Camellia: Popia X F!reader - Chapter 1
Camellia: Popia x f!reader - Chapter 1
Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.
Summary: You are a translator for the Ministry. You receive a letter summoning you to the Abbey for a project involving an ancient diary with a mysterious author, but you find yourself wishing you were back home. That is, until you meet the charming Papa Emeritus the Fourth.
Word count: 4.4k
A/N: Hi all!! This is the first long-form fic I've ever written and decided to publish, so I hope you all enjoy!! The first chapter is mostly setup and scene building, so not a lot of interaction with our beloved Copia. But there will be more, I promise!!
Warnings: none for now but there will be some in later chapters.
AO3 Link
Prologue
“Will you help me move this box?” the Brother of Sin says.
Wordlessly, the Sister of Sin stops what she’s doing and maneuvers through the crowded, dusty basement room to help the Brother. The two crouch down, bracing their hands against the box of books. It leaves behind a path carved into the layers of dust as it slides across the wooden floor.
Once the box is pushed a few feet out of the way, the Sister lets go and, losing her balance, falls to her hands and knees from the crouching position. She cries out in surprise when her hand sinks through the floorboards as one of the slats gives way. The hole is only a few inches deep and filled with dirt and cobwebs, but the Sister’s hand falls onto something softer than wood.
She lifts her hand to find that there’s a small leather-bound volume hidden face-down in the small crevice. The Sister can hardly imagine how long it has been there, with how thick the grime lies on the back cover.
This room of the Abbey’s basement had been long forgotten, until Sister Imperator tasked these Siblings of Sin to clear out the room to make way for new storage. They had half expected to find a ruby-encrusted sarcophagus in the room, with how ancient and opulent the Abbey is. So far the only things of interest they have found are books—it seems that the only items stored in the room are books.
The Sister gently removes the book from the hole in the floor and replaces the wooden slat. Even through her gloves she can tell that it is close to disintegrating. The distinct orange of rotten leather lines the edges of its binding and a few corners of pages fall to the ground.
“What’s that?” The Brother asks.
The Sister carefully turns the volume over so that she can read the front cover. It, too, is covered in dust, so she gently brushes it with her hand in order to read the embossed leather cover. Having been face-down in the crevice, the gold leaf illuminating the embossment is preserved and it shines in the low light of the basement.
“It says…” the Sister squints to read the small letters, “...Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth? Who’s Elizabeth?”
The Sister turns over the book once more. “I don’t know, just… Elizabeth.”
Chapter 1
The ride from the airport to the Abbey is a long one. The car you had been picked up in took you through the city and the suburbs, to the rural outskirts of civilization where the coniferous trees block much of the sunlight. The winding roads, dotted in late-afternoon sunbeams, feel endless as the car climbs into the hills. It’s been a silent ride, and rather awkward (at least, you feel that it’s been awkward) because the helmeted ghoul who drives the sleek black sedan has not said a word.
You knew that the Abbey has ghouls. A few abbeys do, as they are big enough to warrant summoning help, but your home chapter is not. This is the first time you’ve met one.
You wonder if they’re all so stoic, or if the driver simply doesn’t have anything to say. He isn’t impolite, but you wish he would say something, anything to make the drive a little more bearable. You want to ask him about the Abbey–what the Siblings are like, what Papa is like. How many Siblings live there full time? How big is the library? You’ve heard that the ghost of a former Papa haunts the corridors, is that true? Hundreds of questions brew in your mind, but the ghoul remains silent and you’re left feeling like an unwelcome guest in a strange country.
You already miss home.
The Marseille abbey, your home for the better part of your adult life, is a medieval stone structure built on a hilltop south of the Marseille city proper. The ornate, stained-glass windows of its chapel face west over the Mediterranean so that the sunset streams into the room during Black Mass. The walls are old and drafty, and keep faded tapestries in a constant state of fluttering. The linens line the walls of the refectory in between tall, narrow windows which also overlook the sea. If it were not for the inverted crosses and scenes of the unjust fall of Lucifer, one might think the atmosphere in the chapel—and the rest of the small abbey—is almost holy.
The windows in the Sibling dormitories are small and south-facing, with deep stone sills and wood frames that have somehow managed to survive the ages (although they hardly open without a fight.) Your own dormitory windowsill is lined with personal prayer books. Each has about a hundred loose papers sticking out. They are your translation practice, your way of staying versed in every language you know, because you know the prayers by heart at this point. The papers are experiments: which language makes the prayer sound better, sound prettier? Which language makes the most sense? Which language makes the prayers the shortest, the longest?
No matter which language you use, to you the prayers sound the most beautiful in your mother tongue. That is how you’d memorized them, after all. Yet… you wish there had been room in your single suitcase to take your prayer books with you.
“We’re almost there,” the ghoul says, snapping you out of your homesick reverie. His voice is deep and softer than you’d expected. There’s no spurt of hellfire from his mouth as you’d half-thought there would be, and no low rumble in his words that might signify he’s more beast than man. The ghoul, despite his bug-eyed mask, seems shockingly human.
He steers the car through tall wrought-iron gates which seem to open automatically. You can see the tall peak of the Abbey’s bell tower peeking through the trees, and suddenly the reality that you’re very, very far from home hits you.
You unfold the crinkled envelope in your hands and reread the letter for the hundredth time that day.
Dear Sister,
I hope this letter finds you well.
We at the Abbey have recently uncovered a very important document which we require your expertise to translate. However, this document is extremely fragile and cannot be transported in the post. Papa Emeritus IV and the rest of the Clergy request your presence at the Abbey as soon as possible.
We expect this project to take several months. Enclosed is a one-way ticket for you to travel to the airport closest to us, from which a car will transport you to the Abbey. We will discuss plans for your return to Marseille when you are nearing the end of your work here.
We anxiously await your arrival.
Sincerely,
Sister Imperator
The letter itself is quite presumptuous. Sister Imperator had assumed you were not busy, and assumed that you would be able to drop everything and travel halfway across the world for a months-long project. And then to use Papa’s name to exaggerate the importance of this mysterious document which she hadn’t even disclosed the nature of?
Well… you can’t exactly say no to the woman who practically runs the Ministry’s affairs.
The car takes a bend in the Abbey’s endless driveway and emerges into a clearing. Sitting far back on a sprawling lawn is a massive, imposing stone structure. The rows of trimmed hedges and flower bushes do little to soften the gothic hardness of it. Two pointed bell towers loom over the steep roof of what must be the chapel, with stained glass windows stretching up at least two storeys. The central image is of Baphomet, in his iconographic pose. The setting sun glints off of his golden halo. Sweet Satan, you think, your eyes tracking the window as the car rounds the drive. Baphomet alone must be taller than the entire height of Marseille.
The ghoul pulls the car to a stop in front of the wide steps leading up to wooden double doors. A woman stands there, her hands clasped in front of her and her back straight, like the matron of this grand palace. You suppose she is–the severity of her expression alone leads you to believe that it’s Sister Imperator who waits for you.
You step out into the chilly air and shut the car door behind yourself. The ghoul already has your suitcase in hand and gestures for you to walk up the stairs before him. You wish he’d let you carry your own suitcase, if only to give your hands something to do, but you are far too stunned to ask. Climbing the shallow stone steps feels like stepping into another world. A world in which you feel far too plain to exist.
“Sister,” The woman greets with a smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which squint at you beneath slightly furrowed, well-groomed brows. She strikes you as someone who is all business, all the time. “How was your journey?”
You return her smile as best you can. She speaks to you like you don’t understand English. “It went well, your dark eminence.”
She seems a little surprised that you respond so fluently, but she quickly fixes her face into another warm grin. “I am glad to hear it,” she says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sure you must understand that this document is very important, and quite fragile. We would not risk losing it in the post.” “Of course,” you nod. “If I may ask, Sister Imperator, what is this document? You did not disclose it in your letter.” You gesture to the envelope safely stored in your jacket pocket.
Sister Imperator turns to step inside the slightly ajar wooden door and you assume she wants you to follow. The ghoul accompanies you over the threshold, but at the wave of a hand from Sister Imperator, he turns down a narrow corridor with your suitcase and disappears around a corner.
You are still a bit too overwhelmed to thank him. Instead, you look at the woman beside you. “The ghoul will bring your luggage to a room we have prepared for your stay,” she explains at your silent question.
She continues down the main hall, deeper into the Abbey. Your footsteps echo through the atrium, bouncing up to the high, painted ceilings and off the stone walls. There are a few wooden benches pushed back against the wall, with pots of surprisingly lush houseplants on either side. Framed oil paintings line the walls: some depicting biblical scenes, some of landscapes, and a few large, dignified portraits. You can tell by the distinct Papal paints in each portrait that the subject is a Papa, and you wonder which one depicts Papa Emeritus IV. You’ve never seen an image of His Unholiness before.
After a few moments of silence, Sister Imperator speaks again. “We found the document last month, in one of the storage rooms in the Abbey’s basement.” She likes to use the royal ‘we’ a lot, you think.
She continues. “One of our archivists believes that it is at least five hundred years old. It is very fragile, you see, and so we ask that you handle it with the utmost care as you work with it. We would prefer it if you used gloves. And frankly, Sister, I believe that you would want to. The leather is fairly rotten.” You stay silent as you follow slightly behind her. You’ve worked with old, rotten books before. The pages nearly crumble apart in your hands and the leather splits easily, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.
“We believe it is a journal—a diary, rather, of someone very important in the Ministry’s history.” You find it strange that she doesn’t immediately disclose whose diary it might be. “Who, if I may ask?” “Elizabeth.” Sister Imperator’s voice is clipped as she answers you. She gives no further explanation. Just Elizabeth.
There are millions of women named Elizabeth in the world. It is very likely that there is more than one important Elizabeth in the Ministry’s history as well. It’s a fairly common name, especially five hundred years ago (if the archivist is correct). For all you know, this document could be some random Sister’s sexual logbook, and documenting her sinful indulgences was her way of praying to the Lord Below.
You break out of your ponderance over possibilities when Sister Imperator turns a corner to walk down another, slightly narrower (but still wide) corridor. She speaks again. “The book is to be kept in a lockbox at all times when you are not working with it. Under no circumstances is it to be removed from the Abbey library without my express permission, or the permission of Papa. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sister,” you answer hastily. Her tone of voice as she lays down the law makes you feel as though you’ve already made a mistake.
“Now. The reason we need you, Sister, is because none of our own archivists or translators can figure out what language the journal is written in.”
This piques your interest, and also slightly flatters you. “What do you mean?” you ask.
She releases a long-suffering sigh. “The writing is jumbled. It is a mess of letters and sometimes numbers, with no spaces whatsoever.”
The possibilities immediately start to stack in your mind. Latin from the Roman era tended not to use spaces, a practice called ‘scriptio continua’. Ancient Greek also did this… but wouldn’t the in-house translators be able to read it?
“I cannot explain it well enough,” Sister Imperator says. “You will have to see, Sister.”
The two of you come to another set of large double doors. Sister Imperator pushes one open and steps inside, holding it open for you. You slip past her into a huge, bright room, filled with hundreds and hundreds of bookshelves. Immediately you are hit with the scent of old books and parchment paper, and the gentle sounds of turning pages. To your left sits an ornate wooden desk with one Sibling standing behind it. They are sorting books onto a three-tiered cart, presumably to put them away in the correct order. You accidentally make eye contact, but they smile politely and you respond in kind with a little wave.
You avert your gaze upward towards the open second floor, which wraps around the large atrium and is protected by a dark oak bannister. A few Siblings linger on the catwalk, carrying books or making their way towards the wide staircase that opens to your right. The bottom floor of the atrium houses several wooden tables where another smattering of Siblings sit. Most other tables are empty save for an abandoned book or two.
The late evening glow shines down into the room from a large, circular skylight in the middle of the ceiling. There are desk lamps and overhead lights scattered about but none have been turned on yet.
It reminds you of the University library.
“Come,” Sister Imperator says after allowing you to gaze around the massive library for a moment. “The lockbox is in the restricted section. You will receive your own key while you are here but you are required to return it, directly to myself or the Head Librarian, before you leave.”
She leads you up the carpeted staircase and deep into the bowels of the second floor. Towards the back corner, where the shelves are labeled ‘Fiction - Romance’, there is a wooden door tucked against the wall. A sign beneath its small glass window reads ‘RESTRICTED’. Sister Imperator fishes a rather noisy set of keys from her pocket and finds the correct one to unlock the door. She pushes it open with a squeak that feels loud in the quiet of the library. When both of you are in the room and the door is shut behind you, she removes an identical key from her keyring and hands it to you. “Your copy,” she says. “Do not lose it.”
The room isn’t cramped, but it is small compared to the atrium. A few single-person desks sit along the back wall, while the walls on either side of you are lined with glass boxes. Each box is shaped similarly to a narrow cubby, and houses a single book. Printed labels on the front face of each box display a box number and the name of the volume stored inside.
“Your key allows you to access any of these boxes,” Sister Imperator explains to you, “but I do not expect you to require any of them, except for the diary you’ll be working with. It is kept in box number seven, which is here,” she points to a box about halfway up the rightmost column of cubbies. Using her key (still attached to the incredibly jingly keyring), she gently unlocks the box and it glides out like a drawer.
You step beside her to look down into the glass drawer. The diary is wrapped in white linen, but you can see the faint brown color of the leather through the cloth. “The archivist requests that you keep the white cloth under the book at all times,” Sister Imperator says. She reaches down into the box and gently retrieves the diary, careful not to jostle the cloth too much. “It will protect the leather from further decay.” You don’t need her to explain how preservation works, but you appreciate it anyway. It saves you from having to ask, or endure another awkward silence.
