This Fic Is My Roman Empire I Desperately Need More It's Just So Beautiful And My Heart Hurts
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
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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.”
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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.
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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.”
-------------------------
"Trust" Series Masterlist
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More Posts from Star-reaper and Others
this is real and i'm not accepting to believe otherwise
i have nothing to say except i’m coping !
i have never been more grateful
Thank you, Texas, for making this happen 🖤
I KEEP FORGETTING ABOUT MY WIPS I NEED TO GET IT TOGETHER I-
same af
I actually hate him
ahhhh i know, i know i'm trying to keep it ✨interesting✨ i was so excited to post i haven't even edited yet, i'm getting ahead of myself
Through Sea Mist and Shadows (Two) Bucky Barnes x Reader
series masterlist
tuesday, march 13th, 1:06am;
The three girls lay slumped over one another on the squishy brown sofa that lives in the family room. Laughter erupts down the halls of the home, filling the space with the lovely noise that had become a stranger to the property. Their bellies are full with their mother's stew (and nearly a whole bag of twizzler's candy split between the three as the evening progressed) and bodies warm beneath the shared stitched quilt.
Kennedy had arrived home from work in a frenzy that evening, shoving open the poor front door with a shout, "Is it true?" she asked her father, who sat unsuspecting at the breakfast nook with the paper pulled open and a beer.
"Is what true?" He had asked, peering up at her from the length of his nose.
"(Y/n)'s home? The teacher across the hall had mentioned on our lunch break that she'd heard a rumor. I didn't have time to call home and confirm it!"
"Well," The old man chuckled coyly, "Go see for yourself, why don't you?"
With that, the girl gasped, bounding up the steps two at a time, black kitten heels left strewn across the landing.
Joyously, Ella had proposed a celebration in the form of a sleepover, or rather, an all-nighter slumped together on the family couch. Just like old times.
The old tv drones on incessantly, a VHS tape of The Little Mermaid set to a low volume, the grain in the picture distorted ever so slightly. It's blue glow illuminates the wallpapered walls and results in a ghastly, iridescent hue on the girls faces. Their parents had long since retired to bed, leaving the sisters to their shenanigans. An old scrapbook sits on (Y/n)'s lap, Ella's head on her right shoulder and Kennedy's arm wrapped around her left bicep endearingly. They take turns flipping the laminated pages, giggling at their old baby photos and cooing at the particularly adorable ones.
There are polaroids of (Y/n) as a toddler, before the other girls were born. A blue sand bucket is perched on her little head like a fashionable hat, and the sunset in the background casts gold reflections on the waves. In the following photo, three year old (Y/n) holds baby Kennedy, of course assisted by Dad. In his younger age he is almost a completely different person, aged bleakly at the hands of the Island.
The marred cover of the book holds memories the girls don't even remember, the figment of their childhood experiences a distant dream in the back of their mind.
Ella flips the next page, revealing (Y/n) and her big patterned book bag on her way to the first day of kindergarten. Her polka dotted sundress flowing at her calves and a lunch box at her side. A big grin decorated her face and her eyes twinkle in excitement. Next to her stands a similarly posed little boy, with dark brown hair and those salient blue eyes.
"It's little Bucky!" Kennedy exclaims, "Did you see him today, (Y/n)?"
"Oh, she saw him all right." Ella pokes, nudging the oldest with her shoulder.
(Y/n) groans, "Honestly!" she scolds, "Would you knock it off? Yes, I saw him. He came by to drop off wood with Dad today."
Kennedy hums, "He helps out a lot, it's nice to have him around. You know, his Mum passed while he was away in Afghanistan two years ago."
"What?" (Y/n)'s face screws up a little with the news, "That's awful. I didn't even know he joined the service, when did that happen?"
"Yeah, after high school he enlisted and left for a while." Kennedy nods, "He doesn't talk about it though, so I wouldn't ask. He - uh, he lost a lot those couple of years, to say the least."
"So it's just him and Rebecca all alone in that house then?" (Y/n) asks, she feels her heart cry out sympathetically at the thought.
