Camellia: Popia X F!reader - Chapter 2

there's just something about 40s bucky man

Come back to you

Bucky x pregnant!reader 

What happens when a time travel mission ends up with a version of Bucky from the 40′s standing on the time travel platform. 

Warnings: FLUFFFFF, sweet charming 40′s Bucky, time travel, teensiest bit of angst. 

-

“Buck, are you sure about this” You shuffled nervously by the platform Bucky was standing on, his latest mission requiring him to travel through a time portal. It wasn’t something he hadn’t done before but time travel was still tricky and the last thing you wanted was something happening to Bucky. 

Especially now. 

“I’ll be fine doll” Bucky assured you, holding onto a device Tony had made to gather information, the time stamp on the portal set to 1943. All he had to do was locate the coordinates he was given, scan a few documents and return to the present. Ever since you found out you were pregnant, Bucky pulled himself out of high risk missions but this seemed easy enough and he was the only one familiar with the location. “Promise I’ll come right back to you in just a few seconds babygirl” 

Keep reading

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetical torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, a whole picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

the BANTER, the DIRTY TALK, the EVERYTHING thank you for enlightening me this was amazing !!

Sweet Treats and Side Effects ✩ Bob Reynolds pt. 2

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. use of y/n, bob reynolds x fem!reader, found family, accidental aphodisiac, chaotic prank war, slow-burn, mutual pining, thunderbolts frat house energy, dubious influence (consensual but under a magical substance), yelena’s chaotic best friend energy, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, rough sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), praise kink, slight dom!bob, bob whimpering!!! (yes godddddd), feral!bob, emotional vulnerability, post-sex fluff.

Summary: When Yelena kicks off her next move in the Thunderbolts prank war with a bag of questionable aphrodisiac chocolates, you agree to help her “prank” Bucky Barnes into a very inconvenient eight-hour erection. Unfortunately, Bob Reynolds gets there first. Now the most powerful man in the tower is red-faced, sweating, and very, very desperate for one thing—and it’s not chocolate. It’s you. And when the side effects kick in full-force, you’ll have to decide if you’re helping your friend… or completely, shamelessly indulging his deepest, filthiest desires. Chaos. Horny chocolate. Yelena being the worst. And Bob being the sweetest, softest, most absolutely feral man alive.

Author's Note: this is part 2!! part 1 is linked below <3 if you want to be added to the taglist just comment<3 thank you all for the immense support and love you've been giving me these past few days, writing bob has been an absolute dream and I am honestly so obsessed with him and the thunderbolts!!! i can't wait to keep writing more bob fics and also bucky fics <3 stay tuned!! thx for all the love, I appreciate it so so so much! im actually going feral for bob you guys have no idea!! i love him and it hurttttsssssssssss <333

masterlist. part 1. part 2.

Yelena clapped her hands. “We’re so fucked.”

“You think?” you snapped, dropping the bag on the couch like it burned you.

“Okay, okay,” Yelena said, immediately shifting into disaster mode. She began pacing in frantic circles like a small, angry general. “We just wait it out. Hide him somewhere. It’ll pass. Probably.”

“What?! We can’t do that—”

“What do you want me to do?” she snapped. Then she turned to Bob, voice oddly chipper. “Hey Bobby, you’re gonna have to lock yourself in your room tonight and, um… well, I hope your hand doesn’t cramp.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned.

“I—I—uh—” Bob stammered. Bob tugged at his collar again, now visibly sweating. His curls were sticking to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed. His pupils? Big. HUGE. Like he was staring at a plate of lasagna and you were the lasagna. “I-I think I might be… having an allergic reaction?” he said, voice climbing an octave.

“Oh god, Bob, I’m so sorry." You glared at Yelena. "We are sorry.”

Yelena leaned in, squinting at him like he was a science project. “How do you feel?”

Bob looked between you both. “Like my skin is… humming? And I feel warm. Everywhere. My bones are warm. Is that—normal? Should my bones feel like this?”

Yelena snorted. “Oh yeah. You’re absolutely boned.”

You glared. “Not helping.”

Bob whimpered softly and wiped his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Which revealed his stomach. And a good few inches of solid, golden muscle.

Abs. Solid, golden, damp abs. You could’ve passed away on the spot and filed no complaints.

Yelena spun on her heel so fast you swore you heard cartilage crack. “Oookay. That’s my cue. This is your problem now.”

You blinked. “My problem? You poisoned him!”

“He poisoned himself! I left a booby trap, not a buffet!”

“Yelena—”

“Nope!” she interrupted, grabbing your shoulders like a hostage negotiator. “You’re taking him to his room. Now. Before he starts humping the couch cushions.”

“Why me?!”

“Because.” She pointed dramatically. “You’re the object.”

“…What object?”

She looked you dead in the eye. “The object of desire, dumbass.”

Bob groaned softly. “Y/N?”

You turned to look at him—and oh. The look in his eyes. Desperate. Unfiltered. Hungry in a way that made your thighs clench and your brain scream danger, danger, this is a six-foot-five nuclear sunbeam with incredible abs who wants to rail you into the drywall.

“I’m gonna pass out,” you whispered.

“No you’re not,” Yelena said brightly, shoving you toward him. “You’re gonna take Bob to his room and lock the door and not open it until he’s either back to normal or fully wrecked.”

“Yelena!”

She gave you two thumbs up and a wink. “Godspeed, slut.”

"I fucking hate you."

"You'll thank me later, babe," she winked. "Now go before Bucky comes. I can't lose this fucking prank."

You muttered curses under your breath as you grabbed Bob’s arm. His skin was hot—burning hot. Not in a fever way. In a someone poured sunlight into this man’s bloodstream kind of way.

“Okay, Bob,” you said gently, guiding him toward the hallway. “We’re going to your room now. You’re gonna lie down. Maybe breathe. Maybe not combust.”

He followed obediently, but every so often he whimpered. Whimpered.

“I feel… weird,” he murmured. “Everything’s… loud. And you smell really… really good.”

Your heartbeat punched a hole through your chest. “Oh. Thanks. That’s just… body wash?”

Bob smiled, “Smells like heaven. You smell like you.”

“Okay, okay,” you muttered, opening the door to his room and gently pulling him inside. “Just sit down. It’ll pass. You just need to—”

But Bob didn’t sit.

When you got him inside and shut the door behind you, he was already pulling off his shirt.

“Whoa—Bob—what are you—”

“It’s—so hot. I can’t—God, I’m sorry—” he gasped, tugging the fabric over his head. His chest was damp. His abs were glowing. His chest rose and fell rapidly, every line of muscle taut, shimmering.

Mouthwatering.

His abs looked carved. Like someone designed them in Blender and forgot to turn the realism setting off.

“I feel like—my skin’s burning,” he panted. “I feel—like I need so-something. Someone."

That last word came out like a confession.

Bob was gorgeous. In the quiet, tragic way. All softness and stormclouds. Not traditionally confident like Bucky or smirking like Walker. Not cocky. Not deliberate. Just undeniable. All gold and power and bashful energy coiled too tight. A man who always held himself back—until now. And right now, he looked wrecked. Like he was about to burn alive in his own skin. Like he was about to shatter from wanting you.

His shirt hit the floor like it needed to be gone.

