childhood that doesn’t land. You nod where appropriate. Sip your drink slowly.

And the entire time, you feel Charles watching you.

But you don’t look. You can’t.

Because if you meet his gaze, you’ll see it.

The same thing you saw in the café. That unbearable sadness.

That longing neither of you can name without falling apart.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Your brother excuses himself twenty minutes in, grumbling about a call. Leaves his phone and keys on the table like proof he’ll be back.

And then—it’s just the two of you.

You feel the air shift the second he’s gone.

Charles clears his throat. You hear it in your spine. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer right away. Then, “I didn’t know you were coming.” It’s cruel. You know that. But cruelty is the only armor you have left.

He nods, like he deserves it. “I tried not to come,” he admits.

You glance at him then, finally. “But you did.”

A long pause. Then, “How are you?”

The question is soft. Familiar. You hate it.

You scoff under your breath. “You don’t get to ask that.” He doesn’t fight it.

You want to scream at him. You want to ask why he left. Why he let a month pass like you didn’t exist. Why he keeps coming back only to hurt you in a new way each time.

But instead, you whisper, “Is she still in the picture?”

He doesn’t lie. “Yes.”

Your throat burns.

“Does she know?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He looks at you like he’s unraveling. “No.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. Weighted. Hot.

Then he leans in, elbows on the table, eyes searching yours. “I haven’t touched her.”

You freeze.

He keeps going. “I can’t,” he says, voice barely a rasp. “It’s always you.”

You hate how your heart stumbles. You hate how much you want that to mean something.

“You still chose her,” you whisper.

“No.” He shakes his head, slowly, like he’s breaking apart. “I chose nothing. And that was the worst thing I could’ve done.”

You look at him then—really look.

He’s tired.

Not in the way that shows on the surface. But in the way his mouth sits, always half-swallowed by regret. In the way his hands fidget when he talks to you. Like he’s trying not to reach for something that’s already slipping away.

And god, you want to reach back.

But you remember the last time. And the time before that. And all the little ways he let you bleed without so much as looking down.

You shake your head. “Don’t do this again.”

He blinks. “Do what?”

“Make me hope.”

Your brother returns before he can answer.

He looks between the two of you—too quiet now, too still—and something in his jaw hardens. Later, when Charles gets up to ‘take’ a call, your brother leans in.

His voice is careful. Low.

“Don’t.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you lie.

He nods, but the tightness in his expression doesn’t ease. He finishes his coffee. Sets the cup down. Doesn’t look at you when he adds, “He’s not the man you want him to be.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You don’t say goodbye. To either of them.

You walk away from the café with shaking hands and tears that sting without falling.

Charles doesn’t follow you. But you feel him still.

Like gravity. Like guilt. Like the kind of love that was never built to survive the sunlight.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

He ends it on a Tuesday.

Not because that day means anything. Not because it’s poetic or fitting or even right. He just wakes up beside her and realizes — for the hundredth time — that he’s pretending.

That he’s been pretending. That no matter how many times he tells himself this is easier, that safe is enough, the truth still sits under his skin like a burn: he doesn’t love her.

He never did.

She’s sweet. Beautiful. Smiles at him like she believes in a version of him he hasn’t been in months. He’s grateful for her. And maybe that’s worse — because the guilt of it festers, sharp and quiet.

So when she asks if he’s okay, he says no.

And when she asks if it’s someone else, he doesn’t lie. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry.

She just looks at him with those wide, wounded eyes and says, “Is it her?”

He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t have to.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The apartment is too quiet after she leaves.

He doesn’t move for an hour. Just sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, breathing like it hurts.

Because it does. Because everything does.

Because all this time, he’s been holding on to the idea of you — and now, suddenly, he’s out of excuses.

You know. You always knew.

He has no more reasons not to try.

So he gets in the car. And drives.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You don’t expect him. Not tonight. Not after a month of silence, then a café full of words you both shouldn’t have said.

You’re on the couch when the buzzer rings.

Feet up. Hair still damp from a shower. A half-finished movie playing quietly in the background. You think it’s a mistake. Some drunk tourist. A neighbor.

But then the intercom crackles with one word:

“Me.”

And suddenly, you can’t breathe.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

He’s standing in your hallway less than a minute later. Rain slicks his curls to his forehead. His grey hoodie is soaked through. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t even step aside.

You just stand there, staring.

Until finally, he says, “I ended it.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You let him in, of course you do.

Because you’ve spent months trying to hate him, and none of it ever stuck.

He stands in the middle of your apartment like he doesn’t belong there. Like he’s waiting for you to change your mind and send him back out into the rain.

You cross your arms. You don’t make this easy.

“What do you want from me, Charles?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You.”

But you don’t let it shake you. “Too late.”

“No,” he says. Steps forward. “It’s not.”

“You think you can just show up after everything and say you want me and that makes it okay?”

“I’m not asking for okay. I’m asking for honest.”

He swallows hard. “I fucked up. Over and over. I hurt you. I left you. I lied. I was a coward. But I never — not once — stopped loving you.”

Your voice is quieter now. Shaking. “Then why didn’t you stay?”

He’s close now. Too close. “I thought leaving would protect you.”

“That’s the thing about you, Charles,” you say, eyes brimming. “You always think you know what’s best. But you don’t ask. You just choose.”

He exhales sharply. “I’m asking now.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The silence between you crackles. You both know what this is. Not a reunion. Not yet. Just a wound being opened.

Again.

And again.

And again.

He steps closer. You don’t move.

“If I kissed you right now,” he says, voice hoarse, “would you stop me?”

You don’t answer. So, he takes that as his answer.

His hands cup your jaw gently. Like he’s afraid you’ll break. Like you haven’t already.

His lips brush yours.

And the second you give in, it’s over.

You’re pulling him in like a firestorm. Kissing him with every ounce of anger and grief and love you still can’t shake. Your hands fist in his hoodie. His mouth is frantic. Desperate. Familiar.

You stumble backwards into the wall, the door slamming shut behind you.

You don’t remember how your clothes come off. Don’t remember how you end up in your bed. You only remember his hands, his mouth, the way he whispers your name like a prayer as he slides into you and the world narrows to just this.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the unbearable relief of feeling whole for the first time in months. And the ache of knowing it won’t fix anything.

Not really.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

After, he lies beside you. One hand in your hair.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist. His breathing is shaky. Your skin still hums.

And neither of you speak. Because this isn’t peace. This is aftermath.

This is what happens when something breaks and you keep picking up the pieces with your bare hands.

You whisper, “You think this means anything?”

He nods. “It means everything.”

You look at him. “Then make it.”

“Make what?”

“Make it worth what it cost me.”

And that’s the moment he realizes: You’re not asking him to stay the night. You’re asking him to stay this time.

For real. To face your brother. To face himself.

To undo the damage. To make it mean something.

He swallows. “I will.”

You want to believe him. God, you want to.

But you’ve heard that voice before.

You’ve heard it in hotel rooms, on balconies, between tangled sheets and early morning silences. You just wait, and hope.

And try not to drown in the way he still holds you like you’re a promise he’s not sure he deserves.

[wherethenightspeaks]

[myadagoat22]

Take My Heart

Brahms Heelshire x Y/n

The first time you see him—really see him—it’s almost gentle.

You wake to warmth. A presence. A breath.

You’re not alone.

Your eyes open and he’s above you.

Not the doll.

Him.

Tall, real, alive. A mess of tangled hair and shadowed eyes. Shirtless, chest streaked with dirt and old scars, like some ghost the world tried to bury and forgot to finish the job.

Your lips part, breath shallow. “Brahms…?”

He freezes.

Like the name burns him.

Like hearing it from your lips makes him ache.

You sit up slowly, never breaking eye contact. He doesn't move, doesn’t speak. Just stares like you're something fragile. Or sacred.

“You’ve been watching me this whole time.”

A pause.

Then a small nod.

Your throat is dry. “Why?”

His voice—raspy, deep, like a growl soaked in vulnerability—finally breaks the silence.

“Because you’re… mine.”

He tells you, later, in halting whispers as he stands near the fireplace with his face in the shadows, that the others never kissed him goodnight the right way.

Not like you did.

You hadn’t thought much of it. A silly peck on cold porcelain lips. A joke at first.

But you’d started doing it softer. Slower. Meaning it, maybe. A little more, each time.

Brahms never forgot.

And now, standing before you—real and trembling, like a man on the edge—he leans down slowly and whispers, “Kiss me like that again.”

This time, you kiss his lips.

Not ceramic. Not cold.

Real.

Hungry.

Human.

He groans—whimpers—into your mouth, gripping your waist with shaky hands like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. You clutch his shoulders and pull him closer until there’s nothing but skin and heat and that terrifying need between you both.

His forehead presses to yours.

“I’ve waited so long.”

You fall onto the bed together—clothes shed in desperate pieces. He’s gentle but clumsy, clearly untouched, his big hands reverent and unsure.

“Is this okay?” he whispers hoarsely against your skin, as his fingers trace the swell of your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper back, heart pounding. “I want you.”

His eyes darken. “Say it again.”

“I want you, Brahms.”

He moans like it physically hits him. His head dips between your legs—and instead of diving in wildly, he just… stares for a second.

You can feel his breath on your core.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You smell so sweet…”

Then his tongue touches you.

And your back arches instantly.

He licks you like he’s starved. Like your taste is the only thing he’s ever wanted in this life. His moans vibrate through your entire body as he buries his face deeper, pulling your thighs over his shoulders, grinding himself into the mattress beneath him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, gasping, “Just like that—yes—!”

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause to breathe. He eats like a worshipper, desperate and possessive, gripping your hips so tight it almost hurts.

You climax fast and hard, crying out into the room—and he just keeps going, licking up every drop like he can’t stand to waste a second of it.

When he finally crawls up over you, his lips are wet with you, and his eyes are blown wide with awe.

“Are you mine now?” he asks.

You nod, pulling him closer. “Yes, Brahms.”

“Forever?” His voice shakes. His cock nudges your entrance.

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Yes, baby. Yours. Forever.”

That’s all he needs.

He slides inside—slowly, with a full-body groan like it’s breaking him to finally feel you like this. He’s big, thick, and clings to you like you’re all that’s anchoring him to the earth.

“Is it good?” he pants. “Do I feel good to you?”

“So good,” you moan, dragging your nails down his back. “You’re perfect.”

That earns a growl.

His thrusts are deep and messy at first—years of craving boiling over—but he listens. Watches your face. Adjusts his angle until you’re moaning with every stroke.

You chant his name like a prayer.

He clutches you like you’re holy.

And when he cums, he buries his face in your neck, shaking, filling you fully with broken gasps and mumbled “mine, mine, mine” between kisses and soft groans.

Later, he won’t let you leave the bed.

He curls around you, arms wrapped tight, your scent all over him, breath even.

And you swear you hear him murmur in your ear, low and sleep-dazed:

“We’ll have a baby, yeah? A little one to play with. Stay forever.”

You smile.

And nod.

Because you knew what this job was from the moment you kissed that doll goodnight.

You were never getting out of this house untouched.

You were meant for him.

@5unnyb34chw4v35 I hope I got ur expectations

[cjsmalley]

Family Don't End in Blood:

Bobby Singer was a humble sort of man; he did honest, or rather not so honest, work day in and day out. He owned his own business and helped other Hunters where and when he could. He was more educated than he looked.

He seemed to be a simple, small-town sort of man; the sort of man that voted as red as the meat he ate.

It wasn’t completely a lie, this appearance. Though he did vote blue.

Bobby Singer was not the sort of man that regularly hosted Royalty, was the point. And even though he knew Dean Fenton was Royalty of a sorts, that was completely different than meeting his parents.

When that telltale RV rolled up, Bobby was expecting Dean and maybe Sam, though he hadn’t seen the second since the kid was a babe in Winchester’s arms.

He was not expecting the women or the third male who made the wards around his house spark to life.

Ghost.

Well, that made sense. Dean had told him about his childhood as ward, the son of the Ghost King.

The wards stopped the King dead but before Bobby could get out there to let him through, a loophole he added for situations such as these, there was a blink of bright light around the King. Once it faded, there stood a man. He was as tall as Dean, though not as stocky.

One of the women took his arm and let Dean lead them up to the house.

The third man appeared slightly uncomfortable but walked forward without resistance.

But the wards were still flashing a warning Bobby wasn’t stupid enough to ignore; a being of immense power had just come onto the property.

Bobby was opening the door before Dean could knock and everyone shuffled in. Introductions went around.

Danny seemed stressed.

Bobby took a leap of faith, “Yer welcome here, yer Majesty.”

The wards quieted and Danny stood taller, stress leaving his lithe form; Bobby appraised him with a Hunter’s eye. This…Bobby would call him a man until told not to, this man was built for speed though the muscles promised he could pack a wallop. He obviously couldn’t fall back on brute force like his sons.

They all took seats and Bobby offered drinks, water, coffee, and alcohol because it looked like the Fenton boys could use it.

Once everyone had a drink of some sort in hand, Dean chuckled, “I can hear the cogs from here, Bobby. Dad’s half-ghost.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up. He had never heard of a half-ghost but it could explain things with the wards and property line. Maybe being half human protected the ghost from traditional deterrents like salt and iron, which were buried all over Singer Salvage. It likely didn’t protect from being uncomfortable around such things though.