She places the book down on a nearby table and slowly unwraps the cloth. Already you can see small flecks of brown and orange sticking to it where the leather has rotted, but it seems to be fairly well preserved in light of its age. On the front cover in small, embossed gold letters is the name Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth,” you say, understanding.
“Elizabeth,” Sister Imperator replies. “That is the only word we have managed to decipher. Hopefully you will be able to help us with the rest.”
You nod. “I believe I can.”
She wraps the cloth loosely around the book once more, and returns it to its box. “I do not expect you to start tonight, Sister. We will give you time to settle, and have something to eat. But from tomorrow morning until you are done, this is your sole responsibility. Do you understand?”
Her sudden, almost intimidating tone surprises you. You bite the inside of your cheek–a nasty habit you’ve had since you were a child. “I understand, your Dark Eminence,” you say with another nod.
Her face softens, as does her stare. “Please, just Sister is fine,” she says. You follow her again as she begins to lead you out of the Restricted room. “I believe the dinner hour is to start soon. I will show you to your dormitory, and then leave you to get settled.”
She brings you back through the library and the main hall towards where you’d seen the ghoul disappear with your luggage. The dormitory hall is a long, narrow corridor with windows on one side and doors on the other. Each door is marked with a number and a nameplate, and in between each door are wall sconces lit by incandescent bulbs. Halfway down the hall there is an opening to a stairwell which, you assume, leads up to the second floor of the dormitories. You walk past many, many doors, some of which have two nameplates, until you reach the very end of the hall where there are unmarked doors. Sister finds her keyring again and unlocks one, then removes the key and hands it to you.
“These rooms here are the guest quarters. They are typically not suited for long-term stays but we have prepared yours to have everything you will need. If you need anything, ask Sibling Superior and they will make sure that you receive it.”
Sister Imperator turns to leave, but then turns around. “You know, Sister,” she says, with a curious look. “For someone of your expertise, I thought you would have been… older.” You can’t tell if it’s praise or suspicion in her voice. “Yes, well,” you stall. How are you supposed to explain that language just comes naturally to you and that it’s not your fault you’re not old and wrinkly? “I suppose once you learn one language, all the rest come easy. Especially romance languages.”
“Hm,” Sister Imperator hums, sizing you up for a moment. “Find me at the end of the week and we will talk about your progress. I’m sure you will know your way around by then.”
It seems her well of kindness has run dry.
~~~
If the loud ringing of the bell didn’t tell you that the dinner hour had started, then the steadily rising sounds of a crowd did. You can hear the murmurs of conversation even through your closed door. A few Siblings emerge from the dormitory next to yours, their chatting and laughing growing quieter as they walk down the corridor towards the refectory. The old wood floorboards creak above you from the movement of Siblings who occupy the second floor. All around you there is an excited bustle, and yet you don’t feel like joining it.
You have never liked crowds. Especially crowds of strangers. And these strangers all seem to know each other, if the echoes of loud conversations tell you anything.
But your stomach does rumble, and you feel rather weak from a day of travel, so you decide that it’s best to eat something before you go to bed. Once the corridor seems clear again, you quietly slip out your door (patting your pocket to make sure you remembered your key) and make your way to the refectory. Sister Imperator hadn’t shown it to you but you can make an educated guess as to where it is.
When you emerge into the main hall, you see a few Siblings occupying the wood benches that had been previously empty. They all hold trays or to-go boxes on their laps. Some speak animatedly, enthralling their friends with stories from their eventful day, while others sit quietly beside each other and eat. You think that it might be nice to sit somewhere to eat so that you feel a bit more connected to the Abbey, but all of the benches are occupied. The ever-growing roar from the refectory does not seem too appealing, either.
The large room is across the main hall from the library. When you turn the corner you see that it’s not as grand as the atrium, and that it only occupies one level. There are sheer curtains hung over the windows, which allow the sunlight to illuminate the room but keeps it from growing too warm. Siblings, Clergy members, and ghouls alike sit at long wooden tables not unlike those of your home Abbey. But these tables alone are longer than the entire length of the Marseille refectory, and once again you’re reminded that you’re quite far from home.
No, you can’t eat here. Not tonight.
There is a long counter stretching nearly wall-to-wall to the left of the door, where a dwindling line of Siblings make their dinner selections. Whatever meal the kitchens had prepared smells delicious but you find that you don’t have the appetite for it. However, close to where you stand in the doorway and nestled in the space between the wall and the counter, are a few baskets of fruit arranged on a small table. The baskets are nearly empty, with the only indication of their contents being the small pops of color peeking through gaps in the woven pattern.
Despite not wanting a hot meal, you are hungry, and so you enter the refectory and move towards the baskets. You opt for two good-sized oranges–although the bananas do look perfectly ripe–and turn to leave as quickly as you came. Your eyes briefly sweep over the crowd and land on a long table, perpendicular to all the others, situated on a platform at the opposite end of the refectory. The platform isn’t tall, but it is just enough to raise the table’s occupants slightly above the Siblings. The table is entirely composed of men, save for Sister Imperator, who seems to be talking to an older man with Papal paints and long blonde hair–is that Papa?
You look at the others occupying the table, and find that no less than three are also wearing Papal paints.
Marseille is a tiny Abbey. At any given time, only about ten Siblings reside there at once. And so there is no need for an upper Clergyman to be stationed there. Instead, the Chapter is run by Bishop Beaumont, who (until now) is the highest ranking member of the Satanic Ministry you have ever met, let alone seen.
So, to be faced with not one, but four Papas, all in the same room, makes your heart thump with nerves. You recognize them all from the portraits in the main hall, but in person they are all so much more… just more. And yet you still don’t know who is who.
Of course, you know that all four of the most recent reigning Papas are brothers, the order of which was determined by age. The man who Sister Imperator is talking to must be Papa Emeritus I, or Papa Primo, as you’ve heard him called by Bishop Beaumont. The other three look relatively close in age, and so you truly have no idea which man currently holds the helm and steers the ship.
You realize you’re staring when you make eye contact with one of the Papas. You nearly gasp in surprise, as if you shouldn’t even be on the same plane of existence as him… and yet your eyes met. Of course one of them would have caught you eventually, you think. You were practically ogling them from across the room.
Hastily, you turn and make your way back out of the refectory and into the main hall. Your eyes fall on the nearest portrait. The Papal paints of the subject match the ones of the man you’d just been caught staring at. You blush as if his portrait could think, and had just caught you a second time. Your eyes flick down to the gold plate affixed to the frame, and read the words.
PAPA EMERITUS IV.
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Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Prologue) Bucky Barnes x Reader
series masterlist
monday, march 12th, 5:37 am;
The salty mist spraying from the bow of the ferry stings in a familiar way. It reprimands the skin like the pained gaze of a tired mother, racking her body with a subtle guilt she thought she had forgotten years before. The morning moon dips lazily into the horizon, casting a hazy grey film over the sky and across the reflective waters. Somewhere beyond the distance, the sun is beginning to rise, awakening the small coastal village which holds the heart of her childhood.
Beneath her fingers the rough, raised grain of the ship's wooden rails keep (Y/n) grounded from her fleeting anxiety, she runs her fingers into the grooves until they leave indents on her skin. It had been many years since she had returned to the cold, dreary island, it's hidden beauty laying deep beneath its layers. Six years, she recalls, though it had been more like ten since she had stayed for more than a simple visit. The time had treated her well, it taught her more than she could imagine - both about herself and the world around her. When she looks back on her youth she feels like a stranger now, she's nervous that her home will see her that way too. To be swallowed and spit back out in rejection, cast into the sharp rocks of the coast.
The remote island sits modestly in the Gulf of Maine, somewhat near Winter Harbor. It's terrain ranges from dark, foreboding forestry to beautiful rocky coastlines, lush pastures, and seaside cliffs. The village is quaint and friendly, lined with old, mossy cobblestone and run down fish markets, humble boutiques, and an unvisited gift shop. You'll always find a doting neighbor, but you can guarantee that everyone will know your business as well. It was a community she knew she belonged to despite her reluctance. When she was a child, her time was spent barefooted on the soft sands, the smell of sea salt and petrichor tickling her nose. A leather saddle tucked beneath her and the rhythmic beats of the horses' gait on the cobblestone paths. Laughter amongst siblings and time spent with dirt-covered hands and brown fingernails from the vegetable garden. Calloused hands pulling her up into the twisted branches of the apple trees and bouquets of wilted wildflowers. The brush of shoulders and shy smiles, school bells and then 'goodbye's.
She huffs, long and drawn out, closing her eyes and feeling the sway of the boat encasing her.
Home.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds
( gif credits to @springseventeen )
—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Bob.
He had been quite special since you had met him, really.
Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.
But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him.
How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.
Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.
And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.
“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.
“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.
Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.
You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.
Love.
Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.
You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.
He loved you.
“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.
A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.
It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.
To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.
“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.
Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.
“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”
You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”
Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.
“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”
“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.
“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”
“That doesn't even—”
Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”
“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.
Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.
You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.
“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.
The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips.
He was wearing that beanie again.
He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.
“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”
He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you.
Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.
It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.
Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.
His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.
“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”
He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”
Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.
“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”
“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused.
You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.
“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”
You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”
He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.
“It's just...”
This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.
You waited so patiently for him. As always.
“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.
You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby."
He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.
Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.
“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”
“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”
“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.
Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.
Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.
But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.
“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”
“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”
“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”
Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”
“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”
Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”
“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.
“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.
You kissed him.
And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.
His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.
Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.
“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.
You kissed him again.
Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.
He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours.
His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.
His whole being was made to love you.
Bob loved you.
“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....
His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.
“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time.
Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.
His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.
“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”
“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”
“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”
Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.
“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.
Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.
“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”
You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.
“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”
You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him.
And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.
He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.
“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.
You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.
“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.
He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”
You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.
“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”
The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.
His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.
The lights faded in and out again.
“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,
“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.
“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.
Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”
And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.
Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.
“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.
Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.
“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”
He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.
“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.
Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”
“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.
He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”
He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.
“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”
“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”
His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.
“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.
Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.
“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.
“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.
You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”
Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”
“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”
“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”
He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.
But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.
Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”
John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”
Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”
You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.
You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.
“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.
“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.
“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.
Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.
Overview of My Writing ♡
My Ao3 ⛧ My Ko-Fi ⛧ Not Ghost ⛧ @ibikus (my main) This blog is 18+ only, MDNI
Recent Works
Bound by Lace (cardinal copia x f!reader, smut, 18+, MDNI)
No Games (tero x gn!reader, kiss ficlet)
One More (cardinal copia x gn!reader, kiss ficlet)
multichapter fics:
⛧ I Knew Nothing but Shadows (ongoing, 8/?) (only on Ao3, 18+ MDNI, f!reader, artist!reader slow-burn with horror/mystery elements) – Check out the amazing fanart to the story here, here and here ♡
one-shots:
⛧ Honey and Venom (on Ao3, 9.5k words, f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI, Or: The four times you fell for your best friend without noticing and the one time you did.)
⛧ A Lesson In Patience (8k words, Ao3 only, f!reader, soft dom!copia smut, 18+, MINORS DNI)
ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:
⛧ Rough Day (on Ao3, 1k words, f!reader)
⛧ Let Me Help (on Ao3, 2k words, gn!reader, helping Papa do his make-up)
⛧ Don't Make Me Wait (on Ao3, 1.5k words, f!reader, dom!copia, 18+, MDNI)
⛧ Analogue Date Nights and Polaroids (short headcanon after chapter 16)
multichapter fics:
⛧ Dance Macabre (completed 4/4) (only on Ao3, 15k words, f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI)
one-shots:
⛧ 5 Types of Christmas Kisses with Copia (+1) (on Ao3, 8k words, f!reader, festive fluff)
⛧ A Message from the Bulletin Board (on Ao3, 9k words, gn!reader, Copia posts a lonely hearts ad, sickening fluff ensues)
ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:
⛧ How it Feels (on Ao3, 2k words, hurt/comfort, tw: body issues, gn!reader)
⛧ Spring Walk (on Ao3, 1.4k words, anxiety comfort, gn!reader)
⛧ Ouch (on Ao3, 1.3k words, gn!reader, fluff)
⛧ One More (on Ao3, 750 words, gn!reader, lots of kissing)
⛧ Bound by Lace (on Ao3, 2.8k words, f!reader, dom pervy cardinal smut, 18+, MDNI)
⛧ Date Night Polaroids
ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:
⛧ No Games (on Ao3, 1.6k words, gn!reader, friends to lovers ficlet)
one-shots:
⛧ Unprecedented (on Ao3, 12.7k words, gn!reader, 18+, MDNI, Or: The four times you almost get Secondo to admit his feelings and the one time you succeed)
ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:
⛧ His Body and Blood (on Ao3, 2.6k words, gn!reader, ANGST, you try to resurrect secondo, contains gore/horror elements)
⛧ Starved (on Ao3, 1.6k words, afab!reader, 18+, MDNI, just smut)
⛧ Dough (a suggestive drabble + tasty-ribz's art)
one-shots:
⛧ Friday Nights at the Cinema Club (on Ao3, 14k words, vampire!primo, gn!reader, romance, horror, smut, 18+, MDNI) – See this amazing fanart to the fic ♡
ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:
⛧ The Devil's Ivy (on Ao3, 900 words, gn!reader, wholesome fluff)
any or multiple Papas:
⛧ Soft, Sleepy Sex with the Papas (on Ao3, 4.8k words in total, 1k-1.4k for each Papa, f!reader, 18+, MDNI)
⛧ Ghosting (on Ao3, 2.5k words, any Papa x gn!reader, sick care ficlet)
⛧ Coffee HCs for the Papas (+ tasty-ribz's art)
multichapter fics:
⛧ Ziplocked Love | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 (on Ao3, 20k words total, dew x f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI, completed)
recommendations:
If you need any fic recs in the Ghost fandom you can click here to see all the ones I shared or click here to see my favorite Ao3 fics! Find some amazing fanart here!