Bob stood there, flushed and trembling, chest rising and falling so fast you thought he might hyperventilate. Every line of him was tension—drawn tight like a bowstring, glittering with sweat. His hair clung to his forehead, curls damp, eyes wild. Hungry.

“Bob,” you said carefully, your back hitting the door behind you. “You need to sit down. Just breathe.”

“I can’t,” he choked out. “I can’t, Y/N, I—God—my skin, it’s burning. It hurts.”

Your breath caught.

He took a shaky step forward, like he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him. “It hurts, Y/N. It hurts so much. I—I need to touch you. Please. Please touch me. I need you. I need—fuck, I need you so bad it’s killing me.”

Your back hit the wall. Your legs nearly gave out. You could barely breathe. Your heart wasn’t beating—it was pounding, a violent, panicked rhythm like it was trying to break through your ribcage and escape your chest entirely.

“Bob…” you said, hands half-raised like you might have to catch him or hold him back or—God—pull him closer. “I don’t think this is a good idea. You’re under the influence of the chocolate and—”

His head snapped up.

And the man standing in front of you? Was not the soft-spoken, fumbling Bob who apologized to doorknobs. Not the Bob who ducked his head and blushed every time you complimented his curls. Not the Bob who stammered through “hi” like it was a sacred prayer.

“No,” he growled—growled, from the back of his throat. “Don’t you dare chalk this up to a piece of fucking chocolate.”

His voice had dropped—deeper, rougher, unsteady but sure. It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t hesitant. It was possessed.

Your breath caught.

Sweet little Bob had left the building.

And whatever had taken his place—this version of him with sharp eyes and a wild edge—was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world keeping him alive. He was vibrating with energy, with restraint stretched to the breaking point. He looked like he was one second away from devouring you whole.

He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had finally stopped pretending otherwise.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Every time you laugh, I get hard. Every time you touch me—even just my fucking shoulder—I have to lock myself in the shower and jerk off with your name in my mouth like a prayer.”

Your lips parted in a silent gasp.

“I dream about you,” he continued, voice splintering like a dam breaking. “Full-body, soul-wrecking dreams where I make you come until you’re crying. Where I ruin you slow, until all you know is me. My mouth, my cock, my hands. Me.”

You whimpered.

Bob took another step, and your bodies almost touched. Your breath mingled with his. The heat pouring off him made your skin tingle. His eyes locked on yours—burning, wild, aching.

“I think about your mouth every time I touch myself,” he confessed. “I imagine how you’d moan. How you’d scream with my head between your thighs.”

You squeezed your legs together instinctively, and he noticed—his eyes dropped and lingered, jaw tight, nostrils flared.

“And right now?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Right now, I’m losing my fucking mind. Not because of this fucking chocolate. Because you’re here. You’re real. And all I want is to get on my knees and worship your pussy until you’re begging me to stop. I want to fuck you until your legs shake and your voice breaks from screaming my name.”

You felt like you were unraveling from the inside out.

“I want you bent over, whimpering,” he said. “I want your nails in my back. I want to feel you pulsing around me while you tell me how good I’m making you feel. I want to make you forget every man who ever tried. Because they’re nothing compared to what I’ll give you.”

His voice cracked then—emotion cutting through the heat like lightning.

“Please, Y/N. I'm begging you. I need you," he whimpered. "I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

The room was silent.

The air between you pulsed.

And you—wrecked, trembling, soaked down your thighs and holding onto your last shred of composure—nodded once.

“Then take me,” you whispered.

And Bob—once sweet, shy Bob—let out a sound so low and broken it made your entire body shiver.

Bob’s mouth was on yours before you could breathe his name again. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry. Like he’d been dreaming of this and finally got to eat.

His hands were shaking as they cupped your cheeks, as he kissed you with lips that trembled—not from fear, but from desperate restraint. He kissed you like he wanted to pour his soul into your mouth, licked into you like he needed your taste to survive.

“God,” he moaned between kisses, “your lips—fuck—been thinking about this for so long—”

You were breathless already. You gripped your shirt and yanked it over your head. The second your top hit the floor, he froze.

“Oh… my god,” he breathed. His eyes were wide, taking you in like a man starved. Looking at you like you were an angel. Mouth parted like he forgot how to use it. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, completely wrecked. “I—fuck—Y/N, you’re unreal.”

Then he dropped to his knees. Not knelt. Dropped. And dragged your pants and underwear down so fast you felt dizzy.

“Let me taste you,” he begged, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Please, I need—I’ve needed this for so fucking long.”

He kissed up your thigh. Again. And again. Little gasps and moans slipping from him just from the anticipation.

“Been thinking about this every night,” he said, breath hot against your inner thigh. “How you’d sound. How you’d taste. Please—please—please let me make you come.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, breath catching. “Bob—please.”

He didn’t need more. His tongue met your pussy and moaned. Into you. Like he was tasting divinity.

He licked slow at first—long, broad strokes, tasting every inch like he’d waited years for this. He flattened his tongue and dragged it from your entrance to your clit, groaning like you were feeding him something forbidden.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You taste so good—I knew it—I knew you’d taste like this—so fucking sweet.”

And then he lost it.

His mouth closed around your clit and he sucked, licked, devoured. One of his arms wrapped around your thigh to hold you there while he pressed in deeper, messier, louder.

You cried out—your legs shook—and Bob whimpered and groaned against you like it made him harder.

“Want you to come,” he gasped between licks. “Please, I need you to come—need to feel it—please, Y/N—please.”

And you did.

You came so hard against his mouth, your knees buckled.

Your whole body jerked, muscles clenching, your hands fisting his curls as the world dissolved behind your eyelids. You moaned his name—half-chant, half-cry—and your legs started to give out.

But Bob didn’t let you fall.

His hands were iron around your thighs, keeping you upright, anchored, his mouth still on you, licking, tasting, fucking devouring you through it. He whimpered into your pussy like he couldn’t get enough, moaned like he was coming from the taste alone.

And even as you trembled, even as your knees went soft and your breath hitched and your body shook, he didn’t stop.

“Y-You—Bob—too much—” you gasped.

He moaned in response, lapping at your clit again, messy now, licking through your arousal like he’d never tasted anything better.

“You’re so perfect,” he mumbled against your cunt. “So fucking sweet—can’t stop—don’t want to stop—please, give me one more—just one more—”

“Bob—”

“You come like you’re made for it,” he groaned. “You come like my mouth was meant to be here.”

Your vision blurred.

You screamed as another orgasm rocked through you, your thighs clamping around his head, hips grinding into his face—and he just held you tighter, moaned louder, shook from how hard he was eating you out, absolutely feral from your taste.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he pulled back, panting, mouth glistening, cheeks flushed.

And his eyes—fuck.

They were wild. Desperate. Like he was clinging to reality by a thread made of you.

“I can’t,” he gasped, pressing his forehead to your thigh, still kneeling. “I can’t—I was gonna go slow, I wanted to—fuck, I wanted to make love to you but I can’t—I’m so fucking hard, Y/N, I need to be inside you—please—please.”

You slid your fingers into his hair, tilting his face up.

“I don’t want slow,” you said. “I want you ruined. I want you rough. I’ve always wanted you.”

That snapped him. He surged to his feet in one motion, grabbed you by the waist like you were weightless, and carried you to the bed.