When they were in middle school together, years before she had left the island, the siblings had lost their father in a freak boating accident. The poor man had been overworking himself and had drifted asleep on deck, out alone on his small gill-netting boat at dusk. Despite having been the most experienced fisherman on the island, he had crashed into the rocks and capsized, leaving the harbor patrol to find his body in the early hours of the morning after Mrs. Barnes called to ask about her husband. For the first time in eleven years of walking to school together, James didn't meet (Y/n) at the end of her driveway that morning. When he didn't arrive late to school either, (Y/n) had begun to worry. As soon as the bells dismissed her final class she had rushed out of the building to the Barnes' small cottage home just a few blocks away. She remembers the cop car sitting in the driveway and the front door ajar, she remembers the wailing of Mrs. Barnes as she crossed the threshold of the entrance and James sitting stiffly at the head of his dining room table, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. James never ever cried in front of anyone, but as he locked his gaze on hers she felt the dam snap and watched helplessly as the tears streamed from his eyes like a waterfall. She remembers the day before when Bucky begged his father to take him along that night to check the lobster traps. Selfishly, she couldn't bear to think what she had done if Bucky had met the same fate as his father. And to know now that the boy had now lost both of his parents hurts her heart in a way indescribable.
Kennedy sighs, "Yeah, she was sent out to foster care in Portland for a while before Bucky became her legal guardian. She's like - what, Ella? Your age?"
Ella thinks for a moment, "Sixteen, maybe. She's a year younger. We have some of the same classes though."
"I feel so horrible for not reaching out to him." (Y/n) sighs, throwing her hands up, "I don't even have a good excuse! I'm downright terrible. I can't believe no one told me she passed."
"You'll make it up to him. He's never been one to hold grudges, you know." Kennedy says, "I think we assumed you knew and didn't want to talk about it."
It's true. She remembers many trivial arguments on the playground, whether it be with her or another child. Bucky has always been loyal and fiercely protective of the people he loves - protective of himself even - but he's also forgiving. However, it's not being forgiven that (Y/n) is worried about. Deep down she knows Bucky would forgive her for anything. No, what she's really afraid of is if the time apart has changed the two of them beyond recognition. She worries that even if she tries, she won't be able to repair the friendship they had when they were kids. There's so much to say, so much to tell each other about and (Y/n) doesn't even know where to start. How is she meant to pick up where they left off?
Because the truth is, they aren't kids anymore. That's the hardest pill to swallow. They won't be running off to the shore barefooted with their bikes discarded in the dunes, holding hands and soft touches will no longer be innocent - maybe not even natural - no more folded notes passed silently during class, no more forts built in the woods with his mother's linen sheets and mossy branches. It'll be like navigating uncharted territory, except it's not uncharted, just lost. Forgotten.
It isn't long before the two younger sisters succumb to their sleepiness, (Y/n) left awake listening to the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway. It's always been there, passed down through her family for generations and she hopes to any god that will listen that her parents won't give it to her next. There's been many several nights she has lied right here on this couch tormented by the rhythmic tick of its incessant song. Though hypnotic it's never been successful at lulling her to sleep, instead it's talent lies in keeping her awake, trapped in the advancing reminder that time doesn't stop.
Time is inevitable. It's always passing, spending, wasting, reminding you of what you've lost. She only wishes it would stop for a moment, so she may be able to catch her breath.
(Y/n) hadn't realized she had fallen asleep until she wakes up the next morning. The sound of eggs sizzling on the cast iron pan in the next room over is what tickles her awake. She hears her father mutter something about the coffee being burnt and her sister rattles around in the silverware drawer looking for a particular knife. She's alone on the couch now, the quilt pulled up and tucked around her body tightly. (Y/n) rises slowly, collecting her pillows and placing them back neatly on the couch before rubbing her eyes of sleep.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty." Chimes Ella's teasing voice as (Y/n) rounds the corner into the kitchen, the youngest not even sparing her a glance up from her bowl of cereal, only a coy smirk. Beside her sits a small baby blue backpack with a plethora of sailor knot keychains tightened around the zippers.
"School today?" (Y/n) asks after greeting the rest of her family. Her mother hands her a mug of hot coffee, the perfect amount of cream swirling around in the porcelain.
"Yeah. Kennedy and I leave at the same time, she said she'd drive me today 'cuz of the rain."
(Y/n) hums in response, taking a sip of her coffee.
"What are you up to today, hun?" Her mother asks softly, plating the food from the stove for everyone.
"I don't know, I guess I'll just hang out around the barn. Did you guys feed the horses yet?"
"No, that's my next step. But be my guest if you beat me to it, everything's listed in the little notebook in the grain room." Her father responds, "The fence is finished too, so you can turn them out after they eat. I got some work to do around town today."
(Y/n) takes a seat at the table as her mother places down the food for everyone. "I'll take care of it today, Dad." She responds.