“Horrible lab accident, as a kid,” Danny added with a sad chuckle, “my mom didn’t sleep with a ghost, neither did my dad. The accident should’ve fried me dead; it only did it halfway. I’ve got ectoplasm in my very DNA now.”

“Huh. An’ you still became king?”

“Right of Conquest; I beat the previous King and then the other candidate was exiled,” Danny paused before saying, “I eventually had to End him. He came back gunning for the throne. Gunning for my family.”

Bobby nodded; that made sense, clearly not all of this type of ghost were friendly.

“Vlad—the other ghost—was one sick frootloop,” said the human queen, Sam, before she admitted, “I egged Danny on, in his parents’ lab that day he died. We were stupid kids, teens actually. So freakin’ stupid. His parents built a gateway—a portal to the Infinite Realms but it didn’t work. Until Danny went inside and accidentally pressed the on button. I killed my best friend. The love of my life.”

Danny put his hand over his wife’s, “I went in, Sam—besides, I’m sorry you and Tuck had to watch that but I’m glad you were there when I did go. I could’ve been alone; Clockwork did say my death was Fated. I was Destined to become a halfa and I could have been so alone—with only Vlad finding out!”

“You could have—”

“Told you and Tucker, ‘hey guys, I think I’m a little dead’?” Danny snorted darkly but then said sincerely, “I told you, I don’t blame you or Tucker and I mean it, Sam. It wasn’t your fault, my love.”

The Fenton sons and Bobby let them have a moment or two before Bobby coughed politely, “What’s this about contracts? Dean said Winchester Sold his boys’ souls?”

The parents had dark looks as Danny explained, “John Winchester Sold the souls of his sons, Sam and Dean Winchester in exchange for help in gaining revenge on Azazel, A Yellow Eyed Prince of Hell who killed Mary and did something to Sammy—”

 “We later found out that Azazel gave Sammy demon blood in order to prep him as a Vessel for Lucifer himself. It also gave him a natural ability for magic,” Sam interjected, “in essence, making him a wizard much like in Harry and Neville’s world.”

Bobby blew out a breath, “An’ Your Majesties agreed?”

“We weren’t gonna leave kids with someone who would willingly sell them,” Danny spoke heatedly, “who knows what he’d summon up next. I’ve heard about the Ten-Year Deals demons like to use here; we took the boys as our own, Robert Singer.”

“Easy, Dad,” Dean interrupted,  taking a gulp of his beer, “he doesn’t know much about our kind of ghosts, Infinite Realms ghosts. Bobby’s just worried about our souls and afterlives.”

Danny settled mulishly, “Sorry; I just don’t like people assuming we’re like my predecessor. No, as soon as the boys entered our custody, they were loved and accepted as is. Winchester sold Sam and Dean, so they became Fenton-Mansons, Phantoms in the Realms. Using some of my subjects’ abilities, I helped hunt down Azazel and destroy him. Winchester tried to double-cross me—”

“I didn’t know that, Dad!” Sam and Dean cried together.

“He tried to exorcise me,” Danny admitted, “which hurt like hell but being the King and as powerful as I already was, I held on. You’d have to destroy my body—which I’m still using—and my grave, which he couldn’t reach to even have a hope of getting rid of me. Also, have to Shatter my core. And I’m only telling you that, Bobby, because Dean trusts you. Sees you as sorta an uncle figure. I know Clockwork gave him your number when he first started Hunting. You didn’t have to mentor him, but you have and we thank you so much for helping our boy stay alive. We don’t want him to become a ghost before his Time. You know?”

“Your Majest—” Bobby started.

“Just Danny and Sam,” Sam corrected, “family doesn’t use titles unless we have to be formal.”

“Danny, Sam,” Bobby used their preferred form of address and ignored the family comment because surely they couldn’t mean to take an old drunk Hunter in, “ya don’t need to thank me. Kid woulda gotten himself killed without help; good with ghosts, shit with everythin’ else. I didn’t do it for praise, I did it ‘cause it were the right thing to do.”

Dean laughed, “Yeah, but how many Hunters would take in a greenhorn? Face it, Bobby. We’re absorbing you into the family. There’s no escape.”

“None.” Sam said, agreeing with his brother with a huge grin, “no exits..

The King and Queen laughed at the old Hunter’s dumbfounded face.

Then Bobby Singer smiled a genuine smile; well, if things were that way, who was he to complain? He didn’t have much family and never believed blood to be the end of it all anyways.

Still laughing, everyone led Bobby to the edge of his property, opened a Portal of swirling girls, and ushered him in.

Family don’t end in blood.

Wished Away 10

A Mother-Daughter Talk:

“When I first started a relationship with the Doctor,” Rose began, watching the man in question play with her little brother, their pseudo-daughter, and their actual daughter, “a real one, more than whatever the hell we were doin’ before, he warned me. No kids.”

Jackie gasped, “You mean he didn’t want a—?”

Rose gave a bitter laugh, “No, like, literally. We couldn’t have kids. Too different, genetic wise. He’d need another Time Lord or Lady, that’s what the women were called, Time Ladies, ta…Loom a kid with. He may have the parts, Mum, an’ be able ta use ‘em, but they didn’t make or carry babies like humans do. The babies were…best translation is ‘woven together’ by machines out of two separate DNA sources. Then they were given over ta professionals—like foster-parents almost. Nobody raised their own kids… He isn’t even sure how exactly his granddaughter was related ta him, just that she wasn’t a daughter but was a direct descendant.”

Jackie was gaping at her daughter.

“Not even Bad Wolf makes us compatible, even if we had a Loom. “Cause he’s shootin’ blanks…an’…’m sterile too now…”

“Rose!”

“I don’t…my eggs might still be good, but I don’t ovulate or get monthlies anymore,” Rose explained, “’m frozen, exactly how I was when Bad Wolf took me. Nothing ‘bout me can change permanently. I don’t even scar. Haven’t had to cut or dye my hair since then either. My nails don’t grow. I wasn’t ovulatin’ or bleedin’ so I don’t anymore. I never will again.”

“Oh, Rose…”

“I’d do it again,” Rose assured her mother firmly, “even if ya went back an’ warned me ‘bout all this. I’d’ve taken any help I could to save him…We’re lucky Bad Wolf’s so benevolent. She could stuff me inside my own head permanently an’ there’d be nothin’ we could do ‘bout it. Not even the Doctor.”

“Rose…what did you do?” Jackie whispered shakily, “When you first met Bad Wolf?”

“I don’t remember,” Rose admitted, “Bad Wolf says I traded my life for the Doctor’s—Jack’s only alive cause she was feeling nice—the mortal life an’ death ahead of me. All my possible futures as a mortal human woman, gone. I had one thought, Mum; the Doctor. I had ta get back ta him. Didn’t care ‘bout anythin’ else. Apparently, Clockwork says we’re literal soulmates. I’d’ve survived his death but I would—either grieve for the rest of my life or gone absolutely crazy,” Rose smiled sadly, “an’ I woulda…I didn’t have a kid ta hold on for.”

“Me an’ Pete…?”

“Soulmates, or Bad Wolf says; both of them. Just like Pete here lost his Jackie, you lost your Pete. An’ it was some major meddling for you two ta meet,” Rose’s smile turned brighter, “between you an’ me? Think Bad Wolf had a hand in that somewhere.”

Jackie nodded faintly, before questioning, “What ‘bout Jenny? If you an’ he aren’t compatible then how…?”

“We’re not sure,” Rose shrugged, “after her physical, after we got her home, the Doctor took samples; she belongs ta both of us but we’re both still incompatible an’ sterile. Then he took more samples from her; she’s genetically sound, everythin’ matches up where it should. Time Lord DNA’s doin’ the heavy-liftin’, but she registers as partly human too. Bad Wolf’s not talkin’. Neither is Clockwork.”

Jackie gave a slightly hysterical laugh, “Rose, if you told me years ago that aliens were real I’d’ve thought you drunk! Now here we are, talkin’ about gods an’ immortality! While your alien husband—”

“He’s not my husband,” Rose murmured, an old argument she didn’t really believe anymore.

“Uh-huh—as I was saying, your alien husband plays with your little brother, the girl cloned off you both, an’ the girl you accidentally kidnapped.”

Rose smiled again, lovingly as she looked to her family out on the front lawn of Tyler Mansion.

They had come a long way from Hendriks’ basement.

[rhynestonez]

Where The Quiet Lives

Western! Bucky X Western! Reader

Summary: After your brother’s death, Bucky and Steve come to help rebuild your grief-damaged farm. Grief turns into a quiet, growing connection. One stormy night, that bond breaks open into something deeper. Love follows — just as the past resurfaces.

Warnings: death, grief, angst, blood, stitching a wound,eventual smut, 18+, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up ppl), distanced longing, really soft aftercare (cuz I don’t see it very often), slow burn I guess.

Word count: 12k (big mama) <3 enjoy I tried to review this as much as I could so if there are errors I’m sorry

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The heat had been unbearable that morning. One of those strange, windless days where the sky sat too heavy on the land and the air didn’t stir, not even in the trees. The sun had risen fast, hard and white, spilling across the dry grass like bleach. It baked the earth, bleached the barn roof, burned the soles of your boots through the wood of the porch.

Your brother had left early, same as he always did when something felt off. “Fence by the south pasture’s sagging-“ he’d muttered, wiping his hands on a cloth that never left his back pocket. “Won’t take long.”

You’d nodded from the stove, sleeves rolled up, bread rising in a chipped bowl by the window. “Be careful.” you’d said, not looking up. That was the last thing you ever said to him. Be careful. He didn’t come back.

It was the neighboring boy who came instead — riding hard across the field, too fast for someone with good news. You saw the dust cloud before you saw the horse. Saw his hat crumpled in his hands before he even made it to the porch. His lips were chapped. Eyes wide. He couldn’t look at you. He didn’t need to. You knew.

Knew before he even opened his mouth. Knew from the way your chest pulled tight and low, like something had just stepped inside you and shut the door behind it. You didn’t cry then. You didn’t speak. You just nodded, slowly. Went to the well. Pulled a bucket of water up because your hands needed something to do. Because grief, real grief, doesn’t hit like a sob — not at first. It hits like silence.

They said it was the bull — spooked by a fallen branch, or the heat, or nothing at all. He’d gotten too close to the fence. Maybe leaned down to check the post. Maybe just turned his back at the wrong second. It didn’t matter. A charge. A single blow to the chest. Spine. Neck. They weren’t sure. It’d happened fast. No sound. Just one sudden, brutal end to a long life of good, steady days.

They carried him back late in the afternoon — quiet, six men with slow steps and solemn eyes, his hat resting on his chest like it had always belonged there.

You watched them set him down in the parlor. Right where he used to read the paper with his boots crossed at the ankle. You didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. You just closed the door behind them. Locked it. And stood there, staring at his body, until the oil lamp burned out.

The funeral was three days later. The preacher stammered his way through worn words about peace and heaven and hard-working men. You stood like stone at the edge of the grave, hands clenched so tight the veins stood up on your wrists. Your black dress didn’t fit right — borrowed from your neighbor’s sister, who hadn’t needed it since her father passed. The sun hung high and mean. The grave was shallow. The crowd was small. And still, you felt too seen. Exposed.

Steve was there. You hadn’t asked him to come, but he’d shown up all the same — coat too hot for the weather, hat in his hands, standing like he wasn’t sure where to look. Beside him stood Bucky. Dark coat. Broad shoulders. Hair pulled back, like he hadn’t had time to cut it. His eyes were the only part of him that moved. Sharp and distant. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Just stared across the graveside at you like he understood something the rest of them didn’t.

You didn’t look long. Couldn’t. Because the coffin lowered into the dirt, and your knees gave out in the soil. You gripped the edge of the fresh-dug earth like it might stop the whole world from falling with him. When the last shovelful of dirt hit the wood, it sounded too loud. Too final.

The day after, the workers left. Didn’t even wait until sun-up. You heard the wagon creak before you saw them — three men, eyes low, hats in their laps, not a one of them brave enough to knock. The foreman — red-faced and sweating — left a sealed envelope in your mailbox with your name misspelled and the words “regretfully resigning” in crooked ink. They hadn’t left because of the work. Or the drought. They’d left because a grieving woman was all that remained.

Because grief made you soft in their eyes, even when your hands were raw and bleeding from rebuilding the chicken wire by yourself that morning. You didn’t chase them. Didn’t call out. Just went back inside and pulled your boots off slow, like your legs weren’t really yours. The house was too quiet again. Even the walls seemed to creak different now.

The vultures came next. Not the birds. The men.

The first was a banker from one county over. Came with a checkbook in hand and a pen that didn’t know how to sign his own name. He talked in soft tones and squinted when he smiled. “This place could bring you some good fortune-“ he said, glancing at the barn like it offended him. “With the right buyer, you’d be free of the burden.”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, shotgun leaned against the railing. You didn’t even blink. “Tell you what-“ you said coolly. “You turn that wagon around and head back the way you came, or I’ll let the pigs decide if you’re worth keeping.”

He left.

The second man came bearing flowers — dusty, wilted things probably stolen from a cemetery on the way over. Said he’d heard about your loss and wanted to offer his condolences..And his hand. You laughed once — hard and bitter — then stepped off the porch and turned the gun on him without a word. He cursed and sputtered all the way to the road.