You didn’t even register how fast he moved. You just hit the mattress with a gasp, thighs spread, already arching as he fumbled with his sweats, pulled them off, and—Oh god.

You whimpered.

He was huge. Flushed, leaking, thick and veined and so fucking hard it looked painful.

“Birth control?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded fast, breathless. “Yeah—yes—on it—”

His eyes darkened. And then he was on you. He pushed your legs open with hands that trembled, lined himself up with your soaked entrance, and paused—just for a second, just to take a look at you underneath him, his eyes softened for a second.

Then he slammed in.

You both screamed. Bob’s voice cracked into a moan so deep, so wrecked, it felt like it went straight to your core.

“Oh—fuck—” he gasped. “You’re—fuck, you’re so wet—so tight—I’m not gonna last—I’m gonna fucking die—”

He pulled out and thrust back in hard—deep—and you both sobbed. You were already shaking from the overstimulation, but your pussy clamped around him like it needed him, like it had been waiting for this. Bob braced over you, driving in again and again, hips snapping, every thrust brutal and perfect.

“Made for me,” he groaned. “You were made for me—taking me so good—look at you—fuck, look at your face—”

You cried out, clutching at his back, nails raking down as he pounded into you. “Harder,” you begged. “Please—harder—need it—”

Bob whimpered, hips snapping faster, his whole body jerking with effort. “You feel so good,” he gasped. “So fucking good—I’m gonna make you come again—I have to feel it—please—please—”

He reached between you, rubbing your clit, fingers slippery, lips brushing your cheek.

“You gonna come again?” he whispered, panting. “Gonna soak my cock, baby? Come all over me?”

You nodded frantically.

Then it hit.

Your orgasm slammed through you and Bob felt it—his cock pulsing deep inside you, your pussy clenching around him so tight he choked on a moan.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” you gasped. “Come inside me.”

He cried out. And came. Hard.

You felt it—hot, deep, endless—his hips twitching, his body shaking above you as he gasped your name over and over again.

He collapsed over you, still inside, panting, trembling. You both lay there in a haze of sweat and come and ruin, bodies tangled, hearts racing.

“…Yelena’s never gonna let me live this down,” you muttered.

Bob snorted into your neck, leaving a soft kiss.

“I’ll thank her later," he chuckled. "That chocolate was insane.”

You laughed, voice hoarse. “I might buy more,” you whispered.

He lifted his head. Smiled. Kissed you like it was the only truth that mattered.

The room smelled like sex and sweat and victory.

Bob lay sprawled over you, a gloriously ruined golden weight, his curls damp with sweat, his breath brushing your neck in soft, contented huffs. One of his arms was slung around your waist like he was afraid you'd float away. The other was buried beneath your back, holding you close, chest to chest.

You blinked up at the ceiling, your brain still trying to reboot after… whatever the fuck that had been.

“Okay,” you mumbled, voice scratchy, “note to self… never eat the whole chocolate. Also, never let Yelena but anything off the internet again."

Bob laughed—a real one, low and breathy and wrecked. “I blacked out for, like… a third of that. I’m not convinced I’m still alive.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. “You died and came back with your tongue inside me.”

His groan vibrated against your ribs. “Best afterlife ever.”

You giggled, rolling into his chest, letting your leg fall over his hip. He gathered you closer, skin-on-skin, soft and safe and sore in the best way imaginable.

Then he pulled back slightly to look at you—really look at you.

And his expression changed.

Gone was the desperation, the heat. What remained was just… Bob. Open. Unshielded. Soft and sweet in a way that made your chest ache.

“I meant it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “Meant what?”

He tucked your hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheek with an almost reverent tenderness. “That I’ve always wanted you.”

Your heart cracked open.

You let out a breathless laugh. “I meant it too. I just… didn’t think it would happen after you ate a sex chocolate meant for Bucky Barnes.”

He grinned. “Plot twist.”

You both broke into breathless laughter, arms tangling, legs still wrapped together like puzzle pieces. The kind of post-orgasmic delirium that made everything feel warm and stupid and safe.

Then—

BANG.

The door slammed open with the force of a SWAT raid.

Bob yelped and curled into the fetal position against you like a traumatized golden retriever. You yanked the sheet up so fast it nearly decapitated him, clutching it to your chest as if cotton was a force field against chaos.

Yelena stood in the doorway like a storm god.

Messy hair. Fuzzy socks. An iced coffee in one hand that probably had more vodka than caffeine, and a half-eaten toaster pastry in the other. Glitter still dusted the side of her face from some unspeakable prank she’d either initiated or survived.

She looked unhinged.

“OH. MY. GOD,” she announced. “YOU DID IT.”

“YELENA—WHAT THE FUCK?” you shrieked. "You were here when it happened!”

“Yes,” she said, stepping inside like she owned the place, “but then I left. Because I told you to lock Bob in his room, keep him quiet, and not ruin my very expensive, very evil prank against Bucky. And guess what I heard ten minutes later?”

She pointed at Bob like she was naming a suspect.

“Moaning.”

Bob made a noise like a dying ghost and disappeared back under the covers.

“Then I hear thumping,” she continued, now pacing. “Groaning. Screaming. Furniture moving. Bucky comes out of the gym for his post-workout fridge raid and he goes, ‘Is Bob okay? It sounds like he’s dying.’”

You slapped your own forehead.

“And I—” Yelena pointed dramatically at her chest “—had to tell him, and I quote, ‘Bob accidentally ate a sex chocolate and is now experiencing heightened symptoms of horny distress. DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR.’”

She turned to Bob, deadpan.

“You cockblocked my prank.”

“I didn’t know!” Bob cried from under the sheets.

“I told her to lock you up!” she snapped. “You were not supposed to be the sacrifice!”

“You literally told me to take him to his room and ‘lock the door until he’s fully wrecked!’" you shrieked.

Yelena paused. Blinked.

“…Yeah, okay, I said that. But I meant emotionally! I didn’t think you were gonna split him in half!”

Bob groaned again.

Yelena took a long sip of her drink. Stared at both of you. Then sighed deeply, dramatically, like a sitcom dad staring into the void.

“Anyway. I’m mad. Obviously. Bucky didn’t eat the chocolate. He’s not going to get horny and embarrassed and cause a week-long war of retaliatory chaos. My prank is ruined. I'm officially a loser, thanks to you pair of losers.”

Then she smiled. Big and wicked.

“But…” She nodded toward the bed. “You two? Finally fucked. And judging by the sound barrier violations I heard through two walls, it was great.”

You buried your face in your hands.

Bob let out a weak, “It was transcendent.”

Yelena nodded solemnly. “Good. If anyone deserved transcendence, it’s Bob.” She sipped again. “Anyway. Don’t mind me. Just here to bask in the unholy bed vibes and emotionally process the death of my prank.”

She turned to leave—then paused in the doorway.

“Oh. You're welcome, both of you. You're gonna have to buy me some expensive gift as a thank you for," she pointed at both of you dramatically," whatever this was. Also, you’re gonna want to clean the headboard and change the bedsheets. There's uh… yeah. Carry on, sluts.”

Then she vanished.

You groaned into the mattress.

“…I’m gonna change my name,” Bob mumbled into your shoulder. “Move to Canada. Grow a beard. Dye my hair black. Never speak again. She's the reason why I will never be able to eat chocolate ever again.”