Kennedy bounds down the steps and takes a seat next to her, her hair done up in a stylish bun and a black pencil skirt adorning her legs. It was almost strange to see her so done up, she was so grown up now and even though she was only a few years younger than (Y/n) it still felt bizarre to see her so . . . adultish. How fast time has gone. It seemed only yesterday she was still playing dress up with her sisters in pretty, pink, princess dresses and plastic heels. Now she was off to her dream job in real heels and a whole wardrobe of business casuals.
"So, (Y/n), am I allowed to tell people you're staying with us when they ask? Or is it like . . . a secret?" Kennedy asks as she takes a bite of her bacon.
"As if the whole island doesn't already know," Her mother interjects, rolling her eyes, "You know how everyone gossips around here, there's not a single thing you don't hear about. Everyone already knew by dinner time yesterday, guaranteed." She laughs.
"It's true. I'll be here for a while anyway, no point in trying to hide it."
"Well, you know, the town fair is only a few weeks away. I'm sure everyone will be too busy worrying about their booths and the competitions then to cause too much trouble." Ella remarks.
"They mean no harm girls, you know that. We're all just a little bored, gotta have something to talk about around here." Dad says as he gets up and washes his plate. "You two need to get going or you're gonna be late."
"Crap! I'll start the car." Kennedy replies, handing off her dish and kissing her mother on the cheek, "Thanks for breakfast. See you, (Y/n)."
Ella shovels the last of her eggs into her mouth before doing the same, rushing out to the driveway in her sister's wake.
"If you're staying for a while did you want me to fix up my extra truck?" Her father asks, turning over his shoulder to look at her. "Buck and I can work on it, just needs a few parts."
"It's no big deal, Dad, I wouldn't want you guys to overwork yourselves. You have so much on your plate already, I'll make due without a car for a bit."
"Alright well, you let me know if you change your mind."
After breakfast (Y/n) goes up to her room to fish out some clothes and takes a quick shower to freshen up. She pulls on a pair of worn jeans and her emerald green rain jacket before descending down and out to the barn. The horses nicker at her instantaneously as she flips up the lock and slides open the thick barn door. Though there are eight stalls, the barn only holds five horses currently. There was a time when her mother made decent money training and selling working horses and holding riding lessons for the local kids, and back then there was never an empty stall. Now times have changed, the business has diminished and there's no longer the money for her mother to pour into their horses. She still teaches a few of the kids nearby, and it's just enough to support the existing horses but it's not the same.
(Y/n) greets the horses one by one and unlocks the door to the grain room at the end of the aisle. The black notebook sits upon a stack of vet paperwork and other various items, she flips open the cover and locates the page with the feeding schedule. The grain buckets sit in a neat stack against the wall, (Y/n) arranges them on the floor and begins to scoop the correct amount of grain into each one, topping them off with the required supplements and powders.
Each bucket is labeled, a thick piece of silver duct tape attached to each bucket with the names written in sharpie marker. She delivers each meal to the horses and tidies up the grain room while she waits for them to eat. After a few moments pass, she flips her hood over her head and halters Hera, leading her out to the paddocks for turn out. The rain patters on the rigid fabric of her rain jacket as she takes each horse one by one out of their stall and to the gate. When that task is complete she focuses on cleaning the stalls and starts to head inside when's she's finished. She had to admit, as silly as it sounded she missed the barn chores. There's a sort of strange gratification in mucking the stalls and cleaning everything up, the sweet smell of hay and musk of the horses surrounding her.
(Y/n) pulls open the door to leave the tack room and shuts it behind her, turning to lock it closed as well. As she spins around soundlessly, she's met with a solid wall striking her in the chest. Or rather, not a wall, but a person she realizes as she looks up with a surprised gasp.
"Shit, I'm sorry! I didn't even hear you." (Y/n) pulls back, removing her hands from Bucky's strong chest where she had braced herself. His right arm comes up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, a greeting smile creeping to his lips.
"No, no that's my bad, I snuck up on ya'. Your mom said you were in here."
He's wearing another baseball hat, this one a navy blue that went well with his eyes, and a thick gray sweatshirt under a carhart jacket, both hoods are pulled over his head. His clothes are wet and (Y/n) becomes suddenly aware of the surging rain outside and the thick grey clouds rolling into the horizon through the sky from the half opened barn door. He towers over her figure almost comically, never before had she felt so small.
"Remember when I used to be able to look down at you." (Y/n) blurts out. She almost regrets the sudden, random statement until Bucky begins to laugh, his eyes squinting and his crows feet imprinting on his face.