If you want to support me, please consider reblogging my work, leaving comments or kudos :)
this fic is my roman empire I desperately need more it's just so beautiful and my heart hurts
VI. "Trust Me, Doll..."
"Trust" Series Masterlist
John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader
War is hell and every time it seems you and Bucky adapt to your new normal, the game is changed yet again. When at last Victory in Europe is achieved, the pair of you can finally focus on forging the way ahead.
Warnings: Angst, Language, Grief, Mentions of Death, Imprisonment, Pregnancy, Childbirth in Retrospect, Child Rearing, Motherhood, Era-Typical Sexism and Marital Expectations, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Sex While Trying Not to Be Overhead] - 18+ ONLY.
Author’s Note(s): This is it! Oh wow, we made it, kids! Thank you to each and every one of you for your incredible engagement with this series it has truly been an inspiration! I love all of you and have more Bucky thoughts brewing!!!
As always, letters/telegrams have image descriptions that can be accessed by clicking the 'ALT' button. Special thanks to Marina @precious-little-scoundrel for helping me untangle numerous plot points in this series. I could not have done this without you, darling! This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.
Word Count: 7444
-------------------------
Your sudden return home in mid-February had been decidedly awkward. Without time to send a letter of warning, you had spent a lot of coins on a phone call in a telephone booth at the hospital in New Jersey while you awaited the arrival of a WAC commanding officer to process your discharge.
To say your mother had been surprised to hear your voice over the line was an understatement. Mercifully, your father had already left for work that day and you had only had to break the news to her. Given the frosty welcome you had received from him by the time you managed to reach the steps of your childhood home, you hated to think what his reaction would have been if you had informed him that his unwed daughter was kicked out of the Women’s Army Corps for being pregnant without the softening interference of your mother.
It was truly disorienting to be back somewhere so very familiar when you were so utterly different. The war had left its marks here too, though. A gold star banner hung proudly in the front window, in honor of your brother, and your mother’s garden out back had mostly been turned over to the growing of vegetables, with a huge stockpile of jarred preserves now overflowing the pantry. But the two bedrooms at the top of the stairs belonging to you and your brother, separated by a small hallway that was really no more than a glorified landing, were exactly as you had left them in 1942. As if they were frozen in time. Dusted and cared for, but ready and waiting for you to pick up your old lives.
Only your brother was never coming home, and you had returned home but entirely changed. After the relentless pace you had maintained since enlisting, the thought of remaining at home in idle leisure was too off-putting to even contemplate. You allowed yourself a few days of adjusting to the violent change in time – at least when you had traveled to England you had been afford several days at sea to transition. Flight across the Atlantic had been utterly jarring, and it had taken great discipline to turn your nighttime back into day.
But once you had re-acclimated to the North American clock, you had promptly ventured out to find yourself gainful employment at a nearby grocery store. The owner, Nick, was a friend of the family. A kind man who did not seem interested in asking too many questions about why you were back early, was simply eager for the help around his store. It was most definitely not as mentally taxing as the work you had previously undertaken as a WAC, but it was money, and that was sorely needed as babies were expensive.
Your mother seemed fretful about you working in your ‘delicate condition,’ but the demands of the position paled in comparison to the one you had just left, and you rarely worked more than six hours a day. There was still plenty of time to sit with her, improving your knitting skills as you started on a baby blanket. Your mother was duly impressed you had picked up such a feminine skill abroad and seemed more than happy to pass along helpful hints.
In all truth she did appear to be struggling, dwelling frequently on memories and nostalgia for happier times. It was difficult to say how your father was coping in the wake of your brother’s passing. Any hours when he was not at work, he was spending behind the closed door of your dead sibling’s room, all manner of noises and the odd curse word seeping through the cracks, but neither you nor your mother were quite certain what he was up to.
You had sent a letter to Bucky immediately upon your arrival, as promised, still not divulging the full extent of the situation, but it had been stocked with reassurances and re-direction. It appeared he had not yet received it based on his letter that reached you in mid-April.
![A continuation of the handwritten letter dated March 8, 1944 in rough printing on folded paper that reads:
...Nothing ever changes around here. We are definitely looking forward to adding the food you sent to our rations, though. Thank you for that, you incredible woman.
If I could, I would send you the entire world in return, you know that right? Anything you have ever wanted, I will give it to you as soon as I can be with you again.
I love you very much and hope you take good care,
[Signed] John C. Egan](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f52c5c93b254547ddea7c76de09b8b1a/694e4fd608b6742e-48/s500x750/47c51b63fbbd06a9f4479e51fdd9f9b16323339c.png)
Damn that man, but you did love him so. Baby animals – had he guessed the true nature of your discharge then? Gnawing ruthlessly on your lower lip, you found yourself pacing around your room, one hand rubbing at your lower back, sore from standing all day with the growing weight of your swollen abdomen.
‘Or is he simply fishing for more information, unconvinced?’ You wondered to yourself, sighing heavily.
He was simply too intelligent for his own good. Another man would simply have taken your words at face value and left it at that. But there was a reason you had not fallen in love with another man. Had not given yourself to another man.
With another deep sigh, you dug out your writing supplies and drafted a reply that acknowledged his statements but neither confirmed nor denied them. There was no desire on your part to entrap or obligate him into anything. That was the last thing you wanted – to pin a man who so cherished his freedom down against his will. Particularly after enduring his current stay in a prison camp.
As the weather grew ever warmer, it became increasingly difficult to conceal your predicament – no matter how baggy or oversized your dresses were. Your engagement ring only went so far in polite society to protect you from judgemental stares and by the end of April you were forced to quit your job and confine yourself almost entirely to the house. May seemed to drag on, though you certainly managed to knit a wide variety of nearly perfect baby clothes for different stages.
Perhaps the brightest spot came one evening when your father emerged from the room opposite yours and left the door open for the first time since you came home, revealing not the preserved bedroom of your brother, but a fully prepared nursery, complete with an assembled crib, rocking chair, dresser, and change table. As you stood in your doorway in shock, eyes brimming with tears, he shoved his hands into his pockets and gruffly muttered, “baby needs somewhere to sleep after all,” before trudging down the stairs to the bedroom he shared with your mother.
June burst onto the scene with the Allied invasion of France and the good news only continued with the signing of the GI Bill on the 22nd. Your years of service and honorable discharge earned you, and your very active and rapidly growing baby, subsidized medical care. It could not have been timelier as appointments became more and more frequent, your due date looming at the end of July.
Much like her father, Clara Mae had a mind of her own when it came to her time of arrival. She was born in the middle of the night on July 22nd at the local veteran’s hospital – one of the first GI Bill babies, the nurses informed you.
The choice of her name had been rather easy, derived from Bucky’s middle name - Clarence. While you could not give her his family name, or even list him as her father on the birth certificate without his signature, you could at least give her this for now. He had already given her his mischievous eyes and unmistakable ears. Time would tell what other of his features she would share. If the grey-blue of her eyes would settle in the color of the stormy sea like his. If the slight dusting of fuzz of her head would grow into luscious, dark curls.
Sitting there in sore, stunned exhaustion as they carted her off to the nursery, you looked up as your mother sidled over, the broad grin of a recent grandparenthood still splitting her face.
“We have to write Major Egan right away and let him know. Oh he’ll be so thrilled, a sweet little girl to come home to now!”
The force with which your face crumpled, physically unable to bear to weight of all your falsehoods and desperate attempts at inner strength one moment longer, sent your tears scattering down the front of your hospital gown. Your mother snapped her mouth shut, completely taken aback by the abrupt shift in your mood, before she collected a wad of scratchy hospital tissues and tenderly wiped at your eyes.
“There now, I know. It’s been a tremendous effort, and things are very difficult.” She soothed and cradled your head to her breast, rubbing your back softly.
Despite becoming a mother yourself not a full hour ago, it seemed you were still very much in need of one yourself.
“What if he doesn’t want me, mama?” You gulped and looked up to her pathetically as you finally gave voice to perhaps the greatest fear that had been stalking you since the realization that you were pregnant had come crashing down upon you. “We’re not even…it’s not even real…” Your eyes dropped to the false engagement ring that mockingly glinted up at you from your left hand.
She sighed deeply before her hands grasped your face and forced your gaze to meet hers. “Well, pumpkin, I’d say that a man who writes to you despite the difficulties is one of the good ones. And usually it’s the good ones that do the right things.”
You frowned and shook your head slightly, as much as her tight grip would allow. “But I don’t want him to do the right thing. I want him to marry me because he wants to…”
There was another maternal sigh before you were gathered close in her arms once more. “Let’s hope for the best then. I’ll get Felix from down the street to bring his camera. We’ll send a photo of sweet Clara Mae and see if she can’t work her magic on him.”
------------
The Allied invasion of Western Europe had felt like a gift from above, flooding Bucky’s life with a new sense of purpose, and shattering the grim monotony that had calcified everything around him. The gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the evasiveness in your letters, the constant worry and uncertainty he felt for both himself and you. There was surely only one explanation, at least only one rational, sane explanation for your early discharge. But he’d had far too much time on his hands to postulate and theorize all manner of possibilities and their catastrophic outcomes.
June 6 had brought an abrupt and decisive end to that, a sharp divide to their life in camp, and a need for preparations now that the Commonwealth forces were closing in from one side and the Russians from the other. It was early September when he received your life changing letter, two small photos tucked securely between your folded, scented pages. One of you, looking so very beautiful it made his heart ache fondly. And the second of a very tiny infant with remarkably familiar ears.
He huffed fondly and turned back to the letter to read it properly as you finally confirmed what he had long suspected.
Shaking the envelope once more produced a square of paper with the stamp of his daughter’s – his daughter’s – footprints on it.
Cradling it in one palm, he could not help but gawk at the small scale of her. She must be truly tiny…only 20 inches.
“Your girl finally explain herself?” Buck leaned over his shoulder, and he nodded, holding up Clara’s photo.
His friend barely contained a snort and Bucky scoffed in return. “I know – poor girl’s got my damn Dumbo ears. Couldn’t even deny she’s mine if I wanted to.”
“She’s beautiful anyway, despite your influence.” Buck smirked and handed the photo back carefully. “Congratulations. What’s her name?”
“Clara Mae.” An involuntary grin of pleasure overtook him as he said it, quite enjoying the way it sounded. You had picked well.
“Your girl did an excellent job. Be sure you tell her so.”
“You know I will.” He replied with a firm nod.
------------
The twelve weeks it took to hear from Bucky were both a blur and an agony. Clara did her utmost to keep the household, and you in particular, thoroughly occupied. You were somewhat relieved that your parents were sleeping on a different floor than her, that it gave you a chance to dart across the hall and mollify her discordant wails with a fresh diaper or a feeding. But on those nights when even you could not seem to sort out what ailed her, your father stepped in and patiently walked her up and down the length of the porch until she melted into the crook of his arm.
Truly, for such a small being, she had the entirety of her grandfather wrapped around her littlest finger. Clara was the first he greeted upon returning home from work and the last he kissed goodnight. None of this would have been possible without his willing arms, nor your mother’s endless wisdom when it came to washing bottles and diapers and Clara’s vast wardrobe of tiny clothing. But in the quiet moments, when she was busily suckling in your arms or just as you were falling asleep, your thoughts would always fly across the Atlantic to barbwire fences and Bucky.
You hoped your letter reached had him. You hoped it had all of its contents still, that none of them had been lost while being reviewed by the censors and whomever else pried into your mail. His reaction? Well you could not even dare to hope what that might be. It would cause your entire body to tense almost painfully and prevent your lungs from filling with air.
Every day you did your best not to look too eagerly as the postman delivered the mail, flipping through the envelopes calmly, hiding your disappointment when his reply was not there. Your agony came to an end, at last, in mid-October. Hearing your soft gasp, your mother offered to take Clara on her morning walk – it was generous to be sure, but you were also more than aware that she enjoyed the attention warranted by pushing the gorgeous girl through the neighborhood in her pram.
Settling down at the kitchen table once they had left, you sliced open the envelope anxiously.
![A continuation of the handwritten letter dated September 2, 1944 in rough printing on folded paper that reads:
...am back. Until you are sick of me.
A threat and a promise.
Clara’s loving father and your devoted satellite,
[Signed] John C Egan](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1ef95400c4eae4482f270240c96b86da/694e4fd608b6742e-43/s500x750/368898a3498ff7e9c3e31c41c74089a25664584d.png)
Tears of relief were tracking down your cheeks by the time you reached the end of his letter, making it difficult to read his words clearly. He had replied. He was not angry, nor dismissive. He called himself Clara’s father. And there was an oblique, very Bucky-like proposal in there. Your watery laugh echoed in the empty kitchen before you sniffled in a very unladylike way. God, you missed him so very much. By the time your mother and Clara returned, your tears of relief had been replaced by sobs of longing that had her tiptoeing through the house, deeply concerned his letter had been one of rejection.
Looking up at her apprehensive face as she peered through the doorway, you smiled through your pain and nodded. “It’s good news.”
“Oh, well…good.” She gave you a somewhat bewildered smile and found a handkerchief for you to once more clean yourself up before you gathered Clara close.
“Your daddy says he loves you, peanut. What do you think of that?”
Clara’s face stretched into one of her toothless grins that came just as easy as Bucky’s did, and you fought the urge to cry again. “Yeah…me too.”
