𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞

𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Hello welcome to my blog! My name is Rose and I write from time to time whenever given enough motivation. I am currently part of a very extensive program that takes up the majority of my time however I always try to be active and answer dms and requests!

Who do I write for?

Currently I write for Logan Howlett, Bucky Barnes, Brian Moser, and Clark Kent. But I am always trying to improve my writing so the characters that I write for will keep expanding!

Constructive criticism is always welcome but if you have nothing nice to say then please kindly go read something else.

Masterlist

anyways thanks for sharing your writing it’s really nice! <3

Thank you so much you're too kind!!! Sorry I took so long with this request I have been so busy lately... Anyways here's Logan x Oblivious! Reader cuz she my hg.

The truth is you would be so blindly unaware of it since day 1.

Logan had been planning it for weeks. Maybe longer. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. But there were signs everywhere around the house. A book about flowers left open on the table. A crumpled pamphlet from a jewelry store tucked between some papers. A suspicious little velvet box hidden in the back of his drawer.

He took you out to get your nails done one afternoon, sitting awkwardly in one of those tiny salon chairs uncomfortably while you picked a color. When you hovered over something dark, he casually leaned over your shoulder.

“White,” he muttered.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You care about nail polish now?”

He shrugged, pretending to examine something on the wall. “Just sayin’.”

You chose white, but you never saw the way his shoulders relaxed a little when you did.

A few days later he suggested a drive. "Nothing fancy" He told you, "Just a reason to get out of the house." You didn’t think twice about it when he steered the truck farther away from the city, deeper into the quiet places where the air smelled like pine and the roads curved through hills.

Eventually he stopped at a secluded spot overlooking a lake. The water was calm, reflecting the late afternoon sky like glass. It was like he was in his own world. In a place that was calm, beautiful, and of course the only thing that would make things perfect--You.

You stepped out of the truck and stretched your arms above your head.

“Logan,” you said, looking around in awe. “This place is beautiful.”

He just grunted, leaning against the door like it wasn’t the first time he’d driven out there alone just to make sure it was perfect.

You wandered toward the edge of the overlook, completely absorbed in the scenery, the wind tugging gently at your hair.

Behind you, Logan reached into his pocket.

He had planned this moment about ten different ways in his head. What he might say. How he might say it. None of it seemed right now that you were actually here.

You turned around to see him reach into his jacket pocket.

When he pulled out the velvet box, your brain stopped working entirely.

You blinked.

“…What’s that?”

Logan stared at you like he had just discovered a brand new level of patience he didn’t know he possessed.

“Seriously?”

“I’m just asking—”

He opened the box.

Inside sat a simple silver ring.

Your mouth slowly fell open.

“Oh.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck, tension easing just a little.

“Told you white looked good on you,” he muttered.

You stared at him. “You… you planned this?”

He gave a small shrug. “Tried to.”

Your eyes flicked between him and the ring.

“So… this means…?”

For a second he didn’t speak.

Then he looked at you properly, eyes softening just a little.

“Do you want to marry me?” he asked, voice rough but steady.

The words hung quietly between you.

Your heart gave a small, startled flip.

“You’re serious?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be standin’ out here with a ring if I wasn’t.”

You glanced down at your white nails again, then back at him, realization slowly settling in.

“…That’s why you wanted white.”

He huffed quietly. “Thought it’d look better in pictures.”

That made you laugh, soft and a little breathless.

You stepped closer, reaching for his hand.

“Well,” you said gently, glancing once more at the ring before meeting his eyes, “good thing I listened to you then.”

Logan’s shoulders eased just a little.

“So… is that a yes?” he asked.

You smiled.

“Yes, Logan. I want to marry you.”

With the new year approaching I thought it might be nice to ask some of my favourite writers a fun question...

What writing related goals are you hoping to achieve in 2026?

Send to 5 or more writers and have a wonderful last few days of 2025!

Hiii thank you so much for asking! 💞

Recently I started writing a new fic related to 1940s!Bucky x Spy!Reader, however I probably won't be publishing any chapters until late January due to me travelling a whole bunch during that time. So a goal is to definitely finish that fic early next year.

One of my main goals that I have been thinking about for a while is to write as much as possible for the next two years. Starting next year I will be part of a really intensive academic program which needs a lot of commitment and attention, so I really don't want to lose my interest in writing from being emotionally drained in my studies. Honestly what keeps me motivated is the amount of support that I get on this platform and reblogs/comments and requests always make my day!

pairing: bucky barnes x reader contains : fluff, angst, mature themes, mentions of war (ww2) summary : heavily inspired by the podcast episode Dangerously Yours, Masquerade. Set during of World War 2, before winter soldier. Reader is a German Spy part of Hydra sent as a honey trap to retrieve information from Sergeant James Barnes about Allied movements. The closer she gets, the harder it becomes to choose between the orders that shaped her and the man who might save her from them.

one

Eye contact is a personal thing. It is infact windows to the soul. Everything you need to know about a person at first glance is at their eyes. It speaks a lot about a person and how they think, speak and behave.