"I was never that short." He huffs, "We were like the same height from age eight until like - I don't know, the summer you visited when we were sixteen?"
"Mmm, no, I was definitely taller," (Y/n) retorts. Bucky begins to open his mouth to disagree, brows furrowed. "Don't worry, you're huge now. You could fight a black bear." She grins, delivering a teasing punch to his shoulder.
"I do not want to fight a black bear."
(Y/n) huffs a laugh, she spins to turn the light off in the aisle and grabs her water bottle off the hay bale stack. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I came to drop off a few packages of fish for your parents. Whenever I work on the boats I get a share of whatever we catch so I split it with your folks. Figured it's the least I can do."
"Well, it seems like you do a lot around here. They're grateful to have you." (Y/n) responds. He looks away from her shyly, as if being thanked made him feel uncomfortable. "So what, do you do everything around the island? Fishing, fixing fences, working at the harbor . . . You sound busy."
"Yeah, I like it that way." He nods, "I work as a deck hand some days, I go out on the boats with Dad's old friends to fish and sell at the markets. I do all kinds of weird jobs around here, sometimes I work at the lumberyard and I help around where I can."
"You're like, the Island's handyman."
Bucky chuckles at that. "Yeah, guess so. But what about you, what were you up to all these years?"
"Oh," (Y/n) wasn't prepared for that question. She's not too great at talking about herself, "Well, after high school I went to the University of California, for Fine Arts. Graduated and got my own studio, ran a small gallery and just spent my time painting and such. Made some good money and decided it was time to come home. It was great while it lasted though."
"Why would you ever come back here?" Bucky teases, but she knows he really begs the question.
She thinks for a moment before answering with a shrug, "I guess I just missed home."
Bucky nods like he understands, "You see cool things out there?" he asks.
"Yeah." She sighs, "Wish I coulda shown you. Maybe one day you can come back with me and I'll show you around."
"I'd like that. And I'd love to see your art sometime, too. Can't even imagine how good you must be now."
"I did make a name for myself out there. It was . . . gratifying to say the least."
"You should open a gallery downtown, and host art nights. There's so many vacancies now I'm sure you'd get a good deal on a retail space."
"You know, that's actually not a bad idea." (Y/n) agrees thoughtfully. A modest little building to display her work and other local artists, hold little art classes for the community, bring in a little money. Maybe it's something she'll have to keep in mind if she's planning on staying for a while.
Bucky slips his hands in his pockets, nodding towards his truck at the end of the road.
"I gotta get going, I have some errands to run before I pick Beccs up from school. I'll see you around right?"
"Absolutely." (Y/n) nods. As the two turn around and start to walk out the barn together, she stops, grabbing hold of the fabric of Bucky's jacket.
"Hey," She starts, looking down at her shoes and shifting her weight on one foot before looking back up to his face. "I'm really sorry, for not keeping in contact. You didn't deserve that." She says, trying to keep her voice from wavering.
"It's okay, doll. I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for what I said before you left, it was unfair of me."
A lump almost forms in her throat as she thinks back to their last meeting when they were young. She has to swallow it back into her stomach where the energy flutters uncomfortably. "Can we just agree to put it behind us?" She asks, offering a small smile and a gentle squeeze of her hand on the back of his arm.
"I'd like that." He complies. "Let's forget about it. We were stupid kids, we have all the time to make up for it now."
As they step off the concrete platform of the barn's floor and onto the slick dirt path, the sludge of the sticky brown mud squelches under (Y/n)'s boots. It's in an instant that the ground is being pulled out from under her like a carpet and she's sent straight into the mud with a comically loud splat.
"Shit, (Y/n)! You good?" Bucky calls alarmingly. He's holding his hands out to help her up but before she can even comprehend her position he's falling too.
He manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, unlike (Y/n) who can feel the wetness creep through her jeans from her bottom all the way down the back of her thighs.
Bucky let's out a boyish laugh coming from the depths of his chest, "Careful, doll. It's slippery." He grins.
(Y/n) can't hold back her own laugh, letting her pained chuckle overtake her until she's just as loud as Bucky.
They're all smiles and pink blush as they pick each other up off the ground, the rain drenching their skin and clothes covered in mud now.
"God, I'm sorry. We look like idiots."
"We are idiots." (Y/n) corrects, "Come inside, there's gotta be something for you to change into. I'm sure you don't wanna run your errands like that. Or even get into your truck like that."
Bucky shrugs but follows her into the house anyway. They discard their shoes on the front porch and (Y/n) calls to her mother to let her know they are coming in.