The third never even spoke. He saw the glint of steel in your hand — just a spade, covered in dirt — and thought better of it.

You buried your grief in work in the coming weeks. You fed the animals. Scrubbed the troughs. Fought a broken plow until your back screamed and your knuckles bled. You didn’t sleep well. You didn’t speak to anyone. You didn’t move a single goddamn thing in the house — not his boots, not his coat, not the half-finished carving on the porch he never got to finish.

The stillness of it all pressed on your chest like a second death. You had the land. You had the name on the deed. But none of it felt like yours.

Not really.

Then one morning — hot, heavy, and dry again — you were standing on the porch with coffee in your hand, thumb pressed to a chipped spot on the mug, when you heard it.

Hoofbeats. Slow. Measured. Unfamiliar.

You looked up and saw two riders coming down the old path. Steve, clean-cut and steady, tipping his hat with a warmth you hadn’t seen in weeks. And beside him… Bucky. Long coat. Blue eyes. Tired, but alert. A presence like thunder before the storm.

He didn’t smile. But he nodded once — like he knew you were still standing when you didn’t have to be. You didn’t speak. But you didn’t go back inside either.

You tensed — not fear, just instinct now. The rooster stirred outside. The old hound next door didn’t bother barking anymore. Not unless someone walked straight through the gate. You stood up slow, spine stiff from that morning’s work, and made your way to the front step. Bare feet on warm wood. Your dress stuck to your skin in places the breeze didn’t reach.

Steve and Bucky stood on your porch like no time had passed at all. Hat in their hands, sunlight crowning them just like it used to. Steve’s shirt was clean, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms crossed loosely — but there was a crease between his brows, and the way he looked at you made your throat tighten.

Beside him stood James — Bucky — and the sight of him in the bright sun hit a different way. He was broader now, hair longer, eyes deeper and worn down by the world. But you’d know that mouth anywhere, even quiet as it was.

You, Steve, and Bucky had grown up within shouting distance of each other. Rode bikes through the same pastures. Skipped stones in the same creek. Fought side by side in schoolyard scraps while you stood aside cheering them on, and slept under the same stars during county fairs and long summers.

The three of you had once been inseparable.

But life pulled you three away — war, work, the kind of trouble you didn’t ask about. They’d moved out of town years back, just far enough to build their own lives. And you had stayed.

You leaned against the railing, arms folded.

“Well-” you said, voice rough from disuse, “I thought you were two more men come to offer me their hand.” Steve blinked once, confused. Then you raised a brow, and his expression cracked into a chuckle as he stepped back slightly and looked down.

“Wasn’t expectin’ that.” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. Bucky didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he might’ve. The same look he’d had the summer he dared you to kiss a frog and you made him do it instead.

You opened the front door. Stepped aside. “Get in before the sun eats ya alive.” They stepped inside like they remembered the layout — not from recent memory, but from long ago. The walls were different now. So were you.

Steve took off his hat and turned it slowly in his hands, looking around the room like it hadn’t changed much. It hadn’t. Bucky followed, gaze skimming across the floorboards, the windows, the wall where your brother’s coat still hung untouched. He didn’t stare. But he saw everything. You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s long gone cold. Water’s still decent.”

They followed you in. You didn’t bother with a second glass. Just poured yourself one and sat down again. Bucky remained standing near the wall, hands at his sides. Steve leaned gently against the counter, setting his hat down on the table near you.

Steve looked at you carefully. “You alright?”

You let out a short breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite an answer. “You know I ain’t.” you muttered, taking a sip of water. It tasted like heat and copper. “But I’m upright. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Steve nodded. His eyes dropped to your hands. You saw the moment he noticed the bruising along your knuckles. You didn’t hide them.

“Had a few fellas knockin’ on my door lately..” you added, voice flat. “Offerin’ money. Or marriage. Or both. Said a woman on her own couldn’t possibly run a place like this.”

Steve’s mouth twisted. His jaw tightened.

“I’ve been tellin’ them all to screw off.” you said, voice gaining strength. “They scatter quick once they see the shotgun.”

Steve chuckled then, just a soft huff. “That sounds about right.” You glanced toward the window. The sun was high now, burning through the lace curtain. The land outside was bone-dry. You didn’t look away when you said it: “Workers quit on me the day after the funeral. Bastards left without so much as a handshake. Guess a woman in charge ain’t worth the sweat.”

You reached for the glass again, adjusting it a little — nudging it back into place even though it hadn’t moved. Steve looked over at Bucky. Something passed between them — not pity, but something quieter. Respect, maybe. Or worry. Then Steve looked back at you.

“We came to help.” You blinked. Looked up. “Help?” He nodded once. “Me and Buck. We’ve got time. Strong backs. We know our way around a fence line.”

You stared at him. Not because it was a bad offer — but because part of you still didn’t know how to accept kindness without flinching.

“Free of charge.” he added, like he knew what you were thinking. “We ain’t takin’ a cent from ya’. Just want to make sure the place keeps standin’. Like it’s supposed to.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked down at your lap — the bruises on your knees still fresh from hauling a broken trough yesterday, the stiffness in your shoulder from lifting too much feed by yourself. You wanted to say no. Out of pride. Out of grief. Out of pure, bone-deep stubbornness.

But your body was telling a different story.

So you sighed. Slow. Heavy. Then stood. “Alright.” you said, voice quieter now. “Alright.”

Steve smiled gently, putting his hat back on as he straightened up. “It’s no problem, dear. Honest.”His accent was softer than yours now — smoothed out by time, softened by the places he’d lived. But it was still there, hiding in the vowels. Familiar.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

Steve Rogers — the boy who used to throw rocks at the creek with you until sunset, who held your hand the day your mama passed. Who shared a single slice of pie with you and Bucky under the bleachers the year you all turned sixteen. Who grew up and left. Who came back when it mattered.

You stayed when they didn’t. Built something that looked like a life. And now here you were. Right back where it all began. Only this time, the trio was back together. And Bucky — quiet, unreadable, watchful Bucky — hadn’t taken his eyes off you once.

The morning started earlier than it needed to.

You were up before sunrise, just like always. The floorboards were cool under your feet, the rooms still gray with that pre-dawn hush that settles in deep when a house hasn’t heard laughter in a while. You moved through the kitchen like a ghost in your own life — lighting the stove, cracking eggs into the pan, kneading dough by feel. Every motion rehearsed. Automatic. Not because you loved it, but because it needed doing.

The smell of coffee crept through the house like an old memory. You poured yourself a cup and stood by the window, watching the horizon take on light. A pale gold stretched over the ridge line, kissing the field like it was trying to bring something back to life. You didn’t believe in omens. But you felt something shift.

Bucky and Steve were already in the yard by the time you stepped outside. You’d heard them rise — quiet boots on the stairs, murmured voices through the thin walls. Steve was talking low and easy, the way he always had, and Bucky answered less often, but with a kind of thoughtfulness that filled the spaces Steve left open.

You found them near the shed. Steve crouched beside a broken fence panel, Bucky standing back with his sleeves rolled up, thumb pressed to his brow as he looked at the warped wood.

You crossed the dirt with your coffee still in hand. “Fence line’s bad clear through to the east side-” you said, nodding past them. “One of ‘em pigs got out last week. Damn thing made it to the road before I could catch it.”

Bucky looked up at that. There was a flicker in his expression — maybe amusement. Maybe not. “You run after it yourself?” Steve asked, rising from his squat. You sipped your coffee. “Took me an hour. Near threw my back out.”

Steve winced sympathetically. “We’ll start with the fence, then.” You gave a small nod. “Shed roof’s got holes too. Storm last week tore a few panels loose.” Bucky had wandered a few paces over to the corner post, testing it with his palm. It wobbled. “We’ll get to that after.” he said, more to Steve than to you — but you heard the certainty in it. The quiet way he moved, hands already reaching for the tools like it was second nature. No questions. No wasted motion.

You didn’t hover. Just pointed toward the woodpile and said, “Tools’re in the back. Nails too, if the mice didn’t get ‘em.” Then you turned, coffee in hand, and made your way toward the barn.

You spent most of the morning mucking out stalls, feeding the horses, checking on the chickens. You worked fast. Hard. It was the only way the days passed without splintering.

Every so often, you’d catch sight of them through the open barn doors — Steve and Bucky, shirts off by the time the sun hit full, sweat darkening the waistlines of their trousers. They moved like they’d done this together before, no need for directions. One lifted, the other hammered. One held, the other braced. It was like watching a dance you used to know but forgot the steps to.

You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer help or water or company. But you noticed Bucky’s hands — the way he worked without flinching, muscles flexing with each swing. You’d known him as a boy, all bark and mischief. This wasn’t that. This was quiet strength. Not loud, not showy. Just… there. Like the fence. Like the farm. Like you were trying to be.

At midday, you brought out a jug of water and a loaf of bread, set them down on the porch without a word. You didn’t have the energy to sit and chat. Not yet. Steve tipped his hat from where he stood on the ladder. “Thank you kindly.” he called, wiping sweat from his brow.

Bucky didn’t speak, but his gaze found yours for the briefest moment. You nodded once, then stepped back inside.

By late afternoon, you were repairing a saddle in the parlor. The stitching had split down one side, and you were using your brother’s old awl to thread it tight again. Your hands ached. Your back hurt. But the act of mending something—anything—was soothing in its own way. You didn’t notice the shadow in the doorway until Bucky spoke.

“You’ve still got his things.” he said. Quiet. Low.

You looked up slowly. The room dimmed behind him. His silhouette was half lit by gold from the window. Your hand paused on the leather strap.“I haven’t moved a damn thing.” you admitted.

Bucky stepped inside, gaze falling on the boots by the door. The coat on the peg. The way your eyes avoided them both.

“He was a good man.” he said. Not like it was a condolence. More like it was a fact. You swallowed once, throat dry. “Yeah.”There was silence again. The kind that felt full, not empty.

Then Bucky nodded toward the saddle. “You do all the repair work yourself?”You nodded. “Had to learn.”He stepped closer, crouching beside the chair. His fingers brushed the stitching — careful, but firm. “Not bad.”

You breathed out slowly, some knot in your chest easing without permission.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stood after a moment, offered a nod, and headed back toward the yard. No judgment. No small talk. Just… company.

That evening, you stood by the porch with your arms crossed, watching the sun slip behind the ridge. The day had left you hollowed out, but the land was quieter now. Like it’d been fed. Tended to. Like it had noticed the return of hands that meant well.

Steve joined you after a while, hat low over his brow. “You worked hard today.” you said softly.

He chuckled. “Not as hard as you have been.”

You didn’t argue. He hesitated. “It’s good to be back.” You looked at him. Really looked. “It’s good to have you.” you murmured. He glanced toward the barn, where Bucky was still finishing up with a stack of boards.

“You know-“ Steve said, voice softer now, “he was worried. Didn’t know if you’d want us here.” You stared at the sky. “I didn’t know either.” Steve didn’t press. Just gave your arm a light squeeze and said goodnight. You watched him go, watched the stars begin to climb. And somewhere deep in your chest, buried beneath the ache — something softened. Not healed. Not yet. But something held.

The days passed slow, not because of the heat, but because time felt thicker now — like the air was made of syrup and memories.

Each sunrise came a little easier. Each night fell a little quieter. And somewhere in between, something changed. Not loudly. Not all at once. But in the way your hands stopped shaking when you reached for the coffeepot in the morning. In the way the earth didn’t feel quite so hollow under your boots.

Steve stayed a week before heading back to his place out east. He left with a half-smile and a promise to return once his cousin’s cattle drive settled down, tipping his hat and telling you to write if you needed anything. You’d nodded, said thank you, tried not to look too long at the space he left behind.

Bucky didn’t leave. He never said why. Didn’t ask if he could stay longer. Didn’t offer to go, either. He just kept fixing what was broken. And you let him.

You didn’t speak much at first. Neither of you did. Mornings were mostly quiet — two mugs on the table, steam rising in the hush of dawn, boots laced while the rooster crowed. He’d nod toward the field. You’d answer with a tilt of your chin. And the two of you would walk out into the yard without a word.

You worked side by side. Fixing the gates. Clearing the brush. Digging a trench for runoff when the rain finally started threatening again.

He carried the heavier load. Didn’t brag about it. Didn’t say a word when your knees buckled one afternoon under the weight of a sodden feed bag. He just stepped in, lifted it onto his shoulder, and kept walking. You didn’t thank him. But that night, you left an extra slice of pie on his side of the porch table.

You started noticing things. Like how he always rinsed the tools before putting them away. How he whittled small things in the evening — bits of wood worn smooth by restless fingers. Animals, mostly. A horse’s head. A fox. Once, a bear with one ear chipped. He left that one on the railing. You didn’t ask if it was meant for you. But it stayed there. And when the wind picked up, he moved it under the awning.

You noticed how he never asked questions. Never prodded into your grief. Just let it live there, quiet, in the corners of the room, until it softened enough to share the air with him.

One afternoon, as the sun dipped lower than usual, you caught sight of him by the far fence line. Shirt half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his back pocket, sweat darkening the collar. He was leaning on the post, back to you, hair caught by the wind just enough to lift off his neck. He didn’t know you were watching. But you stood there a little longer than you meant to, a broom still in your hands, chest rising just slightly shallower than it had a moment before.