Contrary to popular belief, Logan understands this better than anyone. He reads every flicker of emotion, every shard of hate, every whisper of deceit. He won't ever look into a persons eyes unless it is nessasary. Why would he, when he’s certain no one would ever want to meet his gaze anyway. Perhaps the only reason why he ever will is to see through the deceitfulness of his enemies. Never will he ever look into someones eyes as anything other than a threat to size up, a danger to assess, a potential enemy he might have to put down.

That is until he met you.

The way I screamed when I got this notif...

THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO GOT ME HERE!!

Night settles over the cabin like a heavy quilt, the kind that smells faintly of cedar and old winters. Logan moves through the quiet space with the slow certainty of someone who has spent a lifetime expecting trouble but, for once, is not looking for it. Domesticity sits strangely on him, like a flannel shirt stretched over armor, but somehow it works for both of you.

He is at the stove, brow furrowed in concentration as he flips something in a cast iron pan. The sizzle pops. He does not look up, but he knows you are there. The way his shoulders ease gives him away.

“You’re hovering,” he says, voice rough in that warm, familiar way. “Dinner’s not gonna cook faster just because you are staring at me.”

You wander closer, brush your fingers along the counter. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

It is all gentle back and forth, an easy rhythm the two of you built without ever meaning to. He pretends he is irritated. You pretend you do not see right through him. A strange, tender truce.

When he plates the food, nothing fancy but made with that gruff, quiet care he denies having, he sets yours down first. Always. Habit, instinct, something deeper he will never name. You eat together at the small table by the window, knees bumping under the wood, his foot brushing yours like he does not notice. He notices.

Afterwards, he cleans. He will mutter about it if you offer to help, so you let him take the lead, watching the muscles in his back move under his shirt as he rinses and dries. Domestic life turns him soft around the edges, but never weak. Just steady. Grounded.

When he finally joins you on the couch, he sits close, arm thrown across the back of the cushions. Not possessive, only comfortable. The fire crackles. Something on the TV plays without either of you actually paying attention.

He lets out a slow breath, eyes half lidded. “Could get used to this,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

You nudge your shoulder into his. “You already have.”

A low, almost embarrassed sound rumbles in his chest. But he does not deny it. He rests his hand against your thigh, thumb tracing absent circles like he is not even aware he is doing it. A touch that says everything without saying anything. I am here. You matter. I do not need big speeches.

Eventually he pulls you in, tucking you against his side, chin brushing your hair. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, stubborn and undeniably alive. He smells like soap and smoke and something that is simply him.

“Domestic,” he mutters. “Never thought that would be my thing.”

"It always was."

The mansion is silent in that eerie way old, enormous houses get when everyone is finally unconscious — no footsteps, no pipes groaning, not even the hum of televisions buried behind doors. Just stillness.

You pad down the hallway in socks, not really sure where you’re going. You just move. Until you catch a flicker of orange through the glass of the back doors.

Logan.

He’s leaning against the porch railing like he was carved into it, one hand braced on the wood, the other lifting a cigar to his mouth. The ember flares when he draws in, fading again as he exhales a long ribbon of smoke into the cold dark.

You slide the door open just enough to step out. He doesn’t jump or turn, you know he heard you the second you got up from bed.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks without looking over.

You fold your arms, shiver a little at the temperature. “Could ask you the same.”

He huffs, something close to a laugh but not really. “Sleep’s never been my strong suit.”

You stand beside him, close enough to feel the heat off his body, but not touching. He doesn’t move away. He never does.

For a while there’s nothing but smoke and night. You watch the tips of his fingers — the soft glow, the faint tremor of breath — and realize how rare it is to see him this still, this quiet, without the armor of movement or sarcasm.

He finally glances sideways at you. “You know this stuff’ll kill you,” he says, holding the cigar out in an unspoken offer.

You take it anyway.

“Yet here we are” you state after taking a slow pull. You hand it back, eyes lingering on him longer than they should.

Logan studies you for a moment. In a way that you can't really pinpoint. Is it soft? Openly fond? Or perhaps just how he always looks at people? With heavy, unreadable attention.

“You should be asleep,” he says eventually, but his voice is lower now, less dismissive.

“So should you,” you answer.

He grunts, doesn’t argue, doesn’t send you back inside. He just turns his face forward again and takes another slow drag, letting you stand there beside him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

No goodnight.

No dismissal.

Just shared air, shared silence, and Logan not telling you to leave.

Which, for him, is as close to an invitation as it gets.

You and Logan aren’t anything official. Not really.

You tell yourself that every time he slips through your window in the middle of the night, smelling like rain and gunpowder, his eyes a little softer than they should be.

He doesn’t stay long enough to call it love, but he doesn’t leave fast enough to call it nothing.

You sit on the kitchen counter while he rummages through your fridge, bare feet dangling, wearing his flannel that smells like smoke and pine. He looks over his shoulder, gives you that half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You should get some sleep,” he mutters.