She leads him upstairs and hands him a towel from the linen closet adjoining the bathroom and knocks on her mothers bedroom door. She opens it confused, raising her eyebrow at the pair's appearance. Bucky waves a hand in greeting.
"Does Dad have a pair of jeans that might fit Bucky? We slipped in the mud."
Her mother laughs, "You two are always a mess. Reminds me of old times. Give me a second."
She returns with a pair of dark wash jeans, a small hole down the seam in the side.
"These should do the trick. Let me know if you need anything else, hun." She says sweetly, before retiring back to her room.
Bucky changes in the bathroom while (Y/n) waits and then they switch. An awkward goodbye is shared in the hallway, the two not really wanting to depart. Bucky goes back downstairs and out the front door, stopping to wave at her once more at the top of the landing.
written 5/17/23
going feral
Papa's speech in São Paulo, Brasil, 20/09/2023 video by douglaskurt on ig
✨ 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 ☆
O Face
The Slutty Bucky Birthday Bash - Day 1 ✉︎
Prompt from anon: “I know you mentioned what Buckys hips do when he’s coming but what about his face? 😵💫”
Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Minors DNI. PIV sex, Bucky's brain go brrrrrr
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (yhhmsgm universe, established relationship)
Word Count: 1k (Okay I lied and this got long. Oops.)
slutty bucky birthday bash masterlist
It depends on if you can see him or not 😌
When you’re face-to-face, Bucky tries his best to hold it together for the sake of his dignity. In missionary, it’s easy— when he feels that first telltale spark of electricity in his core, he can bury his face in the crook of your neck and fall apart however he needs to. You can feel his open-mouthed panting against your skin, hear his grunts and groans as his hips stutter and still, but that’s about it.
If you’re on top and facing him when he gets close, sometimes he gets a little frantic. He’ll start pawing at your hips, your waist, anything he can grab to pull you down closer to him. If you give in and lean down to meet him, it’s just like with missionary— he can hide his face against your neck, or maybe he’ll mouth at your breasts while he thrusts up into you. That keeps you too distracted to notice his scrunched eyebrows and the way his jaw hangs open, even with your nipple in his mouth.
Sometimes, though, you don’t give in. Sometimes when you feel him getting close, when you feel his hands on your body trying to pull you down to him, you resist and lean back instead. And looking up at the best fucking view in the world, there’s no way he can hide it.
It’s torture when you take your time like this. Blissful, amazing torture. Bucky’s flat on his back on the bed, his eyes closed, panting so heavily that he needs to dart his tongue out to wet his dry lips. He’s been trying to hold it together, trying to make this last, but after one especially unbearable grind, his body doesn’t want to wait anymore— his hips jerk on their own accord, giving one quick, harsh thrust up into you.
It throws off your rhythm, and you pause for half a second. Bucky can tell by your gasp that you liked it, liked feeling him push deeper inside you than you can manage on your own, but you’re in charge tonight and he knows it.
He tries to force himself to exhale slowly. It only half works.
When he’s still, you find your pace again— you’re not quite bouncing on his cock, but it’s more than just a grind, too. He’s taking quick, rasping breaths now, because those flames are licking at the base of his spine, making his balls draw up and his cock twitch, and you’re hurtling him toward the finish line—
But much too soon, your motions stop. That molten heat begins to dissipate, and from somewhere far away, Bucky hears your quiet, amused huff. He takes a breath to stifle his indignant groan before he opens his eyes.
He has to blink a few times to bring you into focus. Perched on top of him, you’re leaning back with your hands resting on his thighs just above his knees, and he’s not entirely certain that you’re real. You’re some wet dream he conjured up, he’s sure of it.
He glances down to where you’re joined. He’s so deep inside of you that all he can see is the creamy base of his cock, and your pussy gripping him tightly— his dick throbs violently at the image, and no, you’re real. You’re definitely, definitely, real. No wet dream can squeeze him like that.
You’re watching him intently, one corner of your mouth quirked up. “What is your face doing?” you almost snort.
“Hmm?” Bucky grunts, uncomprehending. But you’re watching him, waiting, and it takes a few seconds for his molasses brain to process your words. When it finally does, he focuses his eyes again and snaps his dangling jaw shut. “Nothing.” He swallows thickly and tries to stare up at the ceiling as a flush spreads across his cheeks. His gaze doesn’t make it that far; your tits are right there in front of him, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and he doesn’t have the willpower to even try to hide his stare.