You wheezed. Then burst into laughter. Full-body, head-thrown-back laughter that made your ribs ache.

Bob blinked at you, then smiled. And when you looked at him—really looked—you saw it. Not just the sex. Not just the heat. But the way his gaze softened when you smiled. The way he looked like he belonged here. In this bed. Wrapped in your arms.

“I’m glad it was you,” he whispered. He leaned in. Kissed your forehead.

“Me too," you smiled.

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what is going on with all of these sex bots please stop following me i beg of you

The Serpent's Paramour CH 22 - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nora and Joshua showing up at Natty's house battered beyond belief, a life altering decision looms on the horizon. What do you do next? None of the options presented are good ones, but the one thing you know with absolute clarity is that you can't stay in Uganda any longer.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, graphic descriptions of blood/injury/torture, angst

New chapter is up on Ao3 as well

It felt like you were moving through quicksand over the course of the next hour. 

Natty had led Ominis and Devlin to another spare room on the opposite end of the second floor, the two men working together to cautiously transport Nora up the stairs. Paternal panic was emanating off of Devin in waves, so no one had said anything when he’d taken it upon himself to take charge of his daughter’s care. You and Sebastian had jumped into action to move Joshua onto the couch in the living room, the Ashwinder’s feet clamped firmly to your sides while Sebastian looped his arms under the man’s armpits. 

The second his back hit the cushions of the sofa, he groaned, eyes flashing with pain. “Gods. Your bedside manner… needs some improvement.”

Sebastian huffed dryly, shaking his head as he took to unbuttoning the redhead’s blood-stained vest and shirt. “I’m not exactly used to my underlings showing up half-dead in front of me like this. Where are you hurt?” 

“Don’t know,” the Ashwinder sighed. “Everywhere?”

“Unless you want to end up completely naked and make the lady blush, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” 

Joshua tried to laugh, but the sound came out in the form of a wet, rattling wheeze. “Chest is torn up… hip hurts, too. Right arm is shredded to bits.” 

Without further commentary, Sebastian motioned for your assistance. You held Joshua upright as the brunet carefully peeled away the top half of the ruined clothing, his movements measured and gentle in his attempts to not worsen the existing damage. Without the vest and the shirt in the way, you were given a clear, unobscured view of the wounds, and the sight of them made nausea churn in your gut. 

It was awful. Violent, deep lesions decorated the front of Joshua’s chest– many of them criss-crossing over one another to form intentional ‘X’ shapes over his heart and abdomen. Bruises, burns, and cuts covered every inch of his torso. His arm was sliced badly too, but it looked to be the work of a botched apparition attempt– splinched nearly to the bone. Had he been the one to get himself and Nora here? It was near suicide to apparate if the witch or wizard casting the spell wasn’t one hundred percent focused. 

That was hardly important right now, though. Beneath the dried blood, you could make out a strange pattern that looked weirdly similar to lightning. The jagged lines were a dark red color and stretched outward from the center of his chest, wrapping around his entire upper body and delving beneath his sides. You wagered that if you turned him over to look, you would find the same marks all over his back. 

“Merlin– what is that?” 

Sebastian looked at you out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched so hard that a muscle there spasmed. “Evidence of the Cruciatus Curse. Victor did this to you?” 

“He gave the order,” Joshua muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the gruesome pain you knew he had to be feeling. “Told the men when to start… and when to stop.” 

“And the cuts? The bruises?” 

You bristled when you heard his answer. “Henri– the fucking madman. Said it was more personal… using his hands.” 

You were unfortunately familiar with Henri’s methods. While you hadn’t experienced anything to this degree during your week long captivity in the Poacher’s castle, none of this was bringing back good memories. Sebastian looked at you again, his expression warring between concern and anger, but you weren’t the one that needed care right now. Steeling your nerves, you ignored his blatant worry and bolted into the kitchen, grabbing every available rag, towel, and napkin you could get your hands on. A bowl was swiftly filled with water– but Anne’s sudden appearance in front of you stopped you before you could return to the living room. 

She hugged a bottle of amber liquid to her chest, her gaunt face mirroring the panic you felt deep down. “I can help,” she said firmly. “I’ve been around doctors– I know what to do.” 

You were hardly of a mind to protest. With a curt nod, you and Anne made your way to the living room with your assortment of makeshift medical supplies. Sebastian’s face fell when he caught sight of his sister, and his body seemed to move on its own to block her view of the brutalized dark wizard on the couch. “You don’t need to see this, Anne–” 

“I’ve seen these exact sorts of things for the last five years,” she cut him off sternly. The younger twin barely spared her brother a glance as she got situated on her knees, helping herself to a rag before dipping it into the bowl of water. “I know how to help better than anyone. Go find Natty– ask her if she has any Wiggenweld potions. They won’t heal everything, but it can minimize the bleeding and fix that gods-awful rattling in his chest.” 

Sebastian’s hands curled defiantly, but he didn’t outright object to his sister’s instructions. Clearly he felt negatively about her exposing herself to the horror scene playing out in Natty’s house, and it was for that reason you found yourself saying, “I’ll go. I want to check on Nora, anyway.” 

A shadow of guilt flashed across Sebastian’s face at the mention of the female Ashwinder, but you were already walking out of the room by the time you considered consoling him. There would be time to check on his wellbeing after everyone had made sure neither Nora nor Joshua died. 

Things weren’t much better upstairs. Ominis, Devlin, and Natty were busy tending to Nora’s unconscious body with unwavering focus. The Auror ran his wand over her torso, the red tip pulsing quickly as he seemingly scanned her for internal damage. Natty had just finished unbuttoning her tattered blouse to reveal injuries identical to the ones that littered Joshua’s abdomen, but the bruising against her ribs couldn’t be fully concealed by the blood caked to her skin. It looked nasty– monstrous. Someone with a vendetta had definitely gone to work on her, and for the first time since knowing her, you found yourself fearing for Nora’s life. 

Devlin was hunched over his daughter– brushing matted strands of hair out of her face as he murmured reassurances that you weren’t even sure she could hear. “You’re going to be alright, baby. You’ll be fine– I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

You had never seen the older man so terrified. Angry, bewildered, and shocked– yes. But the fear in his eyes shook you to your very core, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. 

“Natty,” you called to her softly. “Anne was asking for Wiggenweld for Joshua. Have you got any left?” 

The woman’s eyes stayed trained on Nora’s body as she wordlessly and wandlessly summoned up the same types of things you had fetched downstairs. She nodded at the same time she grabbed for a rag, dunking it in the water before wringing the excess back into the bowl. “Yes, they are under the shelf in the dining room.” 

There were… a lot of shelves in the dining room. Furrowing your brow, you muttered, “Um… which one?” 

“The one next to the decorative vases–” her hand stilled against Nora’s bloodied shoulder, pursing her lips as she reevaluated what she was saying. “Nevermind, I will get them.” 

You felt bad for removing your host from her self-imposed duties, but you genuinely had no idea which shelves she was referring to. Time was not on anyone’s side right now, so wasting it in search of healing potions didn’t seem wise. As Natty passed you, she handed you the red-tinged rag, holding your stare for a few extra seconds with sorrow glimmering in her dark eyes. “Are they… do they work with…”

“They used to work for Rookwood before Sebastian took over,” you whispered. “Now, though… I’m not so sure. I can’t make heads or tails of this.” 