Your reply to Bucky’s letter was accompanied by a holiday card fingerpainted by Clara, now that you were confident in the mailing time of roughly six-weeks, as well as another set of dry goods for him to share with his friends. Time continued to march on and in an effort to better document Clara’s rapid growth, you purchased a user-friendly camera, having Felix give you some lessons.
Mid-January, Clara received a gift from her father – a stunning ink drawing of him done by one of his roommates apparently. It had been over a year since you had looked upon his face and the breathtaking detail captured by the man who drew it, A. Jefferson based on the signature, inflicted an intense barrage of memories. You promptly went to a five-and-dime store to purchase a frame for it, setting it on the dresser in Clara’s room next to a model of a B17. You made a point of showing it to her every day, telling her stories about her daddy – only the appropriate ones of course, wanting her to know him.
That it was also self-soothing was simply a bonus.
That letter was the last one you received from him. As Clara’s features sharpened into Bucky’s, and his dark curls framed her face, it was his gaze staring up at you from your arms as the weeks ticked by with no word. When the abnormally harsh winter yielded to spring once more, there was still no reply to your January letter. The war was all but won, the Germans quite literally surrounded, the Russians in Germany and yet there was nothing.
It was mid-April when the dreaded Western Union vehicle pulled up in front of the house, your heart leaping into your throat.
‘Please let him be alright.’
Your mother had been in the kitchen, working on lunch, but silently appeared at your elbow, ghosts of her own heartbreak etching her features.
“Deep breaths. Anybody can send a telegram, not just the War Department.” She murmured and knelt down beside Clara on the rug to play with her as you forced your leaden feet to move towards the door.
Accepting the yellow envelope from the infuriatingly neutral-faced boy, you confirmed that it was indeed addressed to you before impatiently tearing into it.
Exhaling shakily you smiled in relief. Major Cleven must have escaped. That he would have spent the money to send a telegram to update you on Bucky, and to share a message from the man himself, was quite moving. You could not help the chuckle that escaped you, however, at the fact that this was twice now that Cleven had terrified you in the process of trying to share good news.
“All is well?” Your mother asked softly from the living room, and you turned quickly with a smile.
“Yes, he’s ok, his friend somehow made it back to England and wanted me to know he’s doing alright.”
The smile she gave you in return contained no small amount of relief.
The Russians were in Berlin by the next time Western Union made its second delivery at the beginning of May.
‘Please, when we are so very close to victory, please.’
Even less patient with this envelope than the last, you felt a swell of elation at just the first word.
And he meant it. It was not entirely as soon as either of you would have liked, given that Victory in Europe happened not a week after that telegram, on May 8, 1945, but Bucky certainly did come to you and Clara as soon as it was possible.
It was a hot afternoon in early July, the wind having abandoned everyone when the sun rose that morning. Clara was in a bit of a mood courtesy of the heat and her desire to move about the house independently. Certainly, she had been crawling for months, terrorizing everything and everyone in her path, but as of late she had been pulling herself to her feet and trying desperately to take those first few wobbly steps towards upright freedom. She certainly could manage it while gripping tightly to your fingers for balance, but today her chubby cheeks and granite eyes were screwed tight in consternation as she swatted your hands away to go it alone.
“Alright peanut, off you go then.” You smiled encouragingly, sitting back on your heels as beads of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.
Letting go of the edge of the coffee table, she wavered and wobbled, overcorrecting her round little infant body before landing heavily onto her bottom with a squawk of frustration.
“So close, so–”
The rapping of knuckles against the wooden frame of the screen door cut off your statement and you scooped her up, perching her against your right hip as you rose to your feet.
“Let’s go see if that’s the postman with Grandma’s package, shall we?” You smiled and tickled her soft tummy with your free hand, earning a giggle accompanied by her gap-toothed grin as you headed over to the front door.
The man standing there in uniform was most certainly not the postman, however.
“Bucky…” You whispered in shock as he stood before you, in the flesh, after nearly two years of constant worry and concern.
All that separated you now was a flimsy screen door, which you lurched forward to shove open. His eyes were wide as he stared at the pair of you, Clara peering at him curiously. The movement of your left hand caught his eye and his brow furrowed as his gaze landed on the ring you had been hiding behind since April of last year, making you swallow painfully.
“It’s not real.” You murmured quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong impression, and stepped back to invite him inside.
The sound of his bag hitting the floor was all the warning you had before he was pulling you tightly against him, burying his face into your hair. Pressing your face against him in return, you clung to the back of his uniform jacket, wondering if he had always smelled this good or if he had bought new cologne since returning stateside. A sudden strangled sound came from his throat, and you straightened quickly to see Clara had a ruthless grip on his tie and a wicked grin on her face.
“Ta.” You said firmly, holding out your hand and she surrendered her stranglehold on the piece of fabric which you carefully tucked back into his jacket.
Bucky smirked down at her slightly, but his eyes were filled with barely concealed wonder. Clara, for her part, did not seem the least bit fazed by him whatsoever. Her chubby little fingers moved to trace the shiny buttons of his jacket before stretching up to brush along the coarse hair on his upper lip.
“You like my mustache, Miss Clara?” He grinned and pretended to devour her finger as it strayed too close to his mouth, sending his daughter into a fit of giggles and making your cheeks ache from smiling so wide.
An involuntary yawn suddenly overtook her, and you glanced at your watch, nodding as the time confirmed your suspicions. “It’s nap time, I’ll just take her upstairs.”
“Can I come?” He asked softly, making no move to release his hold on you and you nodded quickly, pressing your lips to his cheek softly before leading him to the stairwell at the back of the house.
“This place looks exactly how you described it…” He murmured softly, threading his fingers through yours as he followed.
Looking back to him, startled, you swallowed down the swell of emotion that had been threatening since you had first laid eyes on him. “I told you about it once, in that…hotel room in London…almost two years ago.”
“And I’ve imagined it almost every day since.” He assured you easily as you climbed the stairs, making you shake your head in awe.
Glancing through the open door into your room curiously for a moment, he followed you into Clara’s nursery, grinning softly as his eyes landed on the drawing he had sent.
“You gave it to her.”
Setting Clara into her crib, you turned back to him. “We talk about you every day.”
Bucky’s eyes met yours and he smiled gratefully before reaching out for your left hand, his thumb stroking along the band of the ring there.
“You know, this isn’t very believable, doll.” He muttered and you felt yourself tense as you eyed him, suddenly nervous in his presence after all those months apart. You had been separated longer than you had even known one another. “I’d have bought you a much bigger rock.” His lips curled into a smirk.
Laughter, something that felt so foreign to you after its long absence, bubbled up from your chest while tears simultaneously flooded your eyes. His hands cradled your face as his lips met yours at last, the kiss distinctly salty despite the best efforts of his thumbs to swipe your tears away. Laying your hands atop his, it began to sink in that he was really home, he had truly made it back to you. And Clara. There was no more need for constant fretting and pleading mantras. He was here.
“In fact I did.” His statement, a continuation of his discussion about your fake engagement ring, felt disorienting as it interrupted your inner musings, and you watched in confusion as he sunk to one knee right there in Clara’s bedroom, slipping the piece of costume jewellery from your ring finger before tucking it one of his pockets.
It was not until he produced a much shinier ring, with a larger and very real diamond, that you registered just what was happening. He addressed you properly, by your full name, before asking the question.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes. Yes of course I will.” You nodded vigorously, watching him clumsily slide the heavier ring onto your finger before his mouth was on yours once more, demanding and possessive.
Pressing against him, you would have completely forgotten yourself if not for the sound of your mother calling your name from the bottom of the stairs, tone laced with confusion and worry – surely from finding the front door open and a piece of strange luggage in the front hall. Bucky pulled his lips back and pressed his forehead to yours, hot puffs of his breath caressing your face.
“Parents’ house…”
You let out a small laugh of chagrin. “Parents’ house.” You confirmed before pulling back and guiding him out, leaving the door slightly cracked so you would hear when Clara awoke.
Miraculously she had slept through the entire exchange, a superpower she had surely inherited from her father. Descending the stairs, introductions were made, and you did not miss the way you mother’s eyes lit up as she took in the new ring on your finger. Your father was slightly more difficult to win over, still smarting from the perceived mistreatment of his little girl. You were more than a little convinced he might be taking Bucky to the toolshed to shoot him when he asked for the man to accompany him out there for a chat after dinner.
Your aggressive scrubbing of the dishes in the sink as you watched anxiously out the window amused your mother to no end.
“He’s just ensuring Major Egan has your best interests in mind.”
“He’s not gonna kill him, is he, mama?” You worried your lip and she laughed, wiping Clara’s sticky fingers clean after her joyful decimation of a bowl of sliced strawberries.
“He will do no such thing.”
By some miracle, the pair of them immerged unscathed twenty minutes later, shaking hands and sharing a laugh. You rediscovered the ability to exhale and prepared Clara for her evening walk, which Bucky insisted on joining. Even though you assured him you had a perfectly good pram, gestured to where it sat on the front porch, he insisted on carrying Clara on his hip, much to her delight.
Not only was the vantage point much better, but she had unfettered access to all the intriguing bits of his uniform to occupy herself with as the pair of you followed the usual route around the neighborhood. While no one had taken it upon themselves to be overtly rude to you, something about seeing all six foot two inches of Major John Egan carrying his carbon-copy daughter with you on his other arm seemed to go a long way to repairing your somewhat tarnished reputation around town.
People who had politely nodded or offered no more than tight-lipped smiles were now openly waving and calling greetings as you passed.
“Sure are popular around here, doll.”
“I assure you, it’s the pair of you.” You smirked at him and Clara who was busily tugging at the flap of his breast pocket. “Everything alright after your visit to the toolshed?” You asked now that you were far enough away from the house that your father would not hear.
He nodded easily. “Your father and I are of like minds. You and I are going to the registrar’s office tomorrow to get a marriage licence and then we’ll get this little one’s birth certificate sorted as well.”
“He wasn’t…too harsh on you?” You asked with more than a little trepidation.
Bucky looked to you softly. “No more than I deserved.”
“You deserved no harshness, we both know full well how this happened…”
“I sure didn’t stop you. Couldn’t have, even if I had been able to think straight.” He smirked and kissed your temple. “So we did it out of order, that’s fine. It’ll all be how it was meant to very soon.”
Sighing fondly you continued your progress until Clara was slumped against his shoulder, barely able to keep her eyes open. By the time you returned to the house, your mother had set up a small camp bed in the nursery for you and moved Bucky’s things to your room for the night – everyone agreed there was no way he could possibly be expected to sleep on the sofa. He was simply too long. Wishing one another good night in the hallway with a lingering kiss, you pressed your lips together as your mother cleared her throat expectantly from the landing below and slipped into the nursery for the night.
It was difficult to say how long you had been asleep when a faint noise, your ears now well trained to listen out for the smallest of disturbances, woke you. It was most definitely still dark when you raised your head, immediately looking to the crib to see Clara sleeping peacefully on her stomach, index and middle fingers of her right hand suckled soothingly by her full lips. Shifting your gaze in the dimly lit room, you jumped slightly to see Bucky leaning against the doorframe, clad in his boxers and undershirt, silently watching her sleep, expression pensive.
Sliding to your feet as gracefully as the low bed and your thin cotton nightgown would allow, you padded over to him quietly to whisper, “everything ok?”
“She’s just so small…” He replied in a hushed voice, gesturing with his hands, eyes still fixed on Clara’s sleeping form, and you smiled fondly.
Reaching out, you gently manipulated the distance between his palms to represent how small she had been as a newborn. “She was only that big a year ago.”
His eyes tore from the crib to study the small gap between his hands before lifting slightly to drink in how little you were wearing, how thin the material was to try and make sleeping in the summer months bearable. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, revealing the rapid dilation of his pupils before his mouth descended onto yours ravenously.
Sliding one arm around his waist, you pressed with the other against the centre of his chest to guide him back across the hall, closing the door to your bedroom behind you as you quickly surrendered and parted your lips for him. He grunted eagerly, pressing his fully hard length against you through the thin barrier of your clothes, making you gasp at the rapidity of his response.
“The damn sheets smell like you, I’ve been hard all night.” He groaned and you quickly smothered his mouth with yours, well aware just how loud he tended to get.
If you were lucky enough to get away with this, you were going to have to be as quiet as possible.
Rucking the hem of your nightgown up over your hips, he pivoted to deposit you onto the edge of the bed, settling between your thighs as you worked one another’s underwear off. Pressing skin to skin, his head fell back, and you quickly slid your palm over his mouth to smother his eager sighs, rocking your folds along the length of him as you gnawed on your lips and swallowed your own keens. Bucky’s eyes bored into yours hungrily as he mirrored your movements, almost daring you to keep quiet as he continued to moan against your hand.
Silence became impossible for you too as the blunt tip of his cock snagged on your entrance and he rocked his hips forward, slowly sinking into your warmth. Falling back onto the mattress, you slapped the hand that had previously been propping you upright over your own mouth to smother your eager groan as your eyelids fluttered in the struggle to remain open. Shifting forward once he had settled fully inside you, Bucky’s face hovered just above yours, eyes still pinning yours as he began the eager push and pull towards ecstasy.
Desperately trying to keep your hands in place over your mouth and his, your back arched at the long forgotten and very heightened sensation of being so very stretched by him, trembling with each brush of his pelvis against your sensitive bundle of nerves. His hands planted onto the mattress on either side of your head, fisting into the sheets as his hips snapped demandingly into yours, each sharp exhale from his nostrils cascading across your knuckles as you felt the tension building within you.