“You should stop showing up at 3 a.m.,” you answer, and he huffs out something that might be a laugh.

Sometimes, he’ll reach for you. Not fully, just the ghost of a touch. A hand on your back when the world feels too loud. Fingers grazing your wrist when you’re upset. He doesn’t need to say anything, and you don’t push him to. The silence between you says enough.

When he kisses you, it’s not gentle. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like an argument he’s losing. He grips your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, and when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard.

He whispers, “You know this isn’t good for either of us,” but his thumb is tracing slow circles against your hip, betraying him.

You nod, even though you don’t believe him. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, jaw tight, eyes stormy and tired. Then, almost too quietly, he says, “Don't know what I'd do if I didn't.”

Later, when he’s gone, you still feel him everywhere—the weight of his hand, the sound of his voice, the warmth he never lets himself keep.

And you realize he’ll always leave before morning, but he'll never really go.

There’s a weight behind it, a grounding. He isn’t just pressing his mouth to yours; he’s anchoring himself, steadying the storm he carries everywhere he goes. It feels less like a habit and more like a vow, one he silently renews every time your lips meet.

He’s careful, though he’d never admit it. Every brush of his mouth is deliberate, measured, like he’s terrified of ruining something he never thought he’d have. And still, there’s a hunger underneath it all, simmering low, the kind that tells you how badly he’s wanted this for longer than he’ll ever confess.

Sometimes he pulls back, just far enough to look at you, like he can’t believe you’re letting him have this. Sometimes he doesn’t, too caught up, too unwilling to let go.

Logan doesn’t kiss like a man who’s confident in forever. He kisses like someone who’s lived too many goodbyes, too many endings.

But in that moment, with you, he lets himself believe in something lasting.

The record player crackled, a low hum filling the quiet of the cabin. It wasn’t even a slow song, not really, but you were standing in the middle of the room barefoot, swaying anyway, and Logan couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“C’mon,” you said, holding out your hand, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

He grunted, shaking his head. “I don’t dance.”

“You do now.”

He stared at your outstretched hand like it was some kind of trap. But eventually, with a huff that sounded more like surrender than annoyance, he stepped forward and let you tug him in. His palm swallowed yours, rough and calloused, his other hand awkward at your waist until you guided it into place.

It was clumsy at first—his steps too heavy, his movements stiff. But you pressed closer, cheek brushing his shoulder, and something in him eased. His body fell into rhythm with yours, not because he knew how, but because he knew you.

The music faded into the background. It was just the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your chest against his, the way you fit so perfectly in his arms that he almost forgot to be afraid of how much he wanted this.

“You’re not half bad,” you whispered against his neck.

A quiet chuckle rumbled out of him, rare and unguarded. He pulled you a little tighter, like maybe if he held you close enough, time would stop. For once, Logan didn’t think about the past or the scars or how everything good in his life never seemed to last. For once, all he could think was—

Don’t let go.

And he didn’t. Not even when the record ended.

You wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon.

Logan’s not in bed anymore which isn’t surprising. He’s always up before you. What is surprising is the faint sound of music playing from the kitchen. It’s one of your favorite records, the one he used to tease you for, but now plays when he thinks you’re not listening.

You shuffle out in one of his shirts, eyes still half-closed, and find him at the stove. Bare feet on the cool floor, hair messy, beard a little overgrown, and a pan in his hand.

“You’re cooking?” you chuckle, rubbing your eyes.

“Yeah yeah, don’t pass out on me,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “It’s your birthday. Figured I’d give you a break before you start runnin’ circles around me again.”

He says it like it’s nothing, but you can see the care in the way he’s chopped the fruit, the small vase of fresh flowers on the table, the little candle tucked beside your mug.

He tried. That alone makes your chest ache in the best way.

You eat together at the table, your legs tangled with his beneath. He’s not much for small talk in the mornings, but he keeps glancing at you over the rim of his mug. Watching. Soft. Like he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and his and happy.

“You remembered the flowers,” you smile, brushing your fingers along the petals.

He grunts. “Course I did. I listen, y’know.”

You grin. “I know.”

There’s no big surprise, no loud crowd or streamers. Just a long drive with the windows down and his hand resting on your thigh. He takes you to your favorite spot, a quiet lake tucked away from the world, where time doesn’t feel so heavy.

He lays out a blanket. Pulls out your favorite snacks. Even packed the good wine you save for special occasions.

“You really went all out,” you tease, flopping beside him.

He shrugs. “You make it easy.”

And later, when the sun dips low and the stars come out, you’re curled against his chest, his arms warm around you, and his lips pressed to your hair.

“I never thought I’d get this,” he murmurs. “You. Us.”

You reach up and rest your hand over his heart. “You have it. All of it.”

He doesn’t speak for a while. Just holds you closer, his thumb brushing lazy circles into your hip.

And just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear it. Quiet, gruff, and meant for you alone.

“Happy birthday, darlin’. You’re my favorite damn thing in the world.”

And you don’t need candles or parties or presents.

You’ve got Logan. And that’s more than enough.