“This is…” she trailed off, shaking her head to herself as she glanced back at the jagged scars decorating Nora’s skin. “I have never seen marks of a curse so severe. Even the ones I got from Harlow were not–” her voice caught in her throat, but before you could offer any form of comfort, Natty shook the thought from her mind. “That she is alive at all is a miracle.” 

“I know. So let’s try to keep it that way.” 

There was nothing else either one of you could say. Natty hurried out into the hallway to make her way downstairs, and you swiftly strode over to her original position near the head of the bed. Nora’s injuries were… extensive, to put it mildly. Cuts and bruises, gashes and lesions, and that abhorrent scar left over from the Crutiatus Curse. All of it was stark against her fair skin, sickening you to your core and making you think that anyone capable of doing such a thing to another human being deserved the most painful of deaths. 

Echoing your thoughts, Devlin spoke up in a low, threatening voice. “I want to kill him myself for this.” 

You almost asked who before thinking better of it. Henri or Rookwood– it didn’t matter. If they were working together like Joshua had said, then they were both equally guilty. “I know. We need to focus on Nora for now, though. One thing at a time…” 

From the other end of the bed, Ominis sighed and let his wand bearing arm fall to his side. “The bruising is inside of her, too. I can’t tell where– maybe her lungs– but I don’t think we’ll be able to give her the kind of care she needs here. She needs professional help.” 

Devlin grimaced, his eyes never once wavering from his daughter’s mercifully serene face. “St. Mungo’s?” 

“Ordinarily I would say yes, but in her current state…” Ominis frowned and shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend apparating with her back to London. I’ll ask Natty if there’s a hospital nearby we can bring her to.” 

Whatever words Devlin wanted to reply with got lodged in his throat. His brows pinched together, and he dipped his chin in understanding. Even though Ominis couldn’t see the motion, the palpable stillness within the room conveyed the older man’s feelings well enough. He would do whatever was best for his daughter– no questions asked. 

The Auror turned on his heel to exit the room, leaving you, the elder Ashwinder, and Nora alone in the bedroom. There wasn’t much you could say to quell Devlin’s worries, so you instead began methodically wiping away the blood that adorned his daughter’s chest. Her brassiere was the only thing Natty had left on her upper body, and you elected to leave it where it was and just clean around it the best you could. 

“How did Joshua know to come here?” You found yourself asking after a while. Devlin was slow to respond, and when he finally did, his words were strained. 

“Nora had been filling in for Sebastian and I while we were away. We were corresponding regularly after we ended up in France, and I sent word to her the day we came here. I didn’t tell her the specifics of where, but since your friend works for Uagadou, I assume she was able to find out the address…” he trailed off after that, his expression conveying well enough that he was grateful for his daughter’s sleuthing. Digging deeper for Natty’s personal information– however that might have come to pass– had probably saved her life. 

Minutes ticked by in silence. You were fully prepared for things to continue like that, but then Devlin’s hoarse, weathered voice reached your ears. “What do you want to do?” 

You stilled only briefly before dunking the rag in a bowl of water, wringing out the excess and resuming your efforts. “About what?” 

“This,” he jerked his chin towards Nora. “If Rookwood and Henri are at the manor, we can go after them. We can put an end to them before they get the chance to jump us at the ancient magic site. You and I both know that’s where they’ll end up, anyway– Victor already knows that’s Sebastian’s end goal.” 

It was a sensible question… but not an easy one for you to answer. “Shouldn’t you be asking Sebastian this? Why does my opinion matter?” 

“Its always mattered, kid. I’ll ask Sebastian too, make no mistake. But you’re the one Henri is after. I still don’t know what to think of your idea that Victor caused all of this just to kill you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been a part of this. So if it was up to you, what would you do?” 

You swiped away more blood as you chewed the inside of your cheek. He made a good point; bringing the fight to Rookwood did present an opportunity that was too tempting to pass up. It would remove the largest obstacle in Sebastian’s path to the relic, and it would all but guarantee that the plan to cure Anne could be executed without interruption. 

But it was almost too perfect. Too convenient. 

Nora and Joshua escaping was either the biggest stroke of luck the universe had ever dished out, or it was a calculated move on Rookwood’s part. He had to know they would make their way back to everyone if given the chance– that they would bring the news of his arrival straight to everyone here. Sebastian’s twin sister had been cursed by the very same man he had worked for, and Nora was Devlin’s daughter. Between the two of them having such personal motivations to seek Victor out, the likelihood of the manor being a trap was astronomical. 

Returning to where all of this had started was risky. It seemed foolish to charge head first through the front doors and risk being blindsided by what was more than likely an ambush. 

“I think Victor and Henri are pulling more strings than we realize,” you cautiously explained. “I think they planned all of this. Working together, going to the manor, Nora and Joshua escaping… if we go home, we’ll be bushwhacked.”

“Bush– what?” Devlin muttered, shaking his head in confusion. “You know what– nevermind. I get what you’re implying. So you would rather get the relic first, then?” 

“I don’t know. That could very well be a trap too since Victor knows its location. Maybe they can’t hide out inside since it’s sealed up with ancient magic, but he probably has eyes on it. I doubt he would leave it unguarded since he knows Sebastian will inevitably turn up there.” 

“Then what do you suggest? Because sitting around in Uganda isn’t exactly a solid plan in my mind. We’ve wasted enough time here as it is– and look what that got us.” He gestured to Nora, his voice harder and more impatient as he snapped at you. You tried not to take it personally, though. It was understandable that he felt stuck. “If we go to the manor expecting a trap, then that’s us staying one step ahead of Victor, right? We can still kill them.” 

It didn’t escape your notice that Devlin sounded uncertain. It was almost as though he was trying to convince himself more than you, and you fixed him with a knowing look that made him bristle. His eyes jumped away from yours to land back on Nora, and you sighed. “I don’t know, Devlin. To be completely honest, I think we’re screwed either way.” 

He didn’t say anything after that. There was nothing either one of you could offer up to make any of this better. Victor and Henri were conspiring with one another, Nora and Joshua had been tortured within an inch of their lives, and both plans before you were ripe with the potential to fail. 

It wasn’t just Devlin who felt stuck. Despite wracking your brain for answers or alternative possibilities, you were coming up empty handed every time. You really– wholly and truly– had no clue what to do. 

—

A vote had been cast in Natty’s living room. 

It could hardly be viewed as a democratic process. Ominis, Natty, and Anne weren’t participating, because they would be accompanying the wounded Ashwinders to the hospital once you left. Joshua and Nora weren’t giving their input for obvious reasons, so it had all boiled down to you, Devlin, and Sebastian. 

Were the three of you to return to the manor, or would you be traveling to the ancient magic site to claim the relic before squaring off with Victor and Henri? 

Devlin was still adamant about taking the fight to his former boss and the Frenchman. He wanted to inflict onto them what they had done to his daughter tenfold, and no amount of cautionary tales or warnings could sway him from that decision. Since you’d been forced to choose between the two options, you had voted in favor of obtaining the relic. Maybe having such an item in your possession would give you an edge against your enemies and grant everyone more time to come up with a plan of attack– one that was more cohesive than ‘show up and kill everyone’. 