That night, it rained. A soft, steady patter that danced across the tin roof like an old lullaby. You couldn’t sleep — not really. Not all the way. The blankets felt too heavy. The air still too sharp. But you wandered down the hallway anyway, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and stood at the back door with the screen propped open, just enough to smell the dirt as it cooled. Bucky was already there.

Sitting on the top step, arms resting on his knees, watching the rain fall on the garden like it was a film he’d seen a hundred times and still didn’t know the ending to.

You stood in the doorway, quiet. He didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. “You sleep?” he asked, voice low. “No.”You stepped out, let the rain reach your bare feet. Sat beside him on the step without asking. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just wide.

“I think about him.” you said eventually. “When it rains like this.” Bucky didn’t move. “He’d sit right here. Said the rain made the world feel clean again.” He nodded slowly, chin dipping once. You glanced sideways at him. “You remember when we all used to sneak out and race through the mud barefoot?”

His mouth twitched. “You always won.”

“I cheated.”

“I know.”

You huffed once. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. Then you both sat still again, rain in your hair, the porch creaking gently under your weight. And for the first time in a long time, you felt something in your chest that wasn’t grief.

It wasn’t joy, either. Not yet. But it was something.

The next day was heavy with heat. A dry, baking sun stretched across the fields, turning the fence posts silver and drawing every scent from the soil — dust, hay, rust, and something warm and green beneath it all. By noon, the horses had gone still in the shade, the pigs half-buried themselves in the mud, and the flies buzzed in lazy loops through the barn.

You worked through it anyway.

Stripped down to your undershirt, tied your sleeves high, and soaked the bandana around your neck before heading back out with the hoe and the feed bucket. The ache in your shoulders had become so constant you hardly noticed it anymore. Bucky was silent beside you through most of it. Fixing a wheel on the plow. Rebuilding the bottom panel of the gate that had rotted clean through. Shirt off. Hair damp with sweat. Skin catching the light like burnished metal in places.

It wasn’t the way he looked that got to you. Well, it did a little bit.. But it was the way he worked. Quiet. Capable. Reliable. Like his presence alone helped you believe the damn barn wouldn’t fall apart after all. You offered him water halfway through the day. He took it without a word, but his fingers lingered against yours on the glass. Neither of you mentioned it.

That night, the heat didn’t let up. You’d bathed early, washed the sweat from your body with a cloth and cold well water, left the windows open just wide enough to catch the breeze. Still, the air inside your bedroom hung thick — clinging to your skin like a second layer. You laid down, restless. Sheets kicked off your legs. The ache in your spine blooming deeper with every toss and turn.

You tried not to think about the silence that filled the hallways now. Tried not to notice the corner of the dresser still dusted with his things. Tried not to miss the weight that used to sit beside you, reading from a book. You failed.

When the floor creaked softly down the hall, you didn’t flinch. You knew that footstep. You’d known it since childhood. The knocks were quiet. Three slow taps on the doorframe. Just enough. You turned your head on the pillow. He stood there like a shadow—Bucky. Barefoot, hair loose around his neck, his chest still damp from the pump out back. His expression unreadable, but not guarded.

He didn’t come closer. Didn’t speak. You didn’t say anything either. You just lifted the blanket beside you. A small, unspoken invitation.

Not for that. Just the presence of another body. Just not being alone in the dark.

He stepped inside. Quiet as dusk. Crawled into the bed like it was something fragile. The mattress shifted beneath his weight, warm and solid, and for the first time in weeks — months — you felt a kind of gravity return to the earth.

You laid still for a long time. Breathing in rhythm. The ceiling fan creaking above like an old memory. Then — his hand. Slow, calloused, careful — resting on your forearm. Not possessive. Not leading anywhere. Just there.

You swallowed hard. Closed your eyes. That touch didn’t demand anything. But it filled a space you’d been holding open for too long.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke.

“I forgot what it was like.” you whispered. “What?” he asked, his voice barely above the breath of night. You didn’t look at him. “To feel someone near me.” A pause. Then he squeezed your arm, just gently. His thumb dragging once over the skin like he knew the shape of grief too well to ask it for anything.

You didn’t cry. But something in your chest settled. And the two of you lay there, inches apart but not untouched, as the night finally cooled around you.

The morning came like any other. You rose with the sun, pressed your feet to the cool floorboards, tied your hair back and rinsed your face in silence. The memory of last night lingered, but it wasn’t heavy — not haunting. Just a quiet warmth between your ribs. Like a handprint left on skin. Bucky was already outside by the time you stepped out with your coffee in hand. He didn’t look your way — but then again, he didn’t need to. Not after last night.

You passed him a glance as you walked by, and he met it, just briefly. Something flickered there. Not tension. Not avoidance. Just… acknowledgment. Like the two of you had crossed some invisible line in the night, and now you were on the other side of it. Still strangers to the pain, maybe — but not to each other.

You busied yourself that morning, same as always. You fed the chickens, hauled feed to the pigs, swept out the barn. Your hands were steady, your rhythm familiar. The ache in your spine had dulled to something manageable, and even the heat didn’t weigh quite so hard today. But every so often, your eyes would drift to the far end of the yard — where Bucky was mending one of the northern fence lines.

He worked like he always did. Efficient. Focused. Shirt off, hair tied back. You watched him plant his weight with each strike of the hammer, muscles flexing in the sun. And then he jerked. Just once. A pause. Then movement — quicker than usual. He tossed the hammer aside, cursed under his breath, and gripped his hand. You set down the bucket in your hands and stepped forward. He didn’t call out, but the urgency in his stride told you all you needed to know.

By the time he reached the porch, there were droplets of red trailing behind him. “Damn fence caught me.” he muttered, stepping through the door without asking. You moved fast. “Sit down.”He obeyed, sliding into the kitchen chair with a wince. You grabbed a basin, filled it with cool water, and tugged a towel down from the hook.

He extended his arm, blood trailing down to the elbow. You hissed through your teeth when you saw the cut — not deep enough for panic, but ugly enough to need stitching.

“Hold still.” you said, dipping the towel and pressing it firm against the wound. Bucky grunted softly, jaw tightening. His hand flexed in your grip. “You’re lucky it didn’t take your whole damn hand off.” you murmured.

“I’ve had worse.”

“You always say that.”

He didn’t answer, and you realized the words had slipped out as if this were any other day — any other man. Your fingers slowed, but only for a second.

You reached for your stitching kit from the cabinet. It still lived in the same drawer where Robert kept it. You hadn’t touched it since.

You rolled your sleeves, laid out the clean cloth and thread, and reached for the whiskey bottle you kept in the pantry. Not for drinking — not anymore — but for cleaning wounds like this.

“Robert used to do this all the damn time.” you said without meaning to. Bucky looked up. You paused, just briefly, as your hands twisted the cap off the bottle.

“Couldn’t go more than three days without tearing himself open on some rusted nail or jagged edge of wire. Thought he’d learn after the first time.” Bucky said nothing. You poured the whiskey over the cloth. The scent hit your nose sharp and stinging.

“He was such a baby about it, too.” you added, glancing up with the smallest curl of a smile. “Whined for days. Sat around like he’d been stabbed in the gut.” Bucky exhaled — not a laugh, exactly, but something warm. His eyes softened. You threaded the needle, hands steady. The silence between you now felt different. Not tight. Not fragile. Just… still.

It didn’t hit you like you thought it would — saying his name. Remembering him aloud. The pain was still there, but dulled. Like an old bruise beginning to yellow. You looked at Bucky. “This’ll hurt.” He nodded. “Go on.”

You cleaned around the wound first — firm but careful. Then you held his wrist, felt the heat of his skin under your palm, and pushed the needle through the reddened edge.

He hissed through his teeth, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “Almost done.” you said softly, keeping your focus sharp. “Just three more.”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just breathed hard through his nose, his hand braced on the table. You kept going — stitch after stitch, the needle sliding in and out with surgical rhythm. Your fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist as you knotted the final thread.

When it was done, you sat back in your chair and looked at your work. Clean. Neat. Bucky looked at you. “Thank you.” You met his eyes. “Don’t make a habit of it.” A beat passed. Then — a smirk. The smallest one. But it was there.

You didn’t return it, but your chest ached in a way that didn’t hurt. Not quite.

The sun had slipped behind the ridge by the time the house went quiet again. You’d finished cleaning the blood from the floorboards, wrung out the rags, and laid them to dry. Bucky had taken a long rinse at the pump, and now he sat on the porch steps, his shirt hung over the rail, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

You stepped out a while later, barefoot, your shoulders still warm from the bathwater, a loose cardigan hanging open over your dress. The air was cooler now, kissed with the faint scent of grass and ash from the brush pile Steve had burned last week.

Bucky didn’t look up when you joined him. He just moved over, wordless, and you sat beside him like it was second nature. A quiet stretched between you. Not awkward. Just open.

The kind of quiet only possible when someone has seen your worst day and hasn’t gone running. You watched the stars blink out one by one. The sky above the ridge deepened into a velvet blue. Crickets started up slow in the distance.

Bucky’s arm was close to yours. Not touching, but enough that you felt the heat radiating off his skin. You didn’t know who spoke first. Maybe it was both of you, at the same time.

“Heard there’s a storm coming through next week.” you said, just to fill the space. “Should patch the shed before it hits.” he replied, low.

You nodded. “That roof’ll cave in if it sees one more gust.” He gave a faint hum in agreement.

Silence again. Then— “You sleep alright?” he asked, not looking at you. You hesitated. Then answered honestly. “Better than I have in a long time.”

He nodded once. A beat passed before he said, “You didn’t move all night.” You glanced over at him, just slightly. “You watched me?”His lips twitched. “You kicked me once. Thought you were gonna throw me out.”

A soft sound escaped you — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You were takin’ up too much space.”

“I stayed on my half.”

“You ain’t got a half.” you murmured. He looked at you then. Just briefly. And something unspoken moved between you. Not quite longing. Not quite fear. But something. Something real.

You leaned forward, rested your elbows on your knees, fingers laced. Your eyes drifted toward the field — the way it rolled off into the dark like the edge of the world. “I used to think I’d die on this land.” you said softly. “Grow old here. Watch Robert gray out, fall asleep in that damn rocking chair and never get up.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe because it was dark. Maybe because his silence felt safe. Bucky didn’t interrupt.

You kept going. “I had the whole life planned out. Down to the last damn crop rotation. He was supposed to be it.” The stars blinked. The wind stirred. “He wasn’t a perfect brother.” you added. “God knows he was stubborn. Cut himself on that same stretch of fence a dozen times. Never wore gloves, no matter how often I told him.”

You paused. Then: “But he loved this place. And he loved me. And now it’s just me… tryin’ to keep all that love from blowin’ away in the wind.” You weren’t crying. But your voice had gone hoarse. Bucky shifted beside you. Then — gently — his hand came to rest on your back. Low. Steady. Just the weight of it.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer pity. Or comfort in the way people usually meant it. Just stayed. You closed your eyes. Let your shoulders drop, just a little.

The porch creaked beneath the two of you. The house stood still. The field whispered like it knew how to grieve with you. You didn’t say anything else. Neither did he.

It was two days before the storm hit when Bucky decided to climb the roof. That morning, after patching up the southeast gate, he’d fetched the ladder without a word. Hauled it across the yard with easy strength, laid it up against the shed like he’d been planning this.

You watched from the kitchen window as he climbed — calm, sure-footed, steady. And your gut twisted.

You weren’t proud of the way it knotted up inside you, that low thrum of worry that made your hand grip the dish towel tighter. It didn’t make sense. You’d seen worse. You’d lived through worse. But this was different.

It wasn’t just a man on your roof. It was him.

And the sight of him crouched up there, shirtless in the sun, hammer tucked through his belt, dirt smudged across his side — it made something ancient and animal start to crawl inside your chest. Not romantic, not yearning, just raw and protective and tight. Like watching someone walk barefoot across shattered glass.

You tried to ignore it. You turned away, moved to the counter, picked up the half-sliced onion you’d been working on and resumed your task with a little too much force. The knife thudded against the cutting board. The rhythm should’ve soothed you, but it didn’t. You diced too fast. Too sharp. Pieces flying.

The house felt suddenly too quiet. Every creak of the beams made your ears twitch. The wind outside picked up slightly, brushing through the open windows, rattling the edge of the curtain just enough to distract you.

You moved from the onion to the carrots. Peeled them, chopped them, dropped them in the pot with a bit of salt. Stirred. Stirred again. Turned the heat down. Back up. Checked the bread, even though it still had twenty minutes left. Your eyes kept drifting to the window. Kept looking for movement along the roofline. Every time he shifted, you tensed. You told yourself to get a grip. He was fine. He’d always been fine. This was Bucky.

And yet… The sound of the hammer striking wood echoed down to you like thunder. You imagined the pitch of the roof, imagined how slick it must be with dust and sun and sweat. Your jaw clenched. You wiped your hands clean and stood still for a long moment, the kitchen filling with the smell of sage and roasted garlic, trying to will yourself to stay calm.

But it gnawed at you. The thought of him slipping. The thought of hearing that thud.

Finally, you pushed the screen door open and stepped outside, one hand pressed against the doorframe like you needed to ground yourself. The light was hot and gold, afternoon sun catching the edge of the shingles like fire.