What was his face doing? Judging by your giggles, it must’ve been doing something, but nothing that he was aware of. Nothing that he meant for it to do. He tries to scowl, but you glide your hips back, so that he’s almost fully pulled out, before you sheath him completely again in one motion.
His eyebrows knit up in the middle, his mouth dropping open for just a moment before he can force his face back to neutral. Your pleased hum tells Bucky he was too slow; you saw it anyway.
“I… it’s… you, and…” he rambles, his ability to think coherently long since gone. You giggle again and clench around his cock, and bright flashes of white and gold take over his vision. The twinkling stars don’t clear by the time you begin rolling your hips again.
He’s marginally aware of what he looks like this time, though he doesn’t have the power to fight it. His mouth drops open when you pick up an unforgiving pace, and he brings his lower lip between his teeth because maybe it’s a little less obvious that way. His eyelids are fluttering, because even as his eyebrows scrunch and his teeth dig into his lip, he desperately wants to watch you.
His hips jolt with that first telltale shudder, and he can’t fight it any longer— his jaw drops fully open, his head presses back against the pillow, and there’s no holding back those groans he was trying so desperately to muffle. A cherry flush spreads across his face and down his neck as he pushes in deep, gasping with each twitch of his cock as he blows his load inside you.
By the time everything comes back into focus— the bed, the room, you— it’s too late. He sucks in slow breaths through his nose while you lean forward and pepper kisses along his cheekbones. You’re giggling— at him, at his expense— but in his blissed-out haze, he finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest.
I Think He Knows
James Potter x fem!reader
Summary: Your boyfriend promises to watch over you when you want to get drunk.
Genre: SMUT-ish
Warnings: innocent!reader, intoxication, swearing, grinding on someone's thigh, mentions of sex (no actual sex considering reader is drunk), praise kink
Just as you extend your arm to knock, James slides in front of you and gently holds under your elbow. He's smiling at you fondly as he caresses soothing circles across your skin.
"I want you to know, love, just because we mentioned it doesn't mean you have to, hmm?" he reminds you, his voice low and husky.
You smile and nod your head, letting him wrap an arm around your waist, "I know, Jamie," you reassure him. James looks at you in such a way you know he understands and he settles into your side. He turns around when you knock, his arm still holding you close, and when the door swings open to reveal an already flushed Sirius Black, your boyfriend smirks.
"Prongsie!" Sirius cries happily, pulling James in by his collar and trapping him in a hug. James has released his arm from around you in anticipation of Sirius's gesture and you giggle, walking into the house behind them.
Sirius looks at you next. "Y/n!" he cries, "Your lovely lady looks as lovely as ever, Jamsey," he skips over and takes your hand in his, twirling you around. You can smell the faint cherry vodka on his breath as he holds up your hand and clumsily swipes a thumb along your knuckles. "Still no ring?" Sirius whines with a light-hearted pout.
James pulls you away gently, his cheeks blushed pink. "Alright, enough. Hands off my girl," he reprimands, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your temple. He's holding your hand almost possessively, but you don't mind.
"I keep wondering that myself, Siri," you join in the teasing and send James a smile.
The latter rolls his eyes but smirks as he helps you out of your winter coat. He hangs it up next to his own and then places his hand on your lower back so he can guide you around. It's a common gesture James doesn't even realize he's doing anymore.
Sirius and Remus's house isn't small, but it isn't big either. It's normally sized with dark brick walls and ivy near the upper windows. Inside, the fire is burning and the smell of cookies and wine is in the air.
Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene occupy the couch as they play a game of friendly poker with Frank and Alice. Remus, when he sees you all, stands up from his armchair and smiles widely.
"Y/n/n," he says as if he hasn't seen you in years. Which is a dramatic exaggeration.
Remus pulls you into a warm hug, which means you aren't next to James anymore and he pouts, "Why is everyone suddenly in love with my girlfriend?" he whines.
Remus chuckles and kisses your cheek, "Because she's just so lovely, James," he kisses your cheek again and you giggle. "Plus, you've been hiding her from us for weeks now. I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."
James shakes his head with a low chuckle, his hand finding yours. "It's not my fault she's been busy."
"You guys do realize I am standing right here, yeah?" you interrupt with a chuckle. Remus looks at you fondly. He nods and then hurries you and James over to the couch where your friends are.
Always the gentleman, James crosses his legs and sits on the floor while you squeeze in between Lily and Marlene, sending them smiles.