Sebastian was the tie-breaker. You and Devlin had both tried to project your thoughts into his head in a bid to hear the answers you each respectively preferred, but you knew it was pointless. Neither one of you was a Leglimens, and Sebastian’s decision would ultimately be rooted in what he thought was best. 

Which is why you weren’t surprised in the slightest when he said, “I vote going back to the base. If we can take out Victor and Henri at the same time, it’ll make getting the relic to cure my sister that much easier.” 

The sinking feeling in your gut told you that nothing about this was going to be easy. 

Devlin’s shoulders sagged with relief, and Sebastian’s dark eyes swiveled towards you as a remorseful expression passed over his face. “I’m sorry, princess. The manor is familiar territory to fight in. Victor could bring the ancient magic site down on top of us if we go there with him still breathing.” 

The explanation was delivered in that ‘no-nonsense’ tone he reserved for his underlings. You were none too pleased with the sudden professionalism he displayed towards you– if it could even be called that. Pursing your lips, you nodded stiffly, then turned to peek at the silent trio you would be parting from shortly. 

Anne looked nervous. It was probably the most anxious you had ever seen her; her brows were furrowed, her hands were being wrung together incessantly, and she hadn’t stopped fidgeting since everyone had come together in the living room. To her left was Natty– a grave expression of her own shrouding her otherwise stern face. Was she upset that Sebastian’s drama had followed him to her home? Did she regret offering you sanctuary? It was hard to tell, but you knew apologies would be pointless. 

Ominis, on the other hand, looked to be the most put together of the three. His spine was ramrod straight, and his hands were clasped behind his back as his unseeing eyes darted around in front of him. Whatever he was thinking about was important enough that he hadn’t said anything to rebuff Sebastian’s comment about curing Anne. He had maintained an unwavering, serious demeanor ever since Nora had fallen into his arms hours earlier, and you couldn’t help but be grateful that he wasn’t coming with you. 

Despite his reservations about Sebastian, Devlin, and their work as a whole, you knew he would protect the people around him with everything in him. Nora would be in good hands here. You pitied the villains that dared to cross the seasoned Auror’s path. 

“It’s not too late for you to change your mind,” Sebastian said, drawing your attention away from your old friends. “You don’t have to go, princess. You can stay here– keep an eye on Nora and Joshua for us until we send word that Victor and Henri have been dealt with.” 

Yeah, not a chance. “I’m not letting you both gallivant into what is most certainly a trap without backup.” 

“The girl spends three days casting spells without a wand and thinks she qualifies as a one woman army,” Devlin muttered to himself with a smirk. “Pretty soon your head will be bigger than his.” 

Sebastian scowled when his second in command gestured loosely towards him, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the snide comment. “While I appreciate your willingness to help, this isn’t going to be anything like what we’ve done these last few months. Living with Ashwinders, burning down dragon fighting rings, squaring off with Dementors– that was child’s play compared to this.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic. I already know–” 

“Do you?” Sebastian interjected roughly, his features contorting until his face looked like it had when you’d first set eyes on him all those months ago. It was the glower of a dark wizard. The cold, unyielding way he stared at you might have scared you back then, but now? Now it just pissed you off. “This will be murder. A plain, calculated execution. Yeah, Victor and Henri are awful people, and they probably deserve worse than a quick death. But while killing is easy, it’s the guilt that comes afterwards that can be difficult to cope with. Are you prepared for that?” 

“I’ve killed people before, Sebastian.” Your voice was flat as you threw the reminder in his face, which seemed to snap him out of his domineering persona. “You know as well as I do that I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. Besides… I already told you back in Colmar, didn’t I?” 

The brunet looked puzzled, but judging by the minute narrowing of Devlin’s eyes, he remembered the solemn vow you had made within the abandoned inn. Sebastian shook his head, “Told me what?” 

“That I would be the one to kill Henri for what he did to me. The two of you can draw sticks over who gets to swing at Victor first, but Henri? He’s mine.” 

Of all the things for Sebastian to do in the wake of such a bold statement, laughing was well at the bottom of the list. Ominis muttered something– probably a comment having to do with the startling amount of casual killers he found himself surrounded by– but you hardly paid him any mind. Anne and Natty remained silent as they mirrored each other and sent twin looks of wariness at one another. They had to be so far out of their element in the midst of the conversation that you almost felt bad. But then Sebastian was wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye, sighing around a smile as he practically beamed at you. 

“Alright, princess. Far be it from me to stand in your way. With all of those new tricks up your sleeve, Henri won’t know what hit him.” 

Saying goodbye was never easy. Part of the reason you had left Hogwarts after graduation without a word to anyone was because you were terrible when it came to farewells. People would cry, hug, snivel, and promise to write even though it was inevitable that with the passage of time, they would eventually forget. Relationships came and went, friendships ran their course before naturally coming to a close. You had learned a long time ago not to cling to the bonds you forged with others in a bid to make life easier later down the line. 

But be that as it may, standing in the rain-soaked courtyard outside of Natty’s house wrapped tight in her bone-crushing embrace made you realize that the connections you had repaired here were crucial. They had healed something within you. They had fixed a jaded, cracked part of your soul that had only worsened in the years you’d spent alone. 

“Thank you for everything, Natty.” Your watery voice was muffled against her shoulder, but she still heard you. “Take care of everyone for me, okay? We’ll be back soon.” 

“It was my pleasure, my friend. I am only sorry it must end so soon… three days was not nearly enough time.” She pulled away and slid her palms up to your neck, gently resting her hands there so she could stare imploringly down at you. “Promise me you will be safe? I expect to see you back here soon. No more keeping to yourself– there are plenty of other holidays we can spend together.” 

Her dark eyes twinkled with emotion beneath the moonlight, and your reassuring smile seemed to help her relax. “I promise, Natty.” 

Anne was a blubbering, inconsolable wreck. The force of her hug had nearly choke-slammed you to the ground, but you’d caught yourself and returned the gesture with equal strength. She’d extended the same treatment to Devlin, and then eventually to her brother. In-between sobs, she had managed to croak out, “Please stay safe. Don’t do anything careless– I swear if you die, I’ll find some way to kill you myself.” 

Sebastian laughed breathlessly, his massive arms enveloping Anne so completely that she was almost entirely hidden from view. It was a heart wrenching sight, and the fact that Sebastian’s eyes were red-rimmed when he cracked them open to look at you from over Anne’s shoulder didn’t help matters. None of this was easy for anyone. 

Ominis was– unsurprisingly– more poised with his goodbyes. He shook Devlin’s hand firmly, promising the older gentleman that he would see to it that Nora was well taken care of. Despite the fact that both men had gotten off to a rocky start upon meeting one another, Devlin seemed to take solace in the promise. He nodded appreciatively and said, “You’re one of the good ones, Gaunt. Try not to die anytime soon.” 

“I could say the same to you.” 

Ominis gave you a firm but mindful hug, patting you on the back for good measure before making you swear that you wouldn’t do anything reckless. “I mean it,” he chided, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “If things at that manor are as bad as I think they are, you leave. Get out and run as far from there as you can.” 