And there he was.

High up, crouched near the ridge, a strip of old roofing tossed aside behind him. Shirt abandoned somewhere, belt dusty, boots planted firm. He moved with ease, the kind that came from confidence, but to you it looked like recklessness. Like the kind of balance that could give out if the wrong board gave way.

Your throat tightened. You called up to him, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “You better not fall — I ain’t catchin’ ya!” He didn’t turn. Just kept working. But you saw it — the barest flicker of a grin at the edge of his mouth. Then he shouted back, casual, teasing: “Woman, I ain’t fallin’. Now go!”

Your brow twitched. You let out the most exaggerated tsk you could muster. “Don’t you woman me!” you snapped, already turning on your heel. “Damn fool.” You let the screen slam behind you as you marched back inside, heart thudding louder than it had any right to.

You muttered to yourself the whole way to the kitchen. “Callin’ me woman like that — oughta throw a rock at him. Dumb as a bag of nails.”

But your voice lacked bite. Your cheeks were warm. And behind all the huffing, you felt a flutter that had nothing to do with irritation.

You tried to bury it. Tried to focus on the carrots again. But every ten minutes, you were peeking through the window again, watching that stubborn, broad-shouldered silhouette shifting along your roofline like he was part of the house itself.

You’d grumble when you caught yourself. Mutter under your breath. “He’s fine.” you said once aloud, to no one. “Was always too damn proud to die young anyway.”

Still — your stomach didn’t settle until you heard the ladder clatter against the shed again at dusk. You stepped out onto the porch just as he was making his way back down, shirt slung over one shoulder, hands dusty and streaked with sweat.

He nodded at you. Not smug. Just aware that you’d been watching. “Didn’t fall.” he said plainly. You rolled your eyes, trying not to let your relief show. “Well-“ you said, brushing your palms on your skirt, “roof’s still crooked, but I guess it’ll hold.”

“It’ll hold.” he repeated with certainty. Then he looked at you a second longer than he needed to. You didn’t drop his gaze. Not this time.

But you did mutter something about supper and turned toward the door before that warm feeling in your chest spread any further.

The sun had dipped low by the time supper was on the table. You’d kept it simple — chicken stew, the kind that simmers thick and slow all day long, with carrots soft enough to press with a fork and biscuits baked golden brown at the edges. The house was warm from the oven, the lamps lit low, casting soft shadows across the walls as the windows darkened to night.

Bucky had come in from the porch not long after you slammed the door on his teasing, tracking dust and dry grass across your floorboards, a streak of dirt still clinging to his collarbone. He didn’t ask if he could wash up — just did. He used the basin by the back door, wiped his hands on the towel, combed his fingers through his hair with a low grunt before finally stepping into the kitchen.

You were already plating two bowls. You didn’t look at him when you spoke — just placed the first dish on the table in front of his usual seat and turned to grab the biscuits. “Thank you.”

He blinked, settling into the chair. “For what?”

You set the bread basket down and met his eyes, just briefly. “Patchin’ the roof. Gate. All of it.”He shifted in his seat, like the thanks sat awkward in his lap. “Don’t need thanks.” he mumbled, spoon already sinking into the stew.

You raised an eyebrow and smirked faintly. “Why’re you always this prickly ‘bout kindness?” He gave you a look — half amused, half deadpan — and you laughed under your breath, finally sitting across from him.

You both ate in companionable silence at first, spoon meeting bowl, bread pulled apart and dipped into the broth. Outside, the night settled deep and thick, crickets humming like a distant lullaby, and somewhere far off, the first rumble of thunder rolled soft across the ridge.

It wasn’t until halfway through your meal that the thought struck you. You blinked down at your spoon, then looked across at him.

“I never asked-” you said suddenly. “What’ve you been up to? These days, I mean. ‘Fore you rode in here with Steve like a couple of ghosts from my past.” Bucky looked up — surprised.

He was mid-bite, a torn piece of biscuit halfway to his mouth, soup spoon resting idle in his other hand. He paused for a second, finished chewing, swallowed slow. Then leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders relaxing just a little.

“We’ve got a business-“ he said, voice low and even. “Me and Steve.” You leaned forward, interested. “Oh yeah?”He nodded, absently wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a thumb. “We run a hauling and repair line out near Rockhill. Started small. Deliveries, repairs, engine work. Anything mechanical, really. Long as it’s got gears, wheels, or wire, we’ll figure it out.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “You? A mechanic?”He shrugged, that ghost of a grin flickering at the edge of his lips. “Picked it up quick. Was always good with my hands.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” You muttered it to yourself, barely loud enough to register. But he caught it. His eyes flicked up. You cleared your throat and leaned back. “So what’s it called? The business.”

“Rogers & Barnes.” he said. “Nothing flashy.”

“Simple. I like it.”He nodded once, then added: “We work with a man named Tony Stark. Real smartass, but he’s got the best mind for wiring I’ve ever seen. Builds engines from scratch. Boilers too. Designs ‘em, fixes ‘em. You name it.”

Your brow arched, impressed. “Fancy.”

“Yeah, well. He’s got more tools than sense, but it works.”

You chuckled. “Sounds like a lotta men I’ve met.”

“Not like him.” He shook his head. “He’s different. Bit… intense. But kind, when it counts.”

He trailed off for a moment, then added, quieter: “There’s others too. Crew’s grown over the years. Natasha runs the books. Bruce handles the rails. We’re not all local, but we get the work done.” You found yourself watching him while he talked — the way his eyes flicked down when he spoke, then back up like checking to see if you were still listening. The steadiness of his hands now that they weren’t calloused around a hammer or slick with blood. The ease in his voice — not open, exactly, but not guarded either.

He was comfortable. It struck you gently… this was the most he’d spoken in years. And you liked it. God, you liked it. “You happy?” you asked softly.

He looked up at that. His mouth parted like he hadn’t expected the question. You didn’t press. Just met his eyes with something soft and genuine. And after a moment, he nodded. Just once. “Yeah.” His voice was quieter now. “Didn’t used to be. But… I think I am.”

You smiled. Small, but real. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

The stew had gone lukewarm. The bread basket half-empty. And still, you sat there across from him, in the home that no longer felt quite so haunted.

The day before the storm broke, the sky looked wrong. It was the kind of wrong you couldn’t name outright — no lightning yet, no winds tearing through the fields — but the light came through the windows strange. Dim and gold, then greenish, then dull. Like the sun couldn’t decide whether to rise or sink.

You felt it in your bones. In the way your hands moved slower through your morning chores. In the way the animals were restless — the horses stamping more than usual, the chickens crowding together like they knew something you didn’t.

By midafternoon, the clouds had thickened, hanging low and swollen. The air was still. Too still. You and Bucky both worked in it anyway. Not saying much. There wasn’t a need. The storm wasn’t here yet, and there was still work to be done — wood to haul into the shed, latches to check, buckets to cover. You passed each other in the barn and the yard, quiet and close, trading tools with a glance, nodding once when something was done.

It wasn’t until you were lifting the last hay bale into the loft — awkwardly, off-balance, too fast — that your foot slipped off the side of the ladder. You didn’t fall far — just one rung. But it knocked the wind out of you, hard enough to gasp.

You heard him before you saw him. “Hey—” his voice, sharp, and then “Don’t move—”Bucky was at your side before you could even blink, hands steadying you by the waist, strong and warm, anchoring you back to solid ground.

Your fingers had gripped the ladder rung so tight your knuckles were white. “I’m fine.” you muttered, but your chest rose and fell fast, and your voice sounded too tight in your own ears.

“You sure?” You nodded. Once. Quick. But you didn’t step away. Neither did he. His hands were still on you, firm and careful, like he wasn’t quite convinced you wouldn’t fall again. His brow was furrowed, jaw set like stone.

The space between you was small — smaller than it had ever been. And for a long breath, you didn’t say anything.

Neither of you did. You just stood there, the ladder creaking softly beside you, his hands still at your waist, the sky heavy outside the loft windows. Your eyes flicked to his — and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw him looking at you like he didn’t know how to hide it.

There was a softness in it. A question. A hesitation that felt so familiar it ached. You exhaled slow, the adrenaline settling, your hands slowly loosening from the ladder rung. And still, neither of you moved. Eventually, you let out a shaky breath and offered a quiet, raspy—“Thanks.”

He nodded once, like that was enough. His hands slipped away from your waist — not in a rush, but slow, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

You stepped down the last few rungs, your boots hitting dirt, and didn’t look back until you were outside in the barnyard again, the breeze just barely picking up, the first shift of the storm beginning to stir.

That evening, the air was thick and expectant. You moved slower through dinner. Spoke even less. But when the thunder cracked soft in the distance and the porch lights flickered once, Bucky looked at you across the table, and you knew — he felt it too. Not the storm. The shift.

The wind had picked up something fierce after sundown. It howled down from the ridge like it carried teeth, pushing through the cracks in the house, rattling the glass, pulling at the porch eaves. The sky outside was ink-dark, stars long gone, and clouds rolling too fast for comfort. Every few minutes, thunder broke in the distance — soft, distant groans like the earth turning in its sleep.

You couldn’t sit still. You’d tried. Sat on the couch for exactly five minutes, listening to the wind, fingers knotted in your lap. But your knee had started bouncing, and before you knew it, you were up again — folding blankets you’d already folded, checking the doors, wiping down the counter a second time just for something to do.

Bucky had been watching you for a while.

He was sitting on the edge of the chair near the hearth now, one arm slung over the back, boots clean and placed neatly by the door like he’d been raised in a damn church. His shirt was loose, sleeves rolled up, collar still damp from the bath he’d taken an hour earlier. He looked calm — maddeningly so.

“You’ll scrub a hole through that counter if you ain’t careful.” he said after a long moment, voice low and just a little amused. You glanced up, the rag in your hand paused mid-swipe.

“Storm’s gettin’ worse.” you muttered. “Ain’t like I can sleep anyhow.”

“Storm’ll pass. They always do.” You made a sound in your throat. Something between a scoff and a sigh.

“Why’re you so calm?” you snapped, half-hearted but sharp. “Or you just enjoy sittin’ there while I pace the floors to death?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, a slow grin pulling at one side of his mouth. “Wouldn’t say I’m enjoyin’ it-“ he drawled. “But it’s good entertainment.”

That earned him a glare. You set the rag down, hard, and crossed your arms across your chest — the fabric of your nightgown soft against your skin, cardigan sleeves bunching slightly at the wrists “Bite your damn tongue.” you said, hand on your hip. “Ain’t like there’s much else to do with the wind knockin’ around like it is.” Bucky chuckled under his breath. But this time, it wasn’t mocking. He then stood, slow, and walked down the hall.

The fire was burning low in the hearth, just enough to keep the room warm. You’d been feeding it small, deliberate pieces of oak from the basket Robert had built years ago. Each crackle felt like a heartbeat in the silence. Something to focus on. Still, you couldn’t sit still. Your hands itched to stay busy. So you turned to the bookshelf.

It was hand-crafted. Made by Robert one summer when he swore the store-bought ones were “a disgrace to wood.” Sturdy pine, joints carved clean, corners beveled with a gentleness his rough hands never quite had anywhere else. You remembered the way he’d sanded it smooth, humming to himself with a toothpick between his teeth.

You touched it lightly before pulling the first row of books free. You didn’t know what order you were working in—maybe height, maybe color. It didn’t matter. You just needed something.

As you lifted a stack of old field journals and memoirs, something slid free and fluttered to the floor. A small, folded piece of paper.

It landed by your bare foot, soft and almost too quiet to hear over the wind.

You frowned, tucking the books into place again, then slowly knelt. The fire flickered at your back as you reached for it. The paper was yellowed slightly, the fold worn from age and pressure. Your fingers hesitated over the name written across the front in tight, slanted script.

Robert.

You sat back on your heels. Your breath slowed a little. The storm rattled a shutter upstairs, but you didn’t flinch. Carefully, you opened it.

It wasn’t long. One page. The handwriting neat but a little hesitant — like the person had rewritten it a few times before settling on these words.

“Robert,

I hope this letter doesn’t surprise you too much. I know we haven’t spoken in a long while, but I wanted to reach out in good faith. I was hoping I might come by sometime soon. Maybe stay for a bit. Not to interfere, but…

I’ve missed her.

I wanted to ask your blessing to speak with her — properly. About seeing if she might be willing to give me a chance again.

I don’t expect anything. I just want to be honest. I’ve carried this quiet for too long.

I’d like to earn your respect and, if she’ll have me, rekindle something I let go of years back.”

Your eyes were still scanning when your thumb shifted. The signature had been hidden by your hand. You pulled it back, slowly.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The name stared up at you like it had been waiting all this time. Your breath caught in your chest. A soft, involuntary hitch. The date below, signed smaller than the rest. A week before Robert had died.

You didn’t realize it — not at first — but your fingers tightened, crinkling the edge of the letter slightly. Your mind was spinning too fast to stop it. He was going to ask. Not marriage, not right away. But for a chance. For you.

With Robert’s blessing, with intention. Not like the others. Not like the ones who came sniffing after your grief with their pity and their empty talk.

Your face warmed. A quiet kind of heat, not embarrassment — something softer. Something deeper. You didn’t know what you felt. Not fully. But your chest ached and swelled at the same time. So much made sense now. The glances. The hesitations. The way Bucky had spoken to you the past few days — careful, but always watching. Always there.