Sweat glistened on both of your skin, the efforts in the lingering heat of the night only making you both slick as you writhed beneath him, heart hammering inside your ribcage. And still his eyes would not leave yours. The one time you gave into the urge to clench them shut, he sent them flying open once more with a sharp nip to the meat of your palm and you quickly wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper.
You could feel him clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth, desperately driving into you until your body shattered in release, nearly going limp with the force of it. Bucky nestled his face tighter to your palm as, with two more erratic thrusts, he followed suit with a harsh cry, thankfully still smothered. Slumping forward, utterly spent, you cradled him close a moment before shuffling and maneuvering to rest against the headboard with him properly nuzzled against your neck, and his legs mostly on the bed.
Stroking his hair lovingly, every so often scratching your nails along his scalp, you could not help the fond smile as his harsh breaths evened out and the weight of him grew heavier against you when sleep overtook him. Sighing softly, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to join him in rest.
The next time you opened them you were alone, tucked beneath the sheet, the soft light of dawn filling the room. The distinct sound of Clara’s giggles carried from across the hall, and you sat up, grabbing your summer housecoat and peered into the nursery to find the pair of them perched on the camp bed engaged in a very entertaining game of wooden blocks it seemed. Bucky had retrieved the model of the B17 from the dresser and was frequently swooping it down to destroy whatever Clara’s clumsy little hands built, much to her delight.
“Ah, Mommy’s up.” Bucky’s statement revealed that you had been caught and you smirked, stepping into the room to kneel on the carpet beside them. “Did we wake you?”
Shaking your head softly, you kissed Clara’s head and then Bucky’s cheek. “Did she wake you, though?”
He shrugged. “Probably my turn anyway.”
You smiled tenderly, laughing as Clara clutched at his arm to demonstrate that she had assembled a new construction in need of his attention. Watching fondly, you blinked slightly to see a new addition to the dog tags, crucifix, and medal that he normally wore. Amidst the collection was now the faux engagement ring you had sported for over a year. Reaching out, you traced your finger along it, raising an eyebrow in silent question as his eyes met yours.
“To remind me of that time I was overly reckless.” He murmured and you swallowed painfully, pressing your lips to his firmly.
Sliding his arm around your waist, he pulled you snuggly into his side, continuing to entertain Clara easily.
“We’ll get the licence today but, what kind of wedding would you like, doll?” He asked quietly.
“Just a date at the courthouse is fine.” You assured him with a nod.
“You don’t want a big wedding or anything? Honestly doll, anything you want and it’s yours.” He assured you softly.
You laughed watching your daughter gnaw on the corner of a wooden block. “Seems a bit hypocritical to put me a white gown don’t you think?” You smirked and shook your head when he looked ready to defend your honor. “I don’t need all those fancy things John, I just need you.”
When he finally came up for air, your lips more than a little swollen from his attentions, he huffed a laugh.
“Not sure what I’m going to do with the parachute I smuggled home now, though…”
“Well, Major Cleven’s getting married soon, isn’t he? I’m sure Marge would appreciate it. She seems lovely from the letters we’ve exchanged.”
He turned to you wide-eyed, struck silent, and you could not help but laugh. “Never underestimate the ingenuity of women, John.”
Bucky shook his head in awe. “Trust me, doll…I would never be so foolish as to underestimate you.”
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"Trust" Series Masterlist
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✨ this✨
imagine being loved by me
#NightSkyChallenge: Prompt 6 — The night we said goodbye. [“This is harder than I thought it’d be.”] [2.5k]
— joel miller x f!reader — a/n: this is mostly fluff and angst, hence the lack of warnings. i hope you guys enjoy this even though there's no smut. there are a lot of feelings to make up for that? anyway, i just wanted to imagine being loved by Joel (in the given canon circumstances) and this is what I came up with. enjoy <3
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmasterlist | part two →
"Eternal tourists of ourselves, there is no landscape but what we are. We possess nothing, for we don't even possess ourselves. We have nothing because we are nothing. What hand will I reach out, and to what universe? The universe isn't mine: it's me," you stop there, uncertain and nervous for more than one reason. "You want me to go on?"
Joel only grunts beneath you, and the palm he has wrapped around your calf starts rubbing there. He's a man of very few words — always has been — but you recognize his cues. Go on, the circles on your skin say. And — "I like it a lot when you read," he speaks, startling you for a second. "'s nice."
Three years since you've been doing this — years, and this is the night Joel chooses to speak his mind.
You grit your teeth and put on a smile, no matter how much it aches to do so. "Look at you, borrowing Pessoa's ability to use words 'n all," you tease.
Joel pinches your inner thigh — a warning.
You take one of your hands out of the book to poke his side — I'm not scared of you. Never was. Never could be.
Even if he's about to break your heart.
You continue reading.
He keeps on drinking it in, and you wonder not for the first time if Joel hears a word that comes out of his mouth or if this is just white noise for him.
I like it a lot when you read.
Inside your chest there's a special place saved only for the things Joel gives you as a gift.
There's no space for material things in the world you live in now. Being a man of very few words, you learned how to read Joel Miller from the moment you met him — a useful skill, one that came in handy over the past few years. People misread him a lot. Mostly because he allowed them to; sometimes because he wanted it that way.
They thought Joel was gruff. Callused.
You knew better.
Joel's body language never lied.
He gifted you things that way — a shrug of his shoulders that hid the fathom of a smile creeping up his face. His furrowed brows pierced together whenever someone spoke in louder tones in your presence. The ghost of his hand hovering over your back in between meetings, or the way he never looked you in the eye before kissing you.
All of them signs. All of them a way for him to communicate.
That was funny. I don't like their tone. I've got your six.
I can't let you see within me.
Joel might as well be an open book.
When Tess introduced the both of you, she said, "Just don't gain expectations. He's like us — lost everything. But he's a decent man, which is more than we can say about half of the people that made it."
A decent man was an understatement.
He was everything and then some in between.
Joel kept it simple when telling you that he and Tess had to leave.
Neither one of them owed you explanations, but they gave you one either way. The three of you ran something together — an illegal, dangerous, and fragile something, but it was yours. Built it from your hands.
They claimed you were the brains.
"You gotta stay," Joel stated. Not a request, and nothing in his eyes that said this is open for conversation. "Marlene gave us very little info. We'll try to make it back as soon as we can."
The implicate we don't know if we'll make it back was there.
You never missed the unspoken words.
"Okay," you agreed, because there was nothing else for you to do.
Tess had left with the kid. She hugged you, giving you the full list of contacts that would be seeing you for things, and said, "Take care of yourself" in the way she always did.
Joel stayed behind to collect what he needed, and because he said a day wouldn't make a difference.
Was it over-confident on your part to allow the fluttering in your chest to take full form after seeing him drop his things on your hardwood floor and ask you to go for a walk? Was it wishful thinking to know he was stealing moments?
The familiar sight of his back gives you comfort as you follow him.
That's the way it's always been — you always knew that one day, you'd see this for the last time.
Maybe it's a small mercy that they're leaving.
It's been years—much longer than you initially thought you'd have, much longer than you prayed for after the first night Joel knocked on your bedroom door seeking the comfort he saw in your eyes you were dying to give him, much longer than you dreamed you would have amidst all the chaos.
He walks through the broken gate and keeps the wire lifted for you to pass.
Those things — the little things no one pays attention to.
"Thanks," you smile at him.
He hums as an answer and keeps walking by your side until you're both on the open field. After checking the area, Joel lays down with a grunt, patting the grass next to him.
That's when you started reading.
He just pulls out the book from his backpack and hands it to you.
Read for me, please.
"From where we left off, or you want me to go back a few?" Sometimes, Joel fell asleep mid-chapter. He liked when you went back a few so he never missed a thing.
He shakes his head. "I was listenin'," he lets you adjust yourself on the tree, and lays with his head on his backpack, pulling your legs over his body. Cradling your calf in his palms. "Go on."
So you do.
The sky is losing its light by the time Joel takes his arm out of his eyes, and puts a hand in front of the pages.
You bookmark it, even if he'll never hear the end of it.
For some reason, you stay quiet with him.
Usually, the silence is filled with you — your ramblings, questions about the world from before, silly musings that he indulges in listening to.
There's something tragic about being alive nowadays.
It's not really living — it's this. Reading between the lines, and claiming your stomach is satisfied because of the crumbs.
Joel's hand caressing your skin was a whole meal.
His eyes on you, above everything else, were like water.
When he speaks, it's gruff. "You gonna take care of yourself while I'm gone, right?"
If one day you held back, today is not it. "I will. Can't undo all your hard work."
He frowns, "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, c'mon, Joel. It's just us. You and I both know I'd never be alive if it weren't for you and Tess."
"Bullshit. You're the—"
"Brains, I know," you interrupt. "But without the brawn, the brains can't make it that far."
He scoffs at that, and you realize your mistake only when the words are out. "Think we both know nature said that ain't the case anymore."
"Stupid nature," you curse without any heat, and it works. Joel's lip twitches, itching for a smile. "All it's good for is being gorgeous."
"Hm. That'd be you."
Well. They aren't the first nice words Joel's ever said to you, but they make up an even bigger space than everything else. The little box in your chest engraved with J.M. is blanketed in those three little words, and judging by the way he ducks his chin and looks down, Joel noticed his slip up a heartbeat too late.
"Are you gonna take care of yourself?" you ask, nudging his side.
Joel sits up before he answers, taking the place next to you. Then, he spreads his legs and pats the ground between them, and you take the invitation.
Sitting with your back to his chest and his arms around you is your favorite place to be, and something clutches at your throat at the realization this might be the last time.
"I always do," he finally answers.
Your throat is tight, so you place both hands over his arms and pull them tighter around you. "Good," your voice drops to a whisper. "Can't let stupid nature have you."
"She gets us all in the end."
"I know that. I meant before your due time," you insist.
Joel's only half-listening. When he starts rubbing his nose on your hair, tracing the outline of your ears, that means his attention is divided. "How d'you know when's one's due time?"
"Hell if I know. But I know it's not now."
"Yes, ma'am," he plants a kiss on your neck, and you forget words for a while.
Joel always knew how to do that.
He kissed you awake, and sometimes, he kissed you to sleep.
It was common for the two of you to just sit and exist in silence. In a world where there wasn't much space for anything — not for words, or feelings, or relationships, or growth — having this was out of the curve. Having comfort.
He never tensed around you.
When it's just the two of you, Joel's body is the most relaxed; whether it's due to your hands squeezing his muscles or the way you run your palms through his skin to bring him back to himself—he's at ease.
Laid back, shoulders slack. He keeps on leaving kisses across your neck and nape, and you keep your eyes closed, enjoying the proximity. Your nails run through his forearms, and eventually, Joel just stops there in the crook of your neck, breathing slowly.
He asks, "D'you mind if I take your bandana? The purple one?"
Your favorite bandana. His 'lucky charm', as he'd called it once. "No, you can have it."
"You ain't gonna miss it?"
I'll miss you, Joel. A piece of cloth makes no difference in my life. "You need the good luck charm more than me."
"Is that so?"
You scoff, "I'm not the one walking head-first into danger." Craning your neck to look at his face, you lean your head on his shoulder. Joel's face is impassive as always, aside from the little pinch between his brows. "It's your good luck charm, isn't it?"
"It is," he replies, faster than you're used to. A smile grows back on your face. "What?"
"Nothing," you shake your head. "Just — didn't think you'd ever say that again."
He shrugs his shoulders. "'s the truth."
"What made it lucky?"
Joel takes a second with that one. His hand around your upper body finds the collar of your shirt, and he plays with it. He's nervous, and you have no idea why. He shrugs as he says, "Dunno."
Bullshit. "Hmm — something tells me you do."
"Yeah?" he's smiling now.
"Yup," you press, popping the 'p'. Joel stops fighting his smile, and you want to kiss him, so you do. Most of the time, you use restraints around him. Now is not the time for restraint. "Tell me," you plea.
He sighs, the smile still on his face. "That first time I was trying to find alternative routes in and out of the QZ, remember?"
"Yeah."
"So — I'd lost my way. Some Clickers found me and I had to run. Lost my shit—dropped some of the stuff in my bag. I only found my way back 'cause two days later I tried the bridge over the place I got lost at initially and — there it was." Joel's fingertips are tracing your collarbones, and you realize now his body around you is the only thing keeping you from a collapse. "I saw that ugly thing from far, far away."
It makes you laugh — of course he's going to play it cool, make it less of what it is.
You get it. If you had to talk about the things that brought you a sense of home, the only thing that came to mind was the smell of Joel's deodorant mixed with the innate smell of him.
You hide your laugh in his chest, and Joel's hands come up to your nape and the back of your head.
The hurt bubbles up with his touch — you want to drown in your own tears, but he's still here and that would be going before your due time.
"Please be safe." It's rare for you to use the space between the lines, but sometimes you have to.
Please be safe because I need you. Because you've grown inside me. Because the smell of you are vines covering every inch of my ribcages, because every time I wake up and you're lying next to me I remember why we're humans, because Fernando Pessoa might have been right that we possess nothing, but what I am is someone who still knows love.
"I will." Joel heard it all. He pulls your head back to look into your eyes and you see it in his — through the guarded walls of his soul, you get a peak at the man who worries. Who always brings you coffee, who never allowed you to go on dangerous runs, who trusts you to keep his radio codes in case his brother calls for him. You're the lighthouse, he once said. Joel's hand keeps making a mess of your hair, and he looks like he wants to say something, but ultimately, he huffs. "This is harder than I thought it'd be."
"Of course it is," you laugh. "I'm the only one that knows how to make a decent cup of coffee. Or at least, one that you like."
That's when he kisses you.
Because it's true. Not the cup of coffee — Tess can do that as well, even if she never does, but the reality that you're the only one that can and wants to.