You wanted to jest– to make a comment pertaining to your affinity for getting into trouble despite your best efforts. But the Auror looked genuinely fearful as he fixed his milky blue eyes in your direction. Maybe Ominis wouldn’t outright say it, but you knew he was worried. He was holding it together the best he could for everyone’s sake, so you reconsidered your reply. “I will.”

After that, you, Devlin, and Sebastian congregated in the middle of the courtyard, the wet dirt squelching beneath your feet in the wake of the rain having finally stopped. Devlin put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and before you could do the same, the dark wizard clasped your hand in his wandless one, giving it a telling squeeze for good measure. When you glanced up at him, his expression was remarkably soft– completely at odds with how you knew he must be feeling internally. 

“Are you ready?” 

No. 

“Yes.” 

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as though he knew better than to believe you, but otherwise said nothing. The three of you took one last look at the trio standing before the front door, hoping against all odds that it wouldn’t be the last time any of you saw them. A crack sounded all around you, a weightlessness coming over you shortly thereafter, and the way your stomach lurched had absolutely nothing to do with the feeling of apparating. 

You were going home. For better or worse, when you opened your eyes next, you would find yourself back where all of this had begun.

this is so sweet omg 🥰

crop top ~ bucky barnes x f!curvy reader

Bucky helps reader feel confident wearing a crop top on their date, reminding her that she’s beautiful just the way she is. A soft, supportive moment with a little bit of flirty chaos because… it’s Bucky. 🖤

masterlist faq

A/N: I should be going to sleep but you know what? you get a fic and I ruin my circadian rhythm. I love that top but you can imagine any you like!💞 you are beautiful and deserve to be wearing any crop tops you damn want!!!! No one should never make you feel like you are supposed to look a certain way in order to wear something.

warnings: curvy! reader, boyfriend! Bucky, reader is self-conscious and bucky reassures her.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

“You sure I don’t look stupid?” you asked for the third time, fidgeting with the hem of the baby blue crop top. It was soft, ribbed, and paired perfectly with your favorite jeans—but it clung to your stomach in a way that made your skin crawl with nerves.

Bucky was standing behind you in the mirror, hands resting gently on your hips. “You look like you walked out of my dreams,” he murmured, voice warm against your neck.

You let out a nervous laugh and pulled the top down, trying in vain to make it longer. “You’re biased.”

“I’m observant,” he said, turning you gently by the shoulders to face him. He crouched slightly to meet your eyes, thumbs brushing the outside of your arms. “Baby, look at me.”

You did, hesitant and searching. He gave you that soft, steady gaze—the one that always made the world quiet for a second.

“You can wear whatever you want,” he said firmly. “You will look beautiful. That’s not up for debate.”

“You’re just saying that cause you’re my boyfriend”

“No,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m saying that because I love you. And I think you look like a goddess.”

You sighed and looked down at your stomach, poking the fabric. “I just…I feel so exposed like everyone can look at my stomach, everyone can see everything”

Bucky was quiet for a second, then he lifted his metal arm and turned it palm up, flexing the fingers slightly. “You know,” he said, “I used to hate when people stared at this.”

You blinked, glancing at the vibranium. “Bucky, that’s not—”

“I know it’s not the same,” he said quickly, “but the feeling… it’s close. Feeling like eyes are on you. Like people are forming opinions before they know you.” He paused, stroking your waist with his other hand. “But I started realizing something. This arm? It’s a part of me. And if someone wants to stare? Let ‘em. I’ll still sleep fine at night.”

You smiled, just a little. “Easy for you to say. You’re hot and mysterious and your arm is is cool like it can kill people and stuff. That’s powerful, these are just stomach rolls.”

Bucky blinked at you, then let out a soft laugh through his nose—not mocking, just surprised. “Sweetheart,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours, “did you just say my arm is cool because it can kill people?”

You shrugged, flustered. “I mean… yeah? It’s a weapon. People stare at you and probably think ‘wow, badass.’ People stare at me and think, ‘she should’ve worn something looser.’” You motioned vaguely at your stomach, the fabric hugging closer than you were used to. “These are just… rolls. Squishy. Uncool.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression a mix of heartbreak and fierce love. “That’s not what people think. And even if it was—who the hell cares?”

You didn’t answer, just crossed your arms, trying not to fold in on yourself.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you’re being watched,” he said gently. “I’ve felt it in my skin, in my spine. But if I spent my life dressing in a way that made everyone else more comfortable, I’d still be hiding under twenty layers of tactical gear.”

He took your hand and guided it to his chest. “This arm may be powerful, yeah. But you? You’re brave. You walk into rooms knowing what people might say, and you still show up. You still want to wear the damn crop top. That’s power, baby.”

You bit your lip.

“And those ‘uncool’ rolls?” he added, fingers brushing your sides. “They’re a part of you. They’re soft and warm and they’re where my hand fits when I hold you at night. So yeah, maybe this arm can kill people—but those rolls? They keep me alive.”

Your breath caught, and you smacked his chest lightly. “You’re such a sap.”

He grinned. “Only for you. Now come on, let’s go out. Let the world stare. You’re with the guy with the murder arm, remember?”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and reached for his hand.

“Okay. But if I chicken out halfway through dinner…”

“I’ll give you my hoodie,” he promised. “But I’m betting we won’t need it.”

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I loooooove this I need more desperately

Hitchin' a ride

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes.

Part 1 of Are You Going My Way?

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Words: 7k Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

It gets dark early in winter in East Anglia. By the time you leave the ward, it’s pitch dark despite it barely being past dinner time. Huddled in your dark blue wool cape, you trudge along the side of the road, holding a small torch to light your way. There’s a cold, biting wind tonight, and it feels like it’s going through every layer you’re wearing, straight through your bones. Breath shuddering, you pick up your pace, the gravel barrier between the road and the grass crunching under your standard-issue brown boots. The faster you get back to the nurse’s barracks, the faster you’re out of this wind and soaking your sore feet and cold toes.

Thorpe Abbots sprawls strangely, but you usually don’t mind. The quiet walk at the end of the long shifts in the operating room, rounds on the intensive care ward, cleaning, and inventory is your moment of solace. A moment where you can finally let the smile fall off your face, where you can grit out the curses you've bitten back all day, the crinkle in time when you are allowing the tears to well up and drip down your face silently.

There is no textbook or training to prepare you for the horrific reality. Torn flesh, burns, and the blood. The fear and agony. The pained screaming. The blind panic.

You have never felt more that you are where you need to be, yet you are so completely and utterly powerless.

A light catches your eye, reflecting on the trees around you in a ghostly flicker. Glancing over your shoulder, the light floats through the darkness, gliding towards you. The soft ding of a bicycle bell pulls you out of your reverie. Turning fully, the light casting off your torch finally illuminates the figure on the bicycle. 

“Major Egan,” You greet him, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. He has no reason to be here. There’s nothing down this road but the building with the nurses’ quarters. It’s not the first time you’ve encountered Major Egan somewhere he has no reason to be. But you, as an army nurse and merely a first lieutenant, are not about to question him on that.

“You shouldn’t be walking here alone at night, lieutenant,” He tells you, stopping next to you. You stop, too, taking a good look at him—because why wouldn’t you—as he gets off his bike. 