You didn’t hear him at first. Not his boots on the floor. Not the bathroom door in the hallway behind you opening gently. But you heard his voice. “Hey—”

Soft. Almost hesitant. You turned, too quickly. The letter still clutched in your hand. He saw it instantly. His brow lifted, eyes catching the familiar fold of the paper.

You stared at him. Your voice came out hoarse and quiet. “You… You wrote Robert?” You swallowed. “Askin’ about me?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the floor. Then — after a moment — he gave a faint nod.

“Spent weeks writin’ that damn thing.” he mumbled. “Couldn’t figure out what to say.” His hand scratched the back of his neck. “Steve helped. Said I shouldn’t be doin’ it on my own.”

You watched the flush rise on his cheeks. Color blooming high on his cheekbones. He kept talking, but his voice was soft — vulnerable.

“I tried when we were kids. Back before I shipped out. We were just troublemakers then, but I… I always wanted to say somethin’.” His foot shifted against the floor, heel bouncing lightly, like he was trying to keep still but couldn’t.

You stared at him. And then—almost without thinking—you spoke. “I knew there was somethin’ I liked in you back when we went to that stupid dance.” You gave a shaky breath, a half-laugh. “You took my hand so fast I barely had time to say yes. Danced with me when nobody else would.”

Bucky’s head lifted, startled. Your eyes met.

You stood slowly and placed the letter on the coffee table. Neither of you moved closer, not yet. But the distance didn’t feel so wide anymore.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hope. And you looked back like you finally understood something buried in your own chest. The wind knocked hard against the house then. The windows trembled. The fire cracked louder behind you. But the silence between you both was full.

Heavy. And known.

“I didn’t think it’d still matter.” he said, voice gone rough. “Not after everything.”

“-But it does,” you answered. And it did. God, it did. The fire crackled softly behind you. The storm outside howled like it might rip the world apart, but in here, the quiet between you was heavier than wind.

Bucky took a step closer. Then another.

Your cardigan slipped slightly down one shoulder, the fabric old but soft — a gift from Robert once, the kind you’d never part with, even now. Your nightgown clung to your skin just barely, thin cotton molded to your body in the warmth of the firelight. Hair still a little damp from your earlier bath, feet bare, skin flushed.

Bucky’s eyes dropped — not in hunger, not at first. Just in something deeper. Need. Longing. Fear. He reached for you slowly, knuckles brushing your elbow. His voice, when he spoke again, was hoarse:

“Can I touch you?”

You didn’t speak. You just nodded. His fingers brushed your arm like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like if he grabbed too fast, you’d slip through him.

When you didn’t pull away, Bucky’s hand slid up, curling around your upper arm with warm, solid weight. He stepped closer until his chest was nearly brushing yours, and you could feel the heat off his skin, smell the storm on him — damp woodsmoke and rain and something warmer underneath.

Your lips parted to speak — but no words came. You didn’t need them. Not now. His fingers rose to your cheek, trembling just slightly. You leaned into it. Let your eyes slip shut. Felt his breath mix with yours, heavy and hesitant.

Then his mouth was on you — careful, but not shy. Full lips that pressed to yours like a confession. A kiss like he’d been waiting a decade to give it. He tasted like fire and storm. And you melted into it. You sighed, soft against his mouth, your hands finding his shirt. Curling in the fabric. Holding on like you needed to. Because you did.

The kiss deepened slowly — the way rain soaks into dry ground. His hands slid to your waist, holding you gently, then tighter. You felt him exhale through his nose like he couldn’t quite believe this was real, and his lips moved against yours with more pressure now. Hungrier. Your hand slid up into his hair — wet from the mist outside, soft and thick between your fingers — and you tugged gently, just to feel him breathe out sharp through his nose. He kissed you harder in response, his hand sliding down, curving over your backside, squeezing with sudden heat.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, breath catching. Bucky looked at you like he was fighting himself. “Tell me to stop.” he rasped.

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

His hands were on your thighs now, lifting you before you realized what was happening. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He walked you toward the couch, lowering you with care, your body never breaking from his.

The firelight flickered across his face — shadow and gold. His eyes were locked to yours as he leaned over you, breathing hard, lips parting. His hand slid under your nightgown, tracing up your thigh, slow and reverent. “You’re still shakin’.”he whispered.

“Not from the storm.” you whispered back.

Something in his face cracked at that — need and sorrow and relief. He bent down and kissed your throat, your collarbone, slow wet kisses that burned. His hand moved up to your ribs, palm spreading flat over your stomach. Feeling you breathe. “You feel so damn soft.” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Been thinkin’ about you like this—too long—couldn’t say it—couldn’t…”

His hand slid higher, over your breast, thumb brushing the sensitive peak through the thin fabric. You arched up instinctively, your breath breaking into a whimper. His mouth found your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing skin, and his other hand gripped your thigh tighter, holding you open to him.“I’ve got you-“ he breathed, voice deeper now. “-All night.”

He slid your nightgown up slowly, exposing more and more of you to the warm air and firelight, until you were bare beneath him. His mouth parted in awe, eyes raking over your skin like prayer. “Jesus Christ.” he rasped. “You’re soaked…” His hand slid between your thighs, fingers gliding through your wetness, and he choked softly. “So wet already. Is that from me, sweetheart?”

You nodded, biting your lip hard, trying to hold the noise back. “Don’t do that.” he growled, kissing you again — harder this time, tongue deep in your mouth, hungry. “Don’t hold back.”

He sank down between your thighs and licked a slow stripe up your center, groaning deep in his chest when you gasped. His arms wrapped under your thighs, hands gripping tight, holding you steady as his mouth worked you open — slow at first, tongue curling and pressing, then faster when you started to squirm.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t pause. He licked and sucked until your thighs shook, until your hips were grinding up into his face. When you cried out, thighs clamping around his head, he held on tighter, tongue flicking fast over your clit until your whole body clenched and shuddered.

You moaned through your release, eyes squeezed shut, the wave of it crashing over you so hard your hands clawed at the cushions, at his hair, at anything. Bucky groaned into you, holding his mouth there through every tremble.

When you sagged back into the couch, he finally rose, his face wet with you, lips swollen. His eyes were blown wide with lust.

“You’ve got no idea.” he murmured, climbing over you again. “What you do to me.” You reached for him — pulled his shirt off, ran your hands over his chest, his scars, his warmth. He pushed his pants down, his cock heavy and flushed, leaking already. You ached for it.

He stroked himself once, then lined up at your entrance. Paused. “Still okay?”You grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in. “Yes.”

He slid in slow. Thick, hot, stretching you inch by inch until you gasped and held on. His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky.

“Fuck—so tight. Perfect. Always have been.”

Once he was fully inside, he held still. Letting you breathe. Letting you feel all of him. His hand slid under your thigh again, hiking it up, opening you wider. Then he moved.

Long, slow strokes at first. Deep and steady. He moaned with every thrust, breath warm against your ear. “God—feels so good—been dreamin’ about this, about you…”

You whimpered, back arching, hands gripping his shoulders. “Bucky…” He growled low in his throat, snapped his hips harder, faster. His rhythm turned rougher, needier, his hand grabbing your hair and tugging gently, pulling your head back so he could kiss your throat, your collarbone, your jaw.

“You take me so fuckin’ good.” he panted. “Like you were made for me.” The couch creaked beneath you both, the fire still crackling behind, thunder rumbling far in the distance now. His name left your lips over and over. He whispered yours back like worship.

He lifted your leg higher, changing the angle — and you cried out, the pressure hitting deep, perfect. “That’s it.” he groaned. “Right there? That’s where you want it, huh?”

You nodded frantically, voice broken. “Right there—please—don’t stop.”He fucked you through your second orgasm, holding you down, whispering how beautiful you looked, how tight you were, how he’d never wanted anything like he wanted this. You.

You were breathless when you pulled him in for another kiss, desperate and sloppy, your arms winding around him.

“Come inside me.” you whispered. He cursed low, hips stuttering. “You want that?”

You nodded, clenching around him. “Want all of you.” That was all it took. Bucky groaned loud, deep in his chest, fucking into you with sharp, rough thrusts as he came. His whole body trembled, head buried in your neck, arms caging around you. You felt it — the warmth, the pulse of it, and you held him through it, hands running through his hair, his back.

The fire popped behind you. The storm had moved on. But the heat between you was still burning. Bucky stayed inside you, softening slowly, breathing hard against your skin. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just held you like he’d finally found what he’d been aching for all his life.

The silence after was thick and glowing, broken only by the fire crackling low and the sound of your breathing slowly returning to normal. Bucky hadn’t moved much, still pressed to your side, his head resting against your shoulder, arm slung across your belly. His body was heavy and warm on top of yours, grounding. Your legs were tangled together, your skin slick with sweat, your chest rising and falling as you tried to come back to yourself.

His lips brushed your collarbone. “You okay?” he murmured. You nodded, fingers brushing through his damp hair. “Yeah.”

He stayed like that for a long while — not rushing you, not pulling away. He just breathed with you, like the two of you were syncing back to the same rhythm. Outside, the storm had gone quiet. The wind still knocked softly at the edges of the windows, but the worst had passed.

Eventually, Bucky sat up, carefully pulling back to look down at you. His eyes moved over your face, your neck, your chest, your thighs — as if checking to make sure he hadn’t broken you. His brows pinched. “You’re sore already, huh?”

You nodded faintly. “A little.” He smiled gently. “C’mon. Let’s clean up.”

You expected a towel, maybe a soft shirt. What you didn’t expect was him carefully helping you up, guiding you slowly toward the back room. You leaned into him, still unsteady on your legs, and he kept his hand low on your back, steady and strong.

The old copper tub in the corner was already half-filled from earlier in the day. Bucky knelt beside it and twisted the pump handle. Warm water rushed in with a soft sputter, the metal creaking as the level rose. He tested the temperature with his hand, then turned to you.

“Get in. I’ll grab towels.”

You stepped in slowly, lowering yourself into the heat with a sigh. It eased every ache. The water lapped against your chest, rose up your thighs. You leaned back, letting it hold you.

Bucky returned with two clean towels slung over his shoulder and a small glass jar of dried herbs he’d seen you use before — lavender and something woodsy. He sprinkled a pinch into the water and set the rest aside, then climbed in behind you, settling down slowly, carefully, until his chest pressed to your back and his arms slid around your waist.

You leaned into him.

He let his chin rest on your shoulder, nose brushing your damp skin. One of his hands found yours under the water, fingers lacing slow and deliberate. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

The tub was quiet, the only sounds were the slosh of water, the creak of the house settling, the distant hush of the storm moving away.

His hand moved to your thigh and began tracing light, slow circles under the water. Not with want — but with care. With reverence. His other hand rubbed gently at your arm, your shoulder, fingertips pressing into muscle, massaging you in silence.

“I didn’t mean for tonight to happen like this.” he said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. “-Not all at once.” You turned your head, eyes meeting his. “I know.” you said. “But I wanted it too.”

That seemed to ease something in him. His shoulders dropped. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingered there.

You sat in the bath together until the water cooled, until your skin wrinkled and the herbs had sunk. Until his hand had found your stomach again, and your fingers were curled loosely around his. Until the only thing left was the slow, steady heartbeat of something unspoken between you. When you finally climbed into bed, skin still damp, you let him pull you close under the blanket. No more words.

Just quiet breathing. Bare legs tangled under cotton. And Bucky’s hand resting over your heart as sleep took you both.

Morning came quiet and gold.

The storm had long since passed, leaving behind the hush of dripping eaves and the faint scent of wet earth filtering through the open crack of the window. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a low amber haze. You barely stirred beneath the quilt — your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin, legs curled with his, your hand resting in the dip between his ribs and waist. His breath was steady, soft against your forehead, his arm still wrapped around you like he hadn’t moved once through the night.

Neither of you had said much before sleep took you — just a few murmurs and a kiss, soft and heavy-lidded. That silence had carried into morning, the weight of what had passed between you lingering in the air.

Until— “—Hello?!” Steve’s voice cracked through the stillness of the house like a lightning strike. You jolted upright. Your body screamed at the sudden movement, sore in places you didn’t want to think about right now. Bucky grunted behind you, rubbing his face. “What the—?”

“You two okay?!” Steve’s voice was closer now — right inside the house. You turned, eyes wide. “Shit—!”

“Storm took out a whole damn section of the south woods!” Steve shouted again, footsteps pounding through the front hall. “Trees are down all over! I couldn’t get the truck through! Barn’s flooded—!”

You threw the quilt off your legs and scrambled out of bed, fumbling to grab your dress off the floor. You yanked it over your head and quickly slipped your arms through, pulling it down your body. The back was still loose, half-laced, the sleeves sloped off your shoulders, the neckline dragging lower than it should. You tried to tie it blindly behind you, but your fingers were shaking.

Bucky, still bleary from sleep, was already pulling on his pants. He got one leg through, then the other — stumbling slightly — but no time to zip them. His shirt was missing. Gone. Probably halfway across the room or under the bed or—God knows. His hair was a mess. His chest was red in places — scratch marks you’d left hours ago barely faded from his skin.

“Hey!” Steve’s boots hit the living room hard.