A few moments later Sirius emerges with two glasses of white wine. He grins and hands one to James before handing you yours. Instantly, your eyes flicker to James as you take the glass and look at the liquid.
He sends you a reassuring nod. Even in school, you tended to stay away from alcohol because you were scared. Scared of losing control. But, now that you're with James and you feel safe around him. You had brought it up a few days ago: that you wanted to try. James had promised to watch you, to make sure you don't drink too much or do anything stupid.
So, you put the glass to your lips.
Three drinks in and you don't feel drunk.
Rather, you feel completely normal – well almost normal as you seem to have a hard time keeping your eyes away from your boyfriend's hands. You tend to play with the hem of your dress in your lap and you're still sitting in between Lily, and now Sirius as he drunkenly animates his sentences.
James is still sitting on the floor, his arms draped across his knees as he crosses his ankles. From time to time, he'll look up at you and his eyebrows will scrunch as if to ask if you're okay. Your cheeks start to feel hot and you fumble with your hands to press them on your face. You squirm around, feeling pressure in your core as you bite down on your lip.
"Y/n," James's voice is hoarse and you look up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Come here, dove," he whispers.
When you stand, you stumble to James and gasp when he pulls you down onto his lap. You hold onto him, looking into his eyes as his hand finds your thigh just shy from your ass. James frowns as he sees your expression but then his lips curl into a smirk.
Clumsily, he makes a show of standing as you cling onto him. Your friends don't seem preoccupied by you and James as he gently guides you into Remus and Sirius's small bathroom in the hallway. You lean against the sink, looking up at James and mumble, "W-What?"
James's knuckles caress down your cheek as he chuckles. "Hey, are you okay?"
You blink at him, trying to focus on something other than the heat from his strong body against yours. You hum, nodding. James's palm presses against your cheek first and then moves to your forehead. He frowns. "You're warm. 'You sure you're okay?" he asks with concern.
Your breathing becomes harsher as you stare at him. "O-oh- yeah. I'm g-good," you try to sound as normal as you can although his touch ignites a fire inside you.
James's frown deepens, looking you over. When you bite your lip, his eyebrow raises and the corner of his mouth slips upwards. He knows your signs all too well by now.
James slides his knee in between your legs, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your skirt rides up your thighs a little further. The coarse fabric of his jeans hits your cotton panties and your hands grip the sink harder. You look up at him, your eyes lidded. "J-Jamie?"
His hand slides up your cheek, tilting his head as he presses a sloppy kiss behind your ear. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here. I won't allow anything bad to happen to you, my lovely," he lifts his knee slightly and a shiver runs up your arms.
You clutch his shirt, your mind already starting to go fuzzy. You can't tell if you're just drunk or incredibly horny – perhaps you're both? All you know if you want James's touch. You want his lips, his hands, his cock. James's knee rubbing against your pussy interrupts your dirty fantasies as you sigh.
"I'm not gonna do all the work," James mutters and pauses his movements.
"More," You whisper, staring at him needily and James chuckles quietly.
"Shhh, my baby's simply a little too drunk for that," his voice is smooth and stern as he kisses the side of your lips, "I'm not gonna do that, lovie. I'm sorry. But, if you wanna get off on my trousers then who am I to deny you?" he quips with a knowing smile.
As if simply needing his permission, you roll your hips onto him and let out a loud moan. James covers your mouth with his hand, stroking your skin as you buck against him desperately. You're dripping and seeping through your panties to soak his jeans with your juices. You can't stop your soft, drunken, moans as you rub your sensitive clit against him.
"Good girl," James whispers encouragements, occasionally moving his knee to apply more pressure, "My good girl, aren't you? So needy when you're drunk, hmm?" he hums with a smile.
You nod, cheeks burning as your movements become even more desperate. It feels so good. He's making you feel so good and he knows it. James leans in and rests his hand behind your ear as he delicately kisses your head. He can tell you're close and he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as your mind goes fuzzy and your skin prickles with desire.
Your mouth opens only no sound comes out when you rut against him harder. James grins, enjoying having you so completely undone in front of him. You hold onto his sleeve, squeezing your thighs around his and tears of pleasure brim your lashes. James coos, "Aw, don't cry, sweetheart. What's the matter?" he teases and strokes his thumb across your cheek.
"I- I need more," you whimper, trying desperately to reach your high.
"I can't let you have more, lovie," James says quietly. He doesn't want to risk crossing any boundaries when you're drunk.
Still, he grips your hips and rocks them over his thigh, helping you. "Here, just let go for me. It's okay, I'll take care of you later I promise." You whine and lean your head on his chest as your pussy throbs.