The only one who's allowed it.
Living in a world that has no space for living is difficult, but Joel manages to fit the whole human experience in the span of a kiss and some touches.
He's kept you safe, and guarded, and gave you blinks and pieces of the man he once was in return for all that you've given him.
He loves quietly, and kisses hard, and protects with every cell in his body — Joel still loves, even if the word's been burned out of his tongue when he held the most precious life known to him in his arms.
He loves, and you feel it, and you'll miss it.
Joel pulls back with a promise in his eyes that he will be back.
If he isn't, you'll be a moving lighthouse. You'll find him.
☆ join my writing challenge ☆
adding to my favorites for sure ♥️
I. "Do You Trust Me?"
"Trust" Series Masterlist
John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader
A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.
Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.
Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.
Word Count: 4217
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The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.
“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.
“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.
He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.
It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.
The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…
The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.
“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.
Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.
“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.
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Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.
Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.
Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.
Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.
In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.
“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.
He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”
“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.
“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.
It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”
“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.
You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.
You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.
Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.
“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”
You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.
“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.
“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.
Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”
“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.
“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.
“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.
He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.
“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”
Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.
“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.
“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.
“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.
“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.
You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.
You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.
“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.
“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.
“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.
Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.
Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.
Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.
‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.
As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.
‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’
You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.
“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.
“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.
You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.
“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”
“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.
You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.
“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.
You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.
He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.
Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.
“That damn cold fish from operations…”
“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”
“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”
Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.
“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.
“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.
“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.
“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.
“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.
You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.
He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.
He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”
“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.
Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.
“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.
You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.
“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.
You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”
Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”
His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.
“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”
“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.
As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.
-------------------------
Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."
"Trust" Series Masterlist
In the Sheets | Azriel x reader
Summary: To put it in SJM's words: Azriel is a freak *wink wink nudge nudge* and his mate is a lucky lucky girl
A/N: This is honest-to-god faerie p0rn and it gets progressively worse. It's filth. No plot whatsoever. Don't come at me, I'm ovulating and have therefore decided to dump all the smut into one glorious fic. You're welcome.
(public service announcement: the smut does NOT contain degradation and/or the daddy kink because I don't roll that way and therefore our girl Y/N doesn't either)
Word count: 3506
Warnings: SMUT (18+!!!) it's nothing hardcore, just a lot of it, so (respectfully) fuck off if you're under 18
-
"So, enough with the chitchat," Mor proclaimed as she set her empty glass down on the table harder than necessary and proceeded to lean forward as though scheming. "You've been mated to Azriel for over a year now, and so far, I've been patient with you." Y/N blinked slowly, and Mor made a sound that immediately disproved her previous claim of patience. "What's it like?"
Feyre giggled from where she dipped into her third drink of the night, but Nesta sat quietly, a look of mild interest in her eyes as she locked them on Y/N.
An uncertain expression had entered the face of Azriel’s mate. "What's what like?"
Mor huffed. "What's he like. Azriel. The sex." Her eyes seemed aflame with a mixture of wine and the warm glow of Rita's faelights as she stared at her friend as though expecting her to sprout horns any moment now. "Is it good?"
Feyre sighed, though she couldn't quite keep the amusement from bleeding into her words. "Mor, that's an incredibly invasive question."
"And also unnecessary," Nesta added, her voice calm as she stirred the very tip of her finger around the clear contents of her glass. "We didn't see them for almost six months when their bond snapped. Of course it's good."
"But I'm so curious." Y/N smiled into her drink at the deep sigh Mor exhaled. "It's Azriel. The man's been a mystery for more than 500 years and now we finally have an agent on the inside."
"An agent?" Feyre asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Oh, you know what I mean." Mor waved a dismissive hand, her eyes never leaving Y/N. "I desperately need some details."
-
"Arch your back for me."
The soft fabric of the sheets brushed against her skin as Y/N stretched out her arms and let her body glide to the mattress in a slow arch from where she kneeled before him. She could feel the rough skin of scarred hands on her, broad palms pushing down the length of her back to follow the curve of her spine before retreating to hold her hips as though they'd been carved from the most precious of gems.
Her cheek lay pressed to the pillow, her hands twisted into the sheets, and when she felt featherlight kisses on the base of her spine, her back arched further down.
"You're so beautiful like this," Azriel breathed into her skin as his knee appeared between her legs to nudge them further apart. She felt him then, hard and heavy against her centre, and she shivered when he pushed forward to run his length through her folds once, twice, three times.
She sighed his name, closing her eyes at the heavy drag of him against the most sensitive part of her body, and when he finally nudged at her entrance, she did her best not to thrust her hips backwards.
Azriel hooked his hands into the flesh of her ass, grip firm enough to leave red marks, firm enough to sting in just the right way, and when he loosened his right hand, she knew what was to come.
His palm made sharp contact with her skin, and she couldn't help the quiet moan that passed her lips when he repeated it and her body gave a slight jolt.
He gripped her tighter then, pulling her apart. His voice was quiet when he spoke, deep enough to fog her mind with his words.
"Ready for me, my love?"
She was certain he felt her overwhelming need for him pulsing through the bond, because the breathless "yes" had barely just left her lips when he buried himself to the hilt with a single long thrust. She curled her fingers harder into the sheets and the moan that tore through her had Azriel's hands on her tighten even further.
As he ground into her with one harsh snap of his hips after the other, and as she moaned her pleasure into the pillows, she relished in the thought of finding his fingerprints glowing on her skin later.
-
"Don't close your eyes. Look at us."
When she pulled open her eyes, the world lay on its side and the picture that revealed itself to her brought heat to even the last inch of her body.
She'd been wondering why Azriel had relocated the huge, golden mirror that Feyre and Rhys had gifted them for Solstice, but as her gaze caught on the delicate golden edges now, she understood.
She caught her own gaze, and the version of her that was caught inside that magnificent mirror seemed delighted at the fact. She lay on her back, her head turned to the side, her legs wrapped around Azriel while he kept his own face buried in the side of her neck she couldn't see.
She licked her lips at the image. At the sinful roll of Azriel's hips, burying himself again and again in slow thrusts that had her mind swim. At the way majestic wings flared behind him as his hand held her thigh and his chest rubbed against hers with each move.
Her stomach gave a delicious pull when Azriel lifted his head to meet her eyes in the mirror, his own gaze darkened with hunger, his pupils blown wide.
"Look at you," he murmured, his lips close enough for her to feel them move against her cheek. "See how beautiful you look when you take me?"
He punctuated his words with a harder thrust, and her lips fell open at the jolt her mirrored counterpart gave, at the sounds she made, and the way Azriel's hips met hers again and again. The way each muscle in his legs, in his back, in his arms worked beneath tanned skin, it was ... breath-taking.
"Look at this," he now all but whispered as he hooked his hand beneath her knee to lift her leg higher and press it further towards her chest. She dug her nails into the skin of his shoulders at the change in depth, and when Azriel angled his hips slightly to the side, she could see the way his thick length glided in and out of her. He glistened with her arousal, his movements smooth, and she whimpered at the sight of his intrusion.
Azriel lowered his mouth back to her neck and drew her skin between his teeth.
"Keep watching, my love," he murmured into her, and as his hips snapped firmer against her, she didn’t take her eyes off the mirror once.
-
"You're in no position to tease, baby. Remember that."
A shiver ran through her body at the lips that hovered just barely above her breast. His low words washed over her nipple in warm puffs of air, and her thighs pressed together tightly in an attempt to create some friction.
"Azriel," she whispered, a plea evident in the way she spoke his name. She lifted her chest, but Azriel mirrored her movements and lifted his head a bit further, always keeping the distance between his lips and her skin.
She pulled on her restraints, but the shadows that kept her wrists locked to the pillow above her head didn't budge.
Azriel hummed, his wings tucked in closely, his eyes never leaving her face. He was careful not to touch her, his arms digging into the mattress on either side of her shoulders to keep his body hovering over her.
"Yes, my love?"
She couldn't keep the grin from her face as she sent all her desire shooting across the bond, accompanied with echoes of her moans, and flickering sensations of the pleasure she knew Azriel could draw from her.
When he shuddered against her, he finally lowered his mouth to the soft flesh of her breast, though it was only to give a sharp pinch of his teeth that had her jolt.
"Touch me," she pleaded.
A corner of his lips curled into a smile, and she watched closely as he lifted a hand only to weave his fingers through her hair.
She gave a frustrated huff. "Not like that."
Azriel tilted his head, and when he didn't say anything, she knew that he was waiting for her to specify.
"I want your tongue on me," she said, her voice breathless. Tension reached to her very fingertips as Azriel finally lowered his face far enough for his tongue to dart out and kitten-lick her nipple.
Her eyes fluttered at the sight, a full-body-shiver rolling through her at the brief, wet touch.
"Gods, you're such a fucking tease, I swear to—"
A grin flashed, and then finally, finally Azriel lowered his mouth to her breast, licking, and biting, and sucking her until her head swam and her arms shook from his mouth alone.
"Do you want me to fuck you, my love?" he hummed against her, his eyes locked with hers as he once again bit the sensitive skin of her breast, and, Cauldron, the image was sinful. Dark strands of hair fell into his face, his sole attention on her.
"Yes—Gods, yes."
She could only just refrain from whining when Azriel sat back on his feet and took all the warmth with him. He tilted his head as he trailed his eyes along her bare body.
"Open your legs for me, then."
-
"Come with me."
She hadn't heard him approach, the room filled with noise as the crowd of court visitors chatted and drank its way through the evening. She felt fingertips trail down the back of her arm until his hand found hers and he interlocked their fingers. Goosebumps arose in his wake.
"What's wrong?" she asked, having heard the urgency in his tone. When she turned, however, Azriel's heavy-lidded gaze told her the purpose of his proposal.
She smiled and put down her glass to lift her now free hand to cup his face, her thumb running along a sharp cheekbone. "Now?"
Azriel's eyes fluttered at her touch and when she let her thumb slip lower to trail along the curved lines of his lips, he pressed a kiss to the pad of her finger.
"What brought this on?"
"Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?" She noted a spark in Azriel's eyes, his hand tightening in hers. "As breath-taking as it is, I've spent the majority of the night going through all the ways I could get that dress off you as soon as possible."
It was true, the seamstresses of Velaris had outdone themselves this time. Heavy, flowing fabric bunching at her hips, a plunging neckline, a tall slit up the side for her leg to see daylight. The entire thing had been covered in diamonds barely big enough to see, though certainly big enough to catch the light and sparkle as though she'd been clothed in the night sky itself.
She couldn't help the grin that tugged the corners of her lips higher. "Careful. You'll make a girl blush."
The grin on Azriel's face mirrored hers, and when she turned to steer for the exit, she kept his hand in a firm grip.
They’d barely managed to find an empty office—Rhysand’s empty office, to be exact—before Azriel’s hands were on her.
"I changed my mind," he all but growled against her lips as he backed her towards the desk in the middle of the room. "Keep it on."
Her hands made quick work of his pants, her breathing already laboured when Azriel lifted her onto the sturdy wooden desktop and pried her legs open wide enough to step between her thighs. Nimble fingers bunched the fabric of her dress on her hip, and suddenly he was pushing into her, his groan as sinful as the shudder that ran through his wings.
“Fuck.” He buried his nose in her hair, his raspy tone enough to have her moan as he cursed softly. “I love being inside you.”
All she could do was hold on to his shoulders, her lips whispering delicious moans right into the shell of his ear as he took her for all she was, the desk creaking beneath her with each of his pounding thrusts.
She noticed then that they hadn't closed the door all the way, and when Azriel shifted a wing just an inch to the left, her eyes locked on the wide-eyed form of a faerie standing in the gap of the door.
Y/N didn't know her, but judging by her golden-blue attire she was one of the Summer Court's emissaries.
The unknown faerie stood stock still, her lips slightly agape as she held Y/N's gaze, and when Azriel lay more power into his thrusts and pounded into his mate with the wet slap of skin on skin, Y/N's nails dug a bit deeper into his shoulder, her moans reaching a higher pitch, turning pleading.
The faerie seemed to recoil, though there was no denying the heat that had entered her expression as she watched.
Azriel sensed her then, too, though he didn't turn to throw a glance over his shoulder, but instead lowered his forehead to Y/N's, his eyes on her as he slowed his thrusts to a deep grind.
"It seems we have an audience, my love," he spoke softly enough so that only she could hear. He lifted a hand to thread his fingers through her hair, his grip tightening to angle her head back far enough to meet her gaze. "Shall we put on our best show?"
She grinned, digging her teeth into her bottom lip as she tried to urge him deeper with her heels in his lower back.
"Can't leave them hanging now, can we?"
She caught the flash of a grin before Azriel pulled out of her. She barely had enough time to register the loss when he thrust back in to the hilt, and her body jerked with the sudden intrusion.
"Fuck," she cursed, breathless as she tightened her legs around him, doing her best to brace herself against the harsh snap of his hips. "Fuck, Azriel—ah."
Azriel kept an arm tightly looped around her waist, his free hand lifting her thigh higher, his hips relentless. He buried his face in her neck then, his grunts turning into groans, and as Y/N held the gaze of the faerie in the hallway, he ground against her hard enough to have her toes curl with pleasure that wiped every thought of the stranger from her mind.
-
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
Her chest was heaving in the dim light of their bedroom, Azriel’s arms wound tightly around her waist as she leaned back against his chest. She could feel the scruff of his chin against her temple, his lips so close to her ear that she shivered with every word he spoke in that low tone of his.
She moaned softly, her head lolling back onto his shoulder, her eyes falling closed.