You both froze.

The sound of him coming towards you made your chest clench — he wasn’t even knocking.

“You in there?!” One knock came—barely—before the door was shoved open. Steve stepped in, mouth open mid-sentence.

“Didn’t see the—”

He stopped cold. His eyes widened. His whole body went rigid in the doorway. Like he’d just walked in on a war crime.

The silence cracked like ice.

Bucky stood beside the bed, shirtless, breathless, pants undone, hair wild. You were half-dressed, hair tangled, dress falling low on your chest, back unlaced. Both of you were sweating — either from the heat or the panic, or both. Neither of you looked at him.

Steve blinked. Once. Twice. Then he slowly turned around and stepped out of the room without saying another word. Bucky muttered under his breath, exhaling. You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

——————————————————————————

This is inspired by a fanfic I read like years ago on here, I’ve been literally trying to hunt it down for like weeks but I cant find it. It’s a Viktor (from Arcane) x reader with a similar concept? Your husband dies and Viktor comes and tries to help you, he ends up leaving or something and he comes back and y’all lay pipe. I can’t find it anywhere but I want to give credit so I’m torn. If someone is good at fic hunting please help I’m begging

[sturnzsblog]

Not worth it 8

Summary: Y/N never planned on falling in love with a gangster — until she met Matt. Mysterious, dangerous, and fiercely loyal, he drags her into a world of crime, secrets, and bloodshed. What starts as passion turns into obsession, violence, and survival.

warnings: Violence & gun use, Murder / blood / graphic scenes, Kidnapping / captivity, Torture / psychological manipulation, Mentions of death, trauma, & PTSD, Toxic relationship dynamics, Jealousy / possessive behavior,Alcohol / drug mentions,Language / explicit content (sexual & violent),Loss / grief, Mental health struggles (depression, anxiety, dissociation),References to past abuse (implied),Emotional manipulation / codependency

It had been three days since the last mission, but it felt like a month.

Matt had barely looked at me.

The air around us was heavy—quiet but not peaceful. We moved around each other like we were made of glass. No stolen kisses. No casual touches. Not even eye contact. I tried to convince myself he was just tired… until I caught him whispering with Nate in the hallway and going silent when I entered.

That stung more than I’d ever admit.

The boys were prepping for another mission—something big, something fast. Nate was sketching routes on the whiteboard while Nick typed furiously at his laptop. Chris was cleaning one of his guns, and Matt? He was staring out the window like it held answers the rest of us weren’t allowed to know.

I walked in slowly, trying not to be obvious. Matt’s gaze flicked over me, no more than a glance. That used to mean everything. Now it felt like nothing.

“You good?” Skye’s voice broke me from my thoughts as she slid next to me on the couch, holding a can of something fizzy.

“Yeah,” I lied.

She leaned closer. “You’re acting like his shadow. You deserve to be his partner.”

I blinked at her. “What does that mean?”

“It means he loves you, Y/N, but he’s acting like you’re just someone he needs to babysit. Don’t let him dim you down.”

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that. But maybe… it was.

Later that night, after everyone had filtered into their rooms or scattered to prep gear, I walked into ours—mine and Matt’s. It felt colder than usual. Emptier.

He was at the dresser, folding a black long-sleeve shirt with sharp, perfect creases. Like he needed to keep his hands busy.

“Matt.”

He doesn’t look up.

I walk closer. “We haven’t spoken in three days.”

Still nothing.

“If you don’t want me involved,” I say carefully, “then say it. But don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

His hands pause on his boot. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?” My voice rises. “Because you act like you own me but you don’t even trust me!”

Now he looks at me — sharply.

“You think this is about trust?” he snaps. “I trusted you and you walked into a fucking room with a man who could’ve killed you.”

“I did what you asked me to do!”

“No,” he says coldly, standing now. “You did what you wanted to do. You wanted to prove you’re one of us.”

My throat tightens. “So now I’m just some desperate girl trying to prove something?”

His back tensed, but he didn’t turn around. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it, Matt? You’ve been freezing me out since the last mission.”

He finally turned, eyes guarded. “I’m not freezing you out.”

I laughed. Bitter. “You’re lying to my face now. That’s new.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Ask for the truth?”

“You don’t need to know everything.”

My voice raised without warning. “Bullshit! You think I want this life? You think I chose this for fun? I chose it for you!”

He stepped toward me, jaw clenched. “Then unchoose it.”

That knocked the breath from my lungs.

My vision blurs. “Wow,” I whisper. “You won’t say you love me, you lie to me constantly. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me unless I’m bleeding or half-naked.”

He flinches. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is being used like a fucking pawn.”

That’s when I snap. I grab a duffel from the closet and start yanking open drawers.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low.

“I’m leaving.”

He crosses the room in two strides and grabs my wrist. “No. You don’t understand what they’ll do to you—”

“Then fucking tell me!”

Matt’s jaw locks. His fingers tighten, then release. He drags a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t speak.

I wait. I dare him to lie to me again.

Finally, he breathes out. “The rival gang… they’ve been watching us.”

My stomach drops.

“Watching you.”

“What?” My voice is barely audible.

“They know I love you. That makes you leverage.” He looks up, finally. “That makes you bait.”

The room spins. My legs give out and I sink onto the edge of the bed.

“They want to use you to break me,” he continues, each word heavier than the last. “To make me fold.”

My voice shakes. “So you’ve been keeping me close just to protect your weak spot.”

He doesn’t answer.

I laugh — bitter and broken. “That’s what I am? Your weakness?”

Still, nothing.

I stare at him. The man I love. The man who’s breaking my heart in slow motion.

“I would’ve died for you,” I whisper. “And you didn’t even tell me.”

The room goes quiet.

My duffel sits half-packed. My chest feels tight like it’s caving in on itself.

Matt sits down across from me. His head in his hands. Silent.

“I would’ve helped you,” I murmur. “If you’d just let me in.”

“I couldn’t,” he says finally. “If I said it out loud… it would make it real.”

We sit like that for minutes. Maybe longer. In grief. In guilt. In everything we could’ve said earlier, and didn’t.

I reach over and slowly start unpacking the bag. I don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

It was past midnight when I felt the mattress shift behind me.

Matt climbed into bed, silent. I felt the heat of his body, his arm snake gently around my waist. He didn’t press, just held me.

“I didn’t know how to protect you without hurting you,” he whispered.

I closed my eyes.

He kissed the back of my shoulder, then rested his forehead there.

“I’m scared of what they’ll do to you. And I’m scared that loving you this much will get you killed.”

I didn’t forgive him. Not then. But I let him hold me.

Because even when Matt Sturniolo was breaking me…

…I still loved him more than I should’ve.

taglist 💋

@n00dl3zzz @pip4444chris @sturnzzlovee @bernardmatthews @xsturnkay @katiebae333 @dummyslut00 @eszt1 @kalel2005 @nessaisabelartemas333 @sturnxvibes @jaybirdie34 @izzylovesmatt @sturnxluvv @courta13 @kitty-meow-meow44

[mydeadpoetera]

She would never let anything show.

Not because she thought it would annoy those closest to her,

But because no words ever felt right.

So she went through the motions —

Like everything was fine.

But chaos lived in her mind.

Her face was a map.

If you followed the line of her features closely, you'd see it.

A subtle hint.

A quiet window

Into everything she never said.

Out loud.

(— DeadPoetEra)

[bditor]

I talk to nobody.

I write to nobody.

I lied to nobody.

no more breaking for anyone.

i am quiet.

still standing in the same place

life left me. unmoved.

unseen.

waiting-not for someone to save me,

but for everything to finally disappear.

no more weight.

no more pretending this "lovely life" isn't burning holes in my chest.

just peace, just quiet, just rest.

where nobody wants anything, and i owe nothing.

i don't want forever.

i just want stillness that stays.

-bloody buddy

[secondlina]

Lantern Part 3

Read Lantern Part 1 🔥 Read Lantern Part 2

✧Read Namesake✧ ✧Read Crow Time✧ ✧Store✧ ✧Patreon✧

I am currently entirely reliant on Patreon & ad revenue, so I really appreciate likes, reblogs, or if folks blast thru my comic archives on the sites linked above! Thanks for helping out!

[ocean-glint]

i love reading, i love thinking about what i am currently reading, i love thinking about what i am going to read next, i love being privileged enough to be able to read, read, read, and read so much that i never tire of it

[angel06babysworld]

doctor!rafe x dancer!reader

a/n: i literally googled half of information in the blurb and i learned a lot lwk

“Don’t Fix Me.”

She tried not to cry about it.

Really, she did.

But when the zipper refused to go up a third time, when her favorite dress stretched too tight across her lower stomach—her dress, the one she wore on their second anniversary, the one that always made her feel beautiful—it just… broke something open.

And before she could stop herself, she was crying. Hard.

In the closet. In that dress. Barefoot. Half-zipped. Sobbing like it meant something bigger than just fabric and fit.

Rafe heard it immediately.

He was in the bedroom, folding laundry. And the second he heard her hiccuped breath, the creak of a hanger knocked loose, the first cracked “fuck,”—he was there.

“Hey—hey, baby, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, stepping into the closet. But when he saw her—red-faced, hunched over, fists digging into the zipper of her dress—his heart cracked clean down the middle. “What happened?”

She just shook her head, face twisted, fingers shaking. “It won’t fit.”

His brow softened. “The dress?”

She nodded and gave up trying. Her hands dropped to her sides. “I’m getting bigger already. And it’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, I know it’s supposed to happen, but I just—I didn’t think it’d be today.”

Rafe stepped forward slowly, hands gentle as he touched her sides. “Let me—here. Let’s get it off you, okay? C’mere.”

She let him unzip it. Let him help her step out of it like it was soaked with grief. Then she stood there in her underwear and bra, blinking through her tears as he stared at her—not with pity, but with something that made her cry harder.

“Baby,” he said, brushing her damp hair behind her ear, “you’re twelve weeks pregnant. Your uterus has already doubled in size. You’re retaining more fluid, your breast tissue is expanding, and your ligaments are literally stretching to support—”

She smacked his chest with the flat of her hand—not hard, just exasperated. “Stop.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I don’t need my doctor right now,” she choked, wiping her eyes. “I need my husband.”

Rafe froze.

Then he nodded, slowly.

“Okay,” he said quietly, stepping closer. “Okay. Then let me talk to you like your husband.”

He took her hands gently and pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her as her face pressed against his t-shirt.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the side of her head. “And I love what your body’s doing. I know it’s scary. I know it’s uncomfortable. But you’re not broken. You’re changing. And it’s beautiful. Even if you can’t see it right now.”

She shook her head against his chest. “It feels ugly.”

“I know,” he said. “But that’s because it’s unfamiliar. And unfamiliar doesn’t mean wrong. It means new. And new is okay.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric at his waist.

“I don’t feel like myself,” she whispered.

“You’re still you,” he promised, rubbing slow circles on her back. “You’ll always be you. Just… glowing, hormonal, impossibly hot, growing-my-child you.”

That made her laugh. Wet and reluctant, but real.

“I’ll buy you new dresses,” he said against her forehead. “Every color you want. Every size. You’ll look so good in all of them I’ll forget how to breathe.”

“I don’t want new dresses,” she sniffled. “I just want to feel like me again.”

He held her tighter. “Then I’ll remind you every day until you do.”

And he meant it.

dividers: @/anitalenia

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @lcversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby @rafesbabygirlx @cokewithcameron @drewrry @harubunnyyy @ellayahhs @lifeonawhim @usseraloo

[fawning4uu]

──★ ˙ my masterlist ̟ !!

charles leclerc

all the things the sea remembers (series)

like saltwater on skin

silence where your name used to be

gravity, again

more coming soon :) requests are open, so feel free to share your thoughts, comments, and feedback.

[cowboybeepboop]

Sweetness

"I care about you, more than I probably should."

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd

Genre: Smut

Word count: 3.3k

Summary: You finally find out the real reason behind Bob’s protective side. 

a/n: I saw Thunderbolts* yesterday, and I’m craving more of Lewis Pullman 😛😩

This team gets on your nerves, whether it’s Hangman’s cocky asshole attitude or Roosters constant issues with Mav. Somehow you’re always getting in the middle of something and you’re tired of these damn pushups. 

Bob is your weapons systems officer. He’s sweet and nothing but kind when it comes to you. It’s frustrating, though, because you know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but you don’t need him to stick up for you. 

It feels like he pities you, he challenges hangman when he says asshole things, he defends your choices when Mav questions you. He just doesn’t understand that you can speak for yourself. 

These dog-fights with Maverick have almost been the death of you. Maybe you’re an overachiever, but you’ve never needed to keep redoing and redoing exercises. It’s never been an issue for you to work in a team, but Hangman refuses to. 

“Fuck!” you slam your hand against the dash of the plane, tears building in your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you sigh away the anger, letting your head fall back against the seat. Bob tenses in the seat behind you as you land the plane. 

“Y/N? Are you okay?” his voice rings out, bringing you back into reality. 

“Yep. Let’s just get this over with.” Your tone is more firm than usual, irritation filling your veins as you exit the vehicle. 

Hangman begins spewing his usual bullshit, cockiness radiating off him even though you just lost. Bob argues with Hangman in the background as you ignore them, getting ready to get those damn pushups out of the way.