A little too friendly, a little too forward. His bright, sharp blue eyes are contrasted by luscious dark curls and that devilish smile. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a confident grace, he is hard to miss. And if you were to somehow overlook him in a crowd, he commands, demands, attention. There is something dangerously magnetic about him, something electric.

You best keep your distance.

“Don’t worry about me, please, Major,” You reply politely. “It’s not late, and I know the way,” 

“Are you done for today?” He asks conversationally, smiling, his eyes crinkling happily. The tips of his ears are red from the cold. In the middle of a quiet road, in the dark, in freezing temperatures, it’s an odd place for polite conversation.

“Yes, I’m heading back to my quarters,” You smile. “Long day,” You add, hoping to cut the conversation short, desperately trying to suppress the full body shiver from the cold. You notice with some envy that Major Egan seems wonderfully unbothered by the biting wind in his sheepskin jacket. You nod at him, turning back in the direction you had been heading, gingerly taking a step. Hopefully, he gets the hint.

“I could give you a ride,” 

You stop dead in your tracks, looking back at him wide-eyed. 

“I’m heading in the same direction, so you’d get there quicker,” He beams at you with that brilliant smile, patting the carrier at the back of the bike. Instinctively, you start shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from vocalizing your thoughts.

You’d be out of the wind. You’d be in the warm faster. You’d have to get close to Major Egan and hold on to him. You bet that that sheepskin jacket is nice and warm. You bet Major Egan is nice and warm.

“Isn’t that the bike you almost lost an eye for?” Your sense of self-preservation is stronger, has to be stronger, than any magnetic force or joking flirtation from Major John Egan.

“Almost?” He seems surprised you brought it up but recovers quickly. “I remember it differently — it was a bullseye, not my eye,” 

He looks at you like he’s expecting you to laugh with him, but you just blink in disbelief. That’s an awful joke. For a mere second, in the reflected light of your torch, you see his smile falter—he’s smart; he knew that was a dud. You purse your lips.

“I suppose I like my rides without stories of near-eye trauma attached,” You muse. It’s such a flimsy excuse.  

“Do you think it’s bad luck?” It’s a chillingly honest question, and all cheer has suddenly disappeared from his voice. You pause to think. It hadn’t really occurred to you that Major Egan might be a particularly superstitious man; somehow, he didn’t seem the type. But in these times, superstition creeps up on even the most staunch rationalists.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” you finally admit, eyeing him carefully. He frowns, suddenly unsure of the gravity of the conversation through his own too-candid question. “I would just hate to encourage any of that sort of behavior,” You add lightly.

“So, you would have accepted if I had a different bike?” He sounds on the precipice of hopeful, but the laughter in his voice is evident again. He changes so quickly and bounces back from everything in a mere second — it’s all a joke, after all. He’ll do you a favor and then jokingly ask for a kiss. And then maybe another. And then he’ll move on to whatever or whoever catches his eye next. 

You wrinkle your nose. No. You’re not interested, you repeat to yourself. If you were, you might as well have stayed at home and practiced your good graces at dinner parties. You joined the Army Nurse Corps because you wanted to do something, mean something.

“I’m going now,” You clench your jaw to stop your teeth from clattering. “Good night, Major Egan,”

“Suit yourself, lieutenant,” He grins, undeterred, as he watches you turn on your heel, huddling into yourself to protect yourself from the wind. Truthfully, Bucky wasn’t expecting that you would accept his offer. If anything, he wanted to see how you’d react: your replies are always calm and composed, so very proper, but you have a bad poker face. From the way you scrunch up your nose in annoyance to how the corner of your mouth sometimes threatens to pull into a smile at his jokes. And Bucky notices that your gaze lingers just slightly longer than would be polite, although nothing coming out of your mouth would corroborate that. It’s adorable. It’s intriguing. And he knows you won’t make it easy on him.

But that’s not why he keeps thinking about you. That’s not why he goes out of his way to look for you.

You suddenly took root in his thoughts only a few weeks back. It had been a bad day. Worse than Bucky had seen in a while, there had been many bad days lately. 

Being Air Exec has some perks, mostly that other people don’t really question why he’s wandering the halls of the infirmary at the dead of night. In the hallway, set up on provisional cots, medics are asleep, still fully dressed. They just collapsed on the first soft spot the moment they could. He can hardly blame them.

His footsteps echo through the dark rooms. The wounded men in the beds are fast asleep — it’s eerily quiet except for the occasional snore. 

He’s not sure why he’s here. Maybe it’s to assuage some of the guilt he’s feeling — he’s fine after all. He didn’t go up with them, after all. Maybe because he needs to see the pain with his own eyes, afraid that he’ll forget.

The doctor on duty is doing rounds, his desk empty, when Bucky slips through the swinging double doors to where the heaviest casualties are put up. The air in the room feels different—heavier. It’s not quiet—labored breathing, raspy, sometimes gurgling, groans of pain in artificial sleep. He really shouldn’t be here. 

All beds are full.

It’s been a really bad day.

It’s there that he notices you first: sitting on the floor, arms crossed and tucked up against yourself, head leaning against the wall, and legs bent at an uncomfortable angle. In the first second, he thinks someone fell out of their bed. But as Bucky gets closer, he recognizes you — the seersucker cotton dress, the matching cap now crumpled and skewed on your head, and the clearly scuffed and dirty white oxfords. You are one of the OR nurses.

He’s seen you around, just in passing. In chaos between casualties, just from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, you showed up at dances or parties, and Bucky had noticed your cute laugh from across the room, the way your entire face lit up when you smiled. And he knows he’s not the only one who has noticed the delightful sway of your hips as you walk, evident even through your dress uniform. But you made damn sure to make yourself unavailable by sticking with your girlfriends. He’s never seen you accept a drink or dance with someone.

Your mouth is slightly open as you breathe deeply, your form cast in the pale moonlight peeking through the sides of the blinds. Bucky wouldn’t let a woman sleep on the floor in normal circumstances, but in this case, waking you up would be cruel — there isn’t a bed free in the whole hospital. And even bad sleep is better than no sleep.

He moves past you carefully, mentally putting names to all the men here. Those that made it. That’s a good thing, right? They made it. Bucky doesn’t recognize the figure moaning in pain louder and louder, hands desperately grasping at the neatly tucked-in covers —  his entire head is covered with a thick layer of white bandages, not even leaving a slit for his eyes, just a small opening for his mouth. He hesitates before his curiosity takes over and moves by the side of the bed to look closer. It’s a good thing, right?

He should do something to help him.

Bucky is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice you brushing past him. He almost jumps out of his skin when your torch suddenly clicks on at the foot of the bed. You are bleary-eyed, blinking rapidly as your eyes fly over the patient chart. 

“He is due for a new round of pain medication,” You state softly, voice still thick with sleep, before looking up at Bucky. “Major,” is all you say in acknowledgment of him.

“Nurse—lieutenant,” He mumbles in reply, increasingly on edge from the patient’s distress. “What are you—” Before he can start running his mouth in confused ramble, you trust the torch at him.

“Hold this, please, Major,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the noises easily in its steadiness and calmness. The small torch is now in his hand, your fingers brushing over his palm unintentionally as you move through the dark. It’s like a small spark burned the spot where your fingertip touches his skin. “Up, please,”

Bucky complies, shining the light from a high angle as you prepare a syringe. You look exhausted, but nothing in your movement betrays