“No, no,” Azriel tutted quietly, one of his arms loosening its grip for his fingers to take gentle hold of her jaw and direct her gaze back down towards her centre. “Look at them go,” he sounded mesmerised as he spoke, his every word dripping with desire. “Look at the way they feast on you.”
Her lids were heavy as she followed the direction of his gaze. Her knees were bent, her thighs held open by Azriel’s legs, baring her to the room and the shadows he’d unleashed upon her.
Shadowy tendrils brushed along her inner thighs before gliding against her very centre, teasing with cool sensations and barely-there touches, licking at her skin, sinking into her.
It was driving her crazy.
“Azriel,” she breathed, her head heavy with desire, her skin burning, longing to be touched properly. “Azriel stop teasing. Please.”
She felt his teeth on her earlobe then, dragging her skin between warm lips. “What was that?”
She writhed against him, the urge to snap her legs closed overwhelming at the gentle teasing of his shadows.
“You just want to hear me beg,” she huffed, turning her head enough to catch his gaze. And true enough, Azriel’s eyes were shining with anticipation, a small smirk edged into his features.
“I would enjoy that, yes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, lips tightly sealed, but when she felt one of his shadows curl into her, she couldn’t help the breathy moan that broke from her throat. Everything they did, every kiss of her skin, it all felt good—good enough to drive her crazy with it. But it all felt like the ghost of a touch, not the real deal, and certainly not enough.
“Fuck me, then,” she gasped, breathless. “I’ll beg all you want if you just fuck me.”
Azriel leaned down to kiss her then, the hand he didn’t keep wrapped around her waist slipping down to cup her breast. When he pulled back, he tracked half-lidded eyes down her face, a contemplative hum resonating in his chest.
Her body tensed when new shadows joined and Azriel chuckled into the shell of her ear.
“Just a little while longer, I think.”
-
"I wanna go again."
A tired laugh fell from her lips, her eyes closed as she kept her cheek pressed into the soft pillow, her arms wrapped around it. She could feel his fingertips trailing along the length of her spine and all the way down to her tailbone before returning to the back of her neck. She shivered.
"I can't," she breathed into the pillow. "I don't have another one in me."
She could feel his smile across the bond, could hear it in his voice when he spoke, his tone quiet, his words soft.
"I don't think that's true, my love."
A comfortable shiver shook her body when his lips appeared at her temple, breathing featherlight kisses along her cheekbone, and down towards her jaw.
She hummed, hugging the pillow tighter at the tingling his kisses left in their wake.
"How are you still going?"
"They call it frenzy for a reason."
She forced her eyes open at that—just a crack, just enough to see Azriel's smirk. "The frenzy lasts three weeks. We've been mated for a year."
He leaned down to kiss her then. It was slow, lazy, innocent, but she felt his palm flatten against her back, his warmth washing over her as he urged closer.
"I don't feel like it ever stopped," he breathed against her. "I spend every minute of every day wanting you, longing for you, aching for you."
She met his kiss firmer then, turning into his embrace until he pulled her close enough for her to feel his heartbeat against her own.
Azriel turned to his back, wincing a bit when he rearranged his wings beneath him. In truth, he was just as sore as she was—every inch of him aching with hours and hours spent loving, and fucking, and writhing in pleasure. It was the good kind of ache though. The kind he'd do anything to never lose.
She lay on top of him now, her arms wrapped around his neck, and Azriel's hands slipped to her thighs to pull her legs apart for a knee to rest on either side of his hips.
She urged closer, wanting to feel every bit of his warmth, wanting to chase away every bit of air left between them.
“I’m really sensitive,” she spoke against his lips, her eyes closed, her words barely above a whisper.
Azriel stroked his palms along her back. “I’ll be gentle.”
She couldn't help the gasp that left her when he slid into her, intruding her tender flesh with a single push to glide smoothly against the slick mess they'd left between her thighs. She dug her fingers into his skin and Azriel soothed his palms across the globes of her ass, cautious in the way he moved her against him.
It was lazy, slow, his strokes barely enough to call them that, but neither of them needed more. Sensitive from countless rounds and orgasms, she tightened around him just a few grinding thrusts later, her moans closer to whines as she buried her face in his neck and panted softly against his skin.
She shook against him, her body quaking with an orgasm, her low moans muffled against him, and when Azriel joined her, he gritted his teeth as a wave of pleasure crashed into him and he pressed their hips together with a raspy groan to crack through his throat.
"Fuck," he hissed, letting his head plop back into the pillow, his arms now moving to circle her waist.
Silence enveloped them for a while, only the sounds of their breathing mixing.
"I won't be able to walk tomorrow," she finally hummed against his neck, and Azriel smiled as he ran his finger through her hair.
"I shall carry you then, my love."
-
"Hello?" Mor waved her hand before Y/N's eyes, causing the faerie to flinch.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was just ... thinking."
It was Feyre who grinned at her now. "I bet."
I am NOT going to stop thinking about this
i doubt it helps, but i also think eddie is the type to try to be respectful at a family holiday party but ultimately end up wanting to fuck you in a guest room or finger you in a closet at the very least 🫠
Hahahahaha this made it so much worse in the best possible way, I love you anon.
Bad for the Holidays
Eddie Munson x Fem!reader
Note: I wrote most of this in my childhood bedroom while visiting home for thanksgiving. So this got very real, guys Lmao
Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY!, teasing, dirty talk, pet names (Princess, bad girl, baby girl), alcohol consumption, oral sex (m receiving), PIV sex / unprotected sex, hand job, cum eating, semi public sex? (Your family is in the same house at the time)
Eddie Munson never thought he’d find himself at a holiday party straight out of a fucking Norman Rockwell painting, but then again he’d never thought he’d meet someone like you. Someone funny and kind and intelligent while simultaneously cool as hell and hot as hell. You’re everything he’d never let himself hope for, and he’s nothing like what he believes you deserve. Not that you listen to him when he voices his fears over not being good enough for you.
“Stop fidgeting, Eddie. This isn’t a big deal,” you whisper to him as the two of you stand on your door step. You pry open his tense fist to hold his hand in yours and he takes a deep breath, looking down at your smile. “They’re gonna love you.”
“Yeah but what if…what if they don’t?” Eddie mumbles. His brow is furrowed and his lips pout and all you want to do is kiss his frown away. But you know there’s no time for that. So you shake your head and squeeze his hand.
“I love you, so that’s all that matters,” you reassure him. “But this conversation is silly because they’re gonna love you.”
And you’re right. Of course. How could people not love Eddie? Especially people who loved you and who wanted to see you happy. And Eddie makes you the happiest you’ve ever been, and that just radiates off you when you walk into the room, proud to show off your boyfriend.
Eddie’s rough around the edges when you first meet him, sure. But he’s gone to great lengths to appear even more presentable than usual tonight, wearing a clean black button down and black jeans that don’t even have any holes in the knees. Before long, and exactly as you knew would happen, Eddie’s regaling your extended family with stories about his friends back in Hawkins and about life on tour as an up snd coming musician.
It’s pretty late by the time things start winding down. The dinner’s long done, your parents have gone to sleep and most of the older family members have puttered off with leftovers in tow. That’s just left you and Eddie with the crowd closer to your age - and amalgamation of cousins and friends of the family in their early to mid twenties. You all play a few rounds of board games and a few glasses of wine deep, Eddie starts looking way more appetizing than the holiday dinner.
You stare at him over your wine glass as one of your cousins prattle’s on about some drama going on at her job. But you can barely hear her because you’re watching Eddie pal around with Josh, your neighbor who you’d crushed on growing up. Next to Eddie, neighbor boy is absolutely nothing, an observation you make silently and with pride. Your boyfriend has an easy air to him, lounging back against the couch as he speaks, legs spread wide and casual. He looks completely at ease, comfortable in his spread out position. If you weren’t still in front of family you’d walk right over there and straddle him there and then. You lick your lips and silently hate him for the way he’s done absolutely nothing and yet has fully managed to get you salivating from afar. It’s unfair.
You couldn’t possibly know, however, just how much you’ve been driving him crazy all night. Bending over to pick things up in your tight little party dress. Munching on appetizers behind your red lips, licking your fingers clean of any crumbs or sauce. Pushing up against him when the two of you passed through narrow hallways and through crowded parts of the house.
He’s been working so hard not to pop an erection in this, the most inappropriate of venues, that he’s spent the last half hour practically avoiding you. When he looks up from his conversation with your boring neighbor, however, just to find you fucking him with your eyes from across the room, he thinks he’s going to combust.
You notice him frown when you finally catch his eye, but you don’t care enough to wonder what’s bothering him. Instead you wink at him - making his jaw drop - before raising your arms in a theatrical stretch with a matching dramatic yawn.
“God, I’m beat. Got a long drive home tomorrow,” you say to nobody in particular. Friends and family try to protest but you jump up and haul Eddie along after you, dragging him out the door.
When you finally make it to your childhood bedroom, you push Eddie towards the bed and lock the door all in one swift motion. You’ve kicked off your shoes and you’re reaching for the zipper of your dress before Eddie’s grabbing at your hips to stop you.
“What in the world are you doing?” he asks through gritted teeth, panic in his eyes. He’s sitting on your bed with you standing in front of him, his hands holding your wrists motionless to halt your effort to disrobe.
“I…I’m trying to get naked. And you should be doing the same,” you reply. Confused by the question in the first place. Eddie gazes up at you with. Wide eyes.
“But your family is like…right outside.”
“So?” you ask, now genuinely confused.
“And you’re tryna…you want to…”
“Fuck. I wanna fuck you. What’s the problem?” You let out an incredulous laugh. His grip loosens on your wrists so you circle your arms around his neck, massaging his shoulders. He seems to grapple for words so you continue to speak. “I don’t get it. You fuck me with my roommates in the next room all the time!”
“First of all, Nancy and Robin have made us listen to them having sex all the time and you know it,” he huffs immediately, but then returns to looking stressed. “And I’m friend with them. I don’t need to impress them…”
Your heart flips at the sentiment but you shake your head.
“You don’t need to impress anyone here either,” you argue, but Eddie’s having none of it. He springs to his feet in front of you, gripping your waist to pull you against him.
“That’s not fucking true and you know it, Princess.” He runs an aggravated hand through his curly hair. “I’m a freak. Your family wants - at least they should want - someone better for you than—,”
“Shut up. Shut up shut up,” you hiss, smacking his chest lightly with your open palm. “Nobody here knows your reputation from Hawkins, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because I’m fucking head over heels for you. You got that?”
“Yes ma’am,” Eddie says weakly, the ghost of a smile starting to curl at the corners of his mouth at how worked up you got all of us sudden.
“Now,” you say definitively, taking a step back to put your hands on your hips and take a deep breath. “I had three glasses of wine and I’m feeling…” you cast about for the right word and not being able to remember the word ‘horny’ you say the next best thing you can think of “…frisky. So you’re going to shut up and fuck me, snd you’re going to like it. Understand.”
Eddie looks dumbfounded, gazing at you with a mix of adoration, awe, and humor. He nods emphatically and you take another shuddering breath.
“Ok good. Help me take my clothes off.”
You expect him to crowd you. To throw you on the bed and rip off your dress and be on you so fast you barely see him coming.
Instead he walks over to you slowly, his eyes dark and lips pulled into a small smile. He steps around you to find the zipper you’d struggle with, lips finding the back of your neck as he pushes the zip all the way down to the curve of your lower back. He kisses his way over your shoulder as he pushes the fabric down and off your body. You shiver under his lips and the cool air you’re now exposed to. His hands find the front clasp of your bra - after making a pitstop to squeeze your breasts - and soon your bra joins your dress on the floor.
Eddie mouths at the side of your throat now as his hands grope every square inch he can reach, the bulge in his jeans pressing into your ass through the thin fabric of your panties.
It’s Heaven. Or close. The only thing is that it is noticeably, deafeningly quiet.
“W-why - oh. Why aren’t you saying anything?” you mumble out. Eddie chuckles against your skin and hips at your ear lobe.
“Told me to shut up,” he whispers. His hand slides forward to cup your mound and you swallow a moan.
“Oh so now you listen to what I tell you,” you bristle. Eddie’s chuckle vibrates through you again and you grind back against him intentionally. You grab his hand and shove it into your panties, no longer satisfied being touched through the fabric.
“I forgot. My baby’s feeling…frisky.” His voice is low and rich with amusement and sensuality. You huff but don’t protest because his big, thick fingers are finally where you wanted them all night. Swirling through your slick, his middle finger prodding at your entrance but not yet pushing in.
You try to step forward to urge him toward the bed, but Eddie pushes you to the side, his free hand coming to brace up against the wall in front of you.
“Not so fast. That bed is squeaky as hell,” he mutters between kisses to your shoulder.
“Well yeah. It’s almost as old as me,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“Yeah, and you squeak under me all the time too, Princess.” You go to roll your eyes again at his cocky tone but the quickly roll back into your head as he shoves not one but two fingers into your tight heat. You let out a high pitched squeal that you do your best to smother with your hand and he laughs. “See? What did I tell you?”
You don’t say anything at first because you’re so lost in the feeling of finally getting what you want. Eddie leans his weight against you as he picks up momentum with his hand, and you find your front getting pressed up against the wall.
“Needed you aaaaaall fucking day, Princess. You’re absolutely infuriating,” Eddie says raggedly into the back of your neck. His fingers hook up and you gasp at the added pleasure.
“How am I - oh god. In…infuriating?” you barely manage to ask in response.
“Tried to be on my best behavior. But you had to prance around looking like a fucking wet dream, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t do anything…” you try to argue, but Eddie snaps the waistband of your panties, stretched out as they are from his fingering, and you flinch.