You feel light-headed when you finally come, your juices soaking your panties and James's jeans. He kisses your forehead when you look up at him, eyes lidded. "Good girl, you did so good," he whispers, stroking a hand in your hair as you catch your breath.
James lifts you effortlessly onto the sink and you automatically spread your legs. You watch him as he bends over and rolls up some toilet paper in his hand.
He then hands it to you, "Clean yourself up, dove?"
You look at him innocently, silently asking him to be the one to clean you. James hesitates and bites his lip. Quickly, he dips his hand into your panties and collects your cum on the paper. He bunches it up and throws it in the toilet. He rolls up some more and wipes his jeans a little.
Finally, he flushes the evidence and kisses your lips. You squirm a little, uncomfortable from the wetness in your panties. James looks down and smirks.
He starts to slide your panties down your hips and looks at you for consent. You nod, staring at him. You're still in a haze from the liquor but you trust James. He slides your panties into his jeans pocket and smoothes your skirt. He sees your adorable frown, "No one will know, I promise," he assures you.
When you leave the bathroom, the hallway seems darker. James's hand rests on your ass, keeping your skirt down as you focus on not tripping. You don't realize how giddy and stupid you and James looks until you both enter the living room again and your friends turn to stare. Lily, Remus, and Marlene seem to compose themselves as they smirk behind their hands, but Sirius, in his drunken state, seems completely appalled.
"You did not just fuck in my bathroom, Potter!" he exclaimed. Laughs escape the others and you must look completely embarrassed because their smiles widen. James gently and playfully covers your ears as his voice strains to hide his amusement.
"Shut up," he chuckles and then kisses your temple, "we did no such thing, did we, lovie?"
You nod your head. You wonder if your panties are burning a hole in James's trousers just like your bareness is causing a burning in your stomach. James hands moves to your back as he caresses you comfortingly.
"So, why did you come out of the bathroom together?" Marlene interrupts and adds to the teasing, "Don't tell me Y/n needed help peeing?"
James sends her a glare and moves you through the living room and to the door. "It's late, I'm tired," he tries to take the attention off you, "I think it's time for us to drive home."
He drapes your coat over your shoulders and you're grateful he's taking you home. The neediness has been replaced by pure exhaustion and you grip his arm. James puts on his own coat and opens the door. He whispers to you, "Shh, you're safe with me," and kisses you again.
You both say your goodbye's and Sirius calls out one last time, "If I find any evidence you fucked in my bathroom, I'll personally kill you, James Potter," James pauses, knowing he's not finished and smirks when he hears Sirius's last comment.
"Shame on you for roping poor, innocent Y/n into your disgusting activities. And in my bathroom — "
"Sirius," You hear Remus warn, exhausted.
James holds your hand and starts to shut the door behind you,
"Next time, Remus and I will fuck in your bathroom!"
"Sirius!"
this just makes me so happy
Operation Mistletoe
summary: With dozens of mistletoe appearing in archways across the compound, you start to notice a pattern when you begin to encounter Bucky Barnes beneath each one pairing: Bucky x reader warnings: fluff city baby a/n: I know I promised dark and twisty to follow up I’m With You, but I just couldn’t traumatize yall before the holidays…… so please enjoy some chrimmas flooof
It was the day after Thanksgiving the first time you spotted one.
Hanging under the archway to the kitchen on a dark green ribbon, adhered crudely to Tony’s very expensive wooden crowning by a long, silver nail, was a small bouquet of mistletoe; thin, green leaves gathered under a bright red bow, decorated with spotted white and crimson bulbs.
There wasn’t a single holiday decoration in sight when you’d gone to sleep the night before and with the assignments Fury had been handing out lately, you couldn’t imagine anyone would take the time to nail a handful of leaves to the ceiling in their spare time. Sleep was a rare commodity around the Avengers compound and it wasn’t taken lightly, even amongst the chaos of the holidays.
A single red bulb fell down from the ceiling as Sam bumped his shoulder into the wall upon his entrance. He steadied himself on the banister with sunglasses over his eyes as he nursed a devastating hangover following his three for three losses on Thanksgiving football bets.
The berry tapped your forehead before it fell to the floor and you squinted up at it like it was some sort of marriage.
“Got you!” Bucky snuck in beside you and stole a quick kiss to your cheek as he skirted by. It was impossibly fast, almost like it hadn’t happened at all, though you could still feel the slight press of his lips on your skin after he was gone.
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