The only thing you need right now is an ice-cold shower and whiskey on the rocks. You’re pulling your uniform off your shoulders while walking toward the bar, Bob is hot on your heels, along with Rooster and FanBoy. 

“How’s it goin’?” Bradley wraps an arm around your shoulder, the familiarity of his touch doing little to ease your annoyance. You shift out of his embrace, not wanting to talk to anyone. 

Bob and Rooster make eye contact, shrugging as they notice your strange mood. “You got this one, Bob?” he nods in response, following after you once again. 

“Y/N?” he settles down next to you at the bar, shifting his weight as you stare down at the counter. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You ignore him, taking down your drink in one gulp. 

“I’m alright, Bob, just.. Annoyed.” you sigh, glancing at him slightly. He nods in response, fingers fumbling with his beer bottle. 

“Did-” he begins before you cut him off.

“We were so close, Bob!” your tone is laced with irritation, “We almost got him and then you got, distracted.” You roll your eyes, sliding the glass to the side. 

“I know.. I know and I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that, you shouldn’t have needed to do all those pushups because of my-” you glare at him, everything he does just annoys you, he’s so nice even when you don’t deserve it. 

“Why do you take the blame for every little thing?” Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you’re hot, irritated, and red hot. “Leave it alone, Bob.” You storm out, admittedly a little childish, but you need the fresh air. 

Sitting down on the porch, you breathe in the scent of sea water, the wood creaks under a pair of boots next to you. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I didn’t mean to do anything to frustrate you.” his tone is the same soft and gentle one per usual. “If I can do anything, say anything, get you anything, please just let me know. I wanna help, we’re a pair, Y/N,” he says, settling down next to you cautiously. 

“Bob, you’re annoying me.” You groan, hating the butterflies in your stomach, and his heart drops as he straightens up. Your words sting him a little more than intended, and you see it in his demeanor. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that..” you trail off chewing on your lip while watching him fumble with his hands.” I didn’t mean to, you dont deserve that, it’s just frustrating to have you constantly siding with me, being so nice, and sticking up for me.” you groan.

“I know you mean well, but I can fight my own battles Bob.” you sigh, shifting uncomfortably as you look him over. 

Bob looks down at his hands, the sound of his fingers cracking fills the air as he processes your words. He hates your irritation being directed at him, but he knows you’re right. He’s been a little overprotective lately, and you’re feeling chafed by his kindness. It’s not what he wanted.

“It’s just…” Bob pauses, his mind struggling to find the right words. “It’s not about thinking you can’t fight your own battles. I mean, I know you can.” Bob leans back, resting his head against a pole.

“I know we’re a team, but we haven’t worked together like this before, not on a mission this important.” you sigh, resting your face in your hands. "I just wish you wouldn't make me look so weak in front of everyone, just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I need pity, Bob." You shut your eyes, taking steadying breaths.

Bob's eyes widen slightly, finally being able to grasp what is going on. He's been treating you like you're fragile, and you're getting fed up. It hits him like a truck, and the guilt instantly seeps into his bones.

"I know... I know, you're strong," he says, the shame evident in his voice. "I don't think you're weak, and I *don't* pity you." Bob's fingers twist together, frustration with himself bubbling up within him.

Bob rubs his face, he’s always had a crush on you, ever since he laid eyes on you. For Bob, you’re not just a talented pilot and a teammate, you’re smart, strong-willed, independent, and absolutely gorgeous.

His protective nature stems from the fact that he cares about you, a little more than he should. He’s scared of losing you, of getting you hurt, and it shows in his overprotectiveness and constant apologizing.

“I’m sorry, Bob, I shouldn’t have held this against you. Hangman is the one who left us to fend for our own. It’s not your fault.” You lean closer to him, brushing your shoulder against his. 

Bob's shoulders tense up for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden apology. Your touch, even as simple as your shoulder against his, has his heart beating faster. He relaxes a little, feeling relieved that you're not as irritated with him anymore.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice soft as he relaxes his tense shoulders, he takes a deep breath. "But I still want to apologize for being so overprotective."

“I guess I just don’t understand why you’re so protective when it comes to *me*,” you scan his face, eyes wandering his features. “I know we’re friends outside of work, but.. I just don’t get it.”

Bob's heart leaps into his throat, his mind racing with nerves. This is the moment, the one he’s been scared of for the past few months. He’s always liked you, but he’s kept it to himself because of his shy nature, and he was afraid of ruining your friendship.

He takes a shaky breath, his fingers trembling as he fidgets with them."I…uhh"  Bob struggles to find the right words, the truth on the tip of his tongue.

"Yeah?" you question, scooting closer to him, basking in the gentle heat of his body.

Bob's heart pounds in his chest, his cheeks heating up from your close proximity. He can smell your perfume, and the closeness makes his knees weak.

"I… I care about you a lot," he manages, his voice shaky, eyes refusing to meet yours. Bob's hands twitch with the nervous energy that courses through him, his fingers clenching into fists and unclenching rhythmically.

"A lot?" Your cheeks turn a slight pink. "In what way, Bob?" 

Bob's words get stuck in his throat, his breath hitches as he looks up at you, your eyes burning into his soul. He swallows hard, unable to hold your gaze, but at the same time craving it. 

"In every way imaginable," he breathes out, his heart pounding against his ribcage, "I care about you, more than I probably should." This is it, all or nothing, he can't back out now.

You take in a shaky breath, eyes focusing on everything but him as his words echo in your mind.

Bob watches your face, his heart in his throat as he waits for your response. The silence between you both is loud, making him almost sick to his stomach as he waits for your reaction. He’s so desperate to know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, but your expression is unreadable.

"Please say something," he mutters softly, his hand twitching to reach out and touch you, but his fear stops him.

You clear your throat, standing up and stretching, and your heart is racing in your chest. Being with Bob, it's what you want, but what if it changes things or makes both of you unable to go on the mission? Your mind is reeling, and you begin to pace. 

Bob follows your movements with his gaze, your nervous behavior making his heart ache. He knows he messed up, he should have kept his stupid feelings to himself. Now he's just made everything awkward.

With you moving around so much, unable to sit still, he stands up as well, worry etched across his face. "Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't-" his voice is trembling as he tries to apologize, but you simply start pacing.

You shake your head, "You don't need to apologize, Bob." Turning back to him, you take a few steps until you're right in front of him again. 

Bob stands still, his heart practically beating out of his chest, as you walk closer to him. Your proximity takes his breath away, and he can’t tear his eyes off your face. All he can focus on is your every move, the way your lips are slightly parted, and how your cheeks are tinged pink.

He has to fight the urge to pull you into his arms and hold you close, but the nervousness in his veins keeps him rooted to the spot. "Y/N..” he breathes out, his voice low and unsteady.

"Bob," you whisper, "Please.." Your words, your simple plea, are all it takes for Bob to snap. His brain short-circuits as every thought about consequences and missions leaves his mind, replaced with one sole desire. *You.*

In the blink of an eye, his hands find your waist, and in another, he's pulling you flush against him. His lips crash into yours with a desperate need, as every pent-up feeling, every piece of suppressed desire is unleashed.

Your hands reach up to his face, gripping his face as you pull him closer, desperate for more. 

Bob is completely lost in the moment, his hands exploring your waist, your back, your face, trying to touch every inch of you. Your touch ignites something within him, and his kiss deepens as he presses his body against yours.

He pushes you backward until your back hits a wall, his hands gripping your hips as he cages you against the surface, his kiss still feverish, hungry, desperate.

You pull away reluctantly, gasping in a few breaths before speaking. "Bob, we need to go.. I *need* you," you whisper, kissing his face and neck. Bob lets out a soft groan at your words, the feeling of your kisses sending tremors through him, the need in your voice making his knees weak. 

"Go... where?" he breathes out, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you closer, afraid that if he lets go of you, you'll disappear. He wants you badly, the mission forgotten in a haze of desire.

"I have a place," you practically moan, enjoying the desperation in his touch. All coherent thoughts leave Bob's mind as your moan is like music to his ears. He practically whimpers against your touch, the need for you nearly overwhelming.

"Lead the way," he mutters, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your neck before reluctantly releasing his grip. Even though he's letting go of you, his hand takes yours, unwilling to lose physical contact.

With your hand in his, Bob follows you to the secluded spot you've chosen, his heart racing in anticipation. The gentle squeeze of your hand reassures him that this is what you want, too. Once you're both inside, the door clicks shut, and the tension in the room thickens. 

You turn to face him, the hunger in your eyes matching his own. His hands trace the curve of your waist, pulling you closer as your mouths find each other again in a passionate kiss that leaves you both breathless. 

With no more words needed, you both stumble over to the bed, the need for each other overwhelming. Bob gently lays you down, his eyes never leaving yours as he starts to unbutton your shirt. His touch is reverent, his every move filled with a passion that has been building for so long. 

You help him, pulling his shirt off over his head, feeling the warmth of his bare skin against yours. As the fabric of your clothes falls away, Bob’s eyes roam over your bare skin, tracing every curve and dip with a hunger that’s been building. 

His hands rough yet gentle, his kisses leaving a trail of fire down your neck as he unclasps your bra. The coolness of the air meets your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine. He worships your body, his hands exploring every inch with a passion that leaves you trembling with anticipation. 

The feel of his bare chest against yours is electric, his skin smooth and warm as he kisses his way down to your stomach. You gasp as his fingers find their way under the band of your pants, unbuttoning them with trembling hands. The touch of his skin against yours sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making you arch into his touch. 

His eyes meet yours, questioning, and when you nod, he pulls your pants down, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His eyes widen with awe, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you, fully exposed and desiring him. 

His thumb brushes against your inner thigh, sending a rush of heat to your core, making you whimper. His touch is soft yet demanding as he explores you, his eyes never leaving yours, drinking in every reaction you give him. 

You're both lost in the moment, the only sound in the room being the ragged breaths and soft moans that escape your lips. Bob leans in, his mouth replacing his fingers, and your world explodes into a symphony of pleasure. 

His name becomes a chant on your lips as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, your legs wrapping around his head as you pull him deeper into your warmth. The intensity of the moment reaches its peak as Bob's tongue meets your center, his strokes firm and precise. 

You moan deeply, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the pleasure builds. He's relentless, his every move calculated to push you closer to the edge. His hands are everywhere, caressing your breasts, teasing your nipples until they're peaked and sensitive. 

The sound of your breathy pleas and the wetness of your desire driving him wild. He can't get enough of you, can't get close enough. You're soaking wet for him, and the scent of your arousal fills the air, making him crave you even more. His mouth is a masterpiece of pleasure, teasing and sucking, swirling and flicking, until you're panting his name and your body is tightening around his tongue. 

You're close, so close, and just when you think you can't handle it anymore, he slides a finger inside you, the pressure inside you building until it snaps. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. 

You scream out his name as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Bob pulls away, his face flushed and his eyes dark with lust, as he watches the aftershocks of your climax ripple through your body. He quickly removes his pants, his cock standing at full attention. The sight of him sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making you ache for him. 

He positions himself over you, and with one swift thrust, he's inside, filling you completely. Your legs wrap around him as he begins to move, his hips pumping in a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. 

The feeling is indescribable, a mix of pleasure and pain, of need and satisfaction, as he stretches and fills you over and over again. Your eyes lock onto his, and it's as if you're seeing him for the first time, really seeing the depth of his feelings for you, the desire and love that he's been hiding.

The friction is perfect, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body with every movement. You rock your hips up to meet his, desperate to get even closer. His hands are everywhere, holding you down, caressing you, making sure you feel every inch of him. 

Your bodies move in a dance that's been choreographed by months of tension and unspoken desires. Each stroke is a promise, each touch a declaration of his feelings.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another deep kiss, your tongues tangling as your bodies move together in perfect sync. The sound of your skin slapping against his fills the room, mixing with the desperate moans and gasps that escape both of your mouths. Bob's pace quickens, driven by the passion that fuels him, and you can feel him getting closer to his release.

You're so lost in the sensation that you don't even notice when the second orgasm starts to build, creeping up on you like a thief in the night. It takes you by surprise, stealing your breath away as it crashes over you, making your body tighten around him. Bob groans into your mouth, his release following closely behind, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his warmth.

You collapse onto the bed, your bodies still entwined, hearts racing, and skin slick with sweat. The room is silent except for the sound of your panting breaths, both of you trying to come down from the high of finally giving in to the passion that's been burning between you. The weight of his body on top of yours is comforting, grounding, as you bask in the afterglow of your shared ecstasy.

Bob pulls out gently, collapsing beside you, and you roll over to face him, your eyes searching his for any signs of regret. But all you see is love and satisfaction, mirroring your own emotions. You reach out, brushing the hair out of his eyes, and he smiles at you, the tension of the day forgotten as you both drift into a contented silence, the kind that comes from knowing you've found something real in a world full of danger and uncertainty.

Bob's mind is spinning as he shifts to lie there next to you, completely stunned by the intensity of what just happened. His fingers gently trace patterns on your skin, a soft smile playing on his lips as he takes in the blissful expression on your face. Every nerve ending in his body is buzzing, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through him.

"That was..." he finally manages to breathe out, his voice thick with emotion, "That was amazing." Bob's heart still races, his head reeling from the intensity of the connection between you both.

You nod breathlessly, resting your face on his chest, cuddling close against him.