“Oh yeah? Then why did I know the color of your panties by the time we started dinner?”
He’s right of course. You’d been intentionally finding reasons to bend over in front of him, or cross and uncross your legs in front of him - anything to draw his attention between your thighs. As if his attention was ever anywhere else to begin with.
“Wanted to make me slip up, huh? Wanted me to drag you into the bathroom in the middle of dinner and fuck your brains out?”
“Yes!” you gasp, though you’re less sure that you’re affirming his statement and more sure that your orgasm is fast approaching. “Oh fuck, Eddie.”
“Bend over,” he says suddenly. His voice is more demanding than usual and a thrill runs up your spine. He steps back and gives you room, which you use to shuffle a bit to the side and lean over, bracing your palms against the seat of an old wicker chair you’ve had in your room since elementary school. With your ass up, you half worry that Eddie will forget where you are and spank you loudly, but he seems to remember and opts to grope you instead. He slides your panties to your ankles and you step out of them, widening your stance in a way that has him humming appreciatively behind you.
You steal a glance over your shoulder to confirm the suspicion that he is, in fact, fisting his hard cock, staring at your ready pussy and lining himself up.
“You play the good girl so well, but you’re just a bad girl for me, isn’t that right Princess?” Eddie asks as he pushes the tip of his cock in a circle around your aching entrance. You whine at the fact that he’s not yet inside you, trying to push back to make him slide in. Eddie laughs and grips you by your hips, hauling them higher and making your knees shake. “Look at you. Not even listening because you want my cock that bad.”
You toss a glare over your shoulder at him.
“Eddie if you don’t get inside me right - fuck!” You hiss through your teeth when he slides all the way into you at once. One hand slides down the small of your back, up your spine, to grip solidly at the back of your neck as he wastes absolutely no time getting a good pace going.
The slap of skin on skin ringing out in your small childhood bedroom is absolutely obscene, as are the whimpers that spill out of you despite your best efforts.
“Eddie…so fucking - oh!”
You’re trying to tell him how good he’s making you feel, but you’re sure he’s able to gather that from the way you’re completely unable to finish your statement. Eddie’s chuckle vibrates into your body and you reach back one hand to clutch at his where it holds you at your hip.
“Feels good, baby? Hm?” he asks, almost mockingly but you can’t muster enough energy to reply in any way aside from genuine.
“Feels so good, Eds,” you whimper. Despite his teasing, the way you’re scrabbling to make contact with him tugs at his heartstrings. He lifts his hand up from your hip enough to grab your reaching one.
“Christ, even when you’re a bad girl, you’re still so fucking sweet,” he mumbles, leaning down over you to press bruising kisses to your back and shoulders. You pant beneath him and relish in the additional contact.
“Eddie…mmm Eddie. So full.”
“Fuck. You can’t say shit like that when you haven’t cum yet, princess. I’m only fucking human, I’m gonna fucking blow.”
“Good! Give it to me,” you whine out, and Eddie pretty much loses it.
“Ok, come here my lil greedy baby,” Eddie says gruffly, though not without humor. He pulls out of you - and he has to shush you when you whine in protest - before hauling you around so that he’s sitting on your wicker chair and sliding you into his lap.
“Fucking yes. Oh my god yes.” You’re practically crying now as Eddie gets straight to bouncing you up and down on his cock. You cling to him, your fingers tightening in his wild curly hair as you breathe heavily and gaze at him with unfocused eyes.
“You’re just a horny little mess, aren’t you?” Eddie chuckles darkly. You nod and grip at his shoulders so the leverage let’s you help him move you up and down on his lap. Eddie kisses at the hollow at the base of your throat before looking back into your hazy eyes. “Hey. You with me?” He lightly taps your cheek with his palm when you don’t respond, so far gone in pleasure.
“Y-yeah?” you hiccup. Since you’re bouncing enough on your own shaking thighs, Eddie’s able to slide a free hand from the meat of your hips down to start playing at your clit. So you’re even farther gone now.
“Did you bring any turtlenecks in that little suitcase of yours?” Eddie asks you and your brow knits on what he finds to be a cute little scrunch as you struggle to comprehend the question.
“Yeah I brought one—oh my fucking god…”
Before you’d even finished answering his question, Eddie’s sucking and nipping at the skin of your throat. An action he knows can send you over the edge.
And it does.
You cum in a burst of pleasure that has you rocking against Eddie desperately, clinging to him as you do your best to keep him inside you at the deepest point for as long as possible.
Eddie, to his credit, let’s you do what you want with him. He holds your face in his hands and presses your foreheads together, nodding at your quiet moans.
“There it is. That’s what you wanted, sweet girl? That’s it.”
He’s patient as you come down from your high, but it’s his dick that twitches expectantly inside you which reminds you he still has to cum.
You do your best to start bouncing again, but your legs are shaky. Eddie laughs and stills you, his big hands on your waist, and you grumble.
“Shhh don’t worry about that. It’s good enough just hold you,” he reassures you. You look at him with bleary, pleasure soaked eyes.
“No. You need to cum, too,” you insist. Eddie shrugs, clearly content.
“Having my dick deep inside you is enough of a win, Princess,” he says with a chuckle.
But you’re having none of it. You struggle to your feet and then slide down to the floor in front of him to settle down on your knees. Eddie’s eye go wide and you grip his wet cock, fisting up and down on his lap.
“In high school I wouldn’t even listen to songs with dirty lyrics. Now my boyfriend’s dick is out while he sits on my reading chair in my childhood bedroom,” you observe irreverently with a laugh. Eddie joins in, though his laugh is more strained the longer you jerk him off.
“That’s what I was saying. Everyone thinks you’re so innocent. And yet here you are - just got your brains fucked out and now you’re on your knees for me.”
As if to punctuate and prove his statement, you lean forward and swallow him whole, your cheeks hollowing to create a tantalizing amount of suction,
“Oh mother of - fuck!” Eddie whispers harshly. You bob up and down on his cock without preamble. You could tell how close he was from the near steady stream of pre-cum that leaked from his tip.
Your hands knead into his thighs as you take him deeper and deeper, being careful not to gag too loudly when his spongey head hits the back of your throat.
“Fuck, Princess. That’s…oh god that’s…”
He’s rendered even more speechless when you grab his hand and place it on the back of your head, pressing down to indicate that you’d like him to control your movements. Something you’d never done with previous lovers. Only Eddie.
Eddie curses under his breath and blinks rapidly before doing as you’ve asked him to do - guiding you up and down on his cock by his grip on the back of your head. His cock pushes deep into your throat and Eddie’s eyes roll back into his skull.
“Jesus H. Christ you’re such a bad girl, letting me do this right now. Such a bad fucking girl.” He’s rambling at this point and you love it. You snake a hand between your thighs and begin playing with your clit as he fucks your throat. Overwhelmed by the feeling of him using you and the nature of his words.
When he lets you pull back to finally breath, you choke and sputter before speaking up, voice wrecked.
“Like being a bad girl for you, Eds,” you moan against his balls, jerking his spit and slick soaked cock with your hand. Eddie’s sure he won’t survive this and closes his eyes against the intense pleasure conjured up by the image of you before him.
“God, you get so messy for me, Princess. You know I love that.” You nod frantically and that’s when he notices your other hand has disappeared between your legs, touching yourself. He bites his lip to smother his groan. “Were you really touching yourself while choking on my dick, baby?”
You nod again with wide, doe eyes.
“I wanna cum again,” you say simply, brow knitting together from the way you toy with your clit feverishly. “But I want you to cum, too.”
“Baby girl, you keep looking at me and touching me like that, I’m gonna cum any second.”
Your breath speeds up and so does your finger on your clit. Your fist moves faster up and down his cock and you know he’s close, so you scootch up even closer between his spread thighs.
“Where d’you wanna cum, Eddie?” you ask. “My face? My tongue? My tits?” You model each option for him, turning your head to offer your cheek, sticking out your tongue, and shimmying your naked chest to make your breasts bounce.
“Oh shit oh shit…” Is all Eddie can say as his eyes zero in on your tits. His abdomen seizes and you deliver a handful more expert tugs, angling his cock towards your chest just in time. His white cum paints your tits just as your own second orgasm takes over, making your spasm a bit and concave into yourself.
It’s another minute or two before either of you move, your hand finally stilling and letting go of his softening cock. Eddie slumps back against the chair and rubs his eyes harshly with the heels of his hands before gazing back down at your messy figure.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Princess…” he mutters low. You simply grin at him, gathering the cum on your tits and placing it in your mouth with a happy hum.
“Thanks for my present, Eddie,” you say in a lilting voice and Eddie rolls his eyes at you, reaching down to haul you up off the floor and into his lap.
“If anyone in your family heard that and decides they don’t like me because someone couldn’t keep it in her pants…” he grumbles the threat half heartedly, contradicting his own tone by kissing your throat. Right on the fresh bruise that you will definitely need to cover with a turtleneck tomorrow. You giggle and cling to him.
“Nobody heard it. And besides, isn’t keeping me happy the most important thing?” you ask cheekily. Eddie laughs, a little closer to full volume this time, and crushes you to his chest.
“You happy, Princess?” he asks a beat later. Despite the volume of his laugh, the question comes out quieter. As if he’s not 100% certain what your answer will be. You pull back and take his face in your hands so you can imbue your response with all the strength you can muster after being fucked so good.
“I’m absurdly happy, Eddie Munson. And you better be, too, because I don’t plan on giving this up any time soon.”
He kisses you stupid in response, finally deciding the squeaky bed will have to do and hauling you over to start getting ready for sleep.
~*~
The next morning over coffee, eggs, and toast you get to witness yet again just how much your boyfriend has charmed your family and friends. They hang on his every word, laugh at his jokes, and ask him questions. And you know they aren’t just being nice, because they’ve never been this nice to any guy you’ve brought home before.
Watching Eddie regale some of your cousins with a particularly silly story from his latest small town tour, the sun hits him just right as it filters through the kitchen window. He’s back lit, haloing his hair and making him look particularly handsome. Your heart swells and you can’t take the yearning adoration that fills you to the brim.
To offset the achingly sweet emotions swirling within you, you have to do something silly. When Eddie looks at you over someone’s shoulder, you mouth “you’re fucking hot” at him and his face lights up in a massive grin, shaking his head. He mouths back -
“You’re bad.”
~*~
Tiny taglist: @millenialcatlady @theoncrayjoy @sacklerscumrag @cowboy-kylo @boomhauer @sparks363 @copycatkillerfics @boostilinski @wroteclassicaly @eddiesprincess86 @bambigoth-sims @chaoschaoswriting @lassie-bird @softpshycopath @katsukis1wife @spookyreidd
I'm malfunctioning this is actively altering my brain chemistry
End of the Line - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader
Summary: “A less sentimental part of me wants to see you swell with my child purely because you’re mine. I want everyone to know it was me who impregnated you– that it was my cock that filled you with life. I want you to beg me to breed you before you fall apart and come all over me. The urge is fucking insatiable, you have no idea.”
No alternative summary because it’s exactly what it looks like.
Word Count: 5.9k
Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit content, breeding kink
PART TWO NOW ADDED ! The full fic can be found here on Ao3
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this is so sweet i'm so cozy
Hey!!! I just finished reading song of Achilles and I have been crying for the better part of the last hour while reading, hence in serious need of some Bucky comfort. So how about college or lumberjack Bucky (cuz they’re my favorites) who don’t really understand the whole fuzz over books but still holding his girl while she sobs her chest out out about a book (you can change the book of you want), hot tears down her face, ugly crying yknow?
It’s okay if you don’t want to :)) Have a great day 💕💕💕
Pairing: lumberjack!bucky x reader (can be read separately from undisclosed, but also a little reference to it)
A/n: Okay sooo this was so sweet and I had to write a drabble for it!! All this angst I've been writing needs some comfort! :)
~~~
He hears the crying first.
It’s a terrible sound that constricts his chest each time it meets his ears. Bucky would like to consider himself partially responsible for your tears becoming a rare occurrence, so when he hears them, he experiences an array of emotions—fear, panic, a twisted sort of heartbreak.
At the front door of his home, Bucky strains his ears to confirm what he’s already dreading. Because maybe you weren’t crying. Maybe you were sick? That wasn’t much better, but at least it was a more concrete issue.
When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpine—the closest thing to concern he’d ever heard from a cat—Bucky doesn’t even take his coat off before he’s barreling into your bedroom.
You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room.
And he’s devastated. You hadn’t looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when you’re looking at him like that.
“Oh, honey,” he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. “Sweetheart, what happened?”
You don’t say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. It’s too warm in here for the amount of clothes he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t really care. You keep crying—Bucky keeps running his fingers through your hair.
Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. He’d been trying, for you. He will try now.
“Tell me what happened, sweet girl?” he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this.
Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay.
“He—he died, Buck,” you eventually choke out. “He died and then there was no—there was nothing—” your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest.
“Who?” he stresses, although his tone doesn’t give that away. “Who, honey? Someone you know?”
“No,” you sob. The sound knocks the air from Bucky’s lungs.
Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isn’t the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air.
Bucky couldn’t understand.
“Tell me who. What has you so sad, hm?” he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone.
You dig your fingers into Bucky’s jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasn’t done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and he’s confused again.
“Them,” you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket.
Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. He’s still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, “What was that, sweet girl?”
He’s packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal.
“In the book,” you explain. “They were so in love. And then he died. And afterwards—Bucky it was awful.”
Oh.
A book.
This is manageable, to Bucky. You’re not in pain and he can handle this.
He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Bucky’s size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything.
Even… a book?
Surely a book.
“Hey, it’s alright, I got you,” he hums.
“Never die,” you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably.
“I won’t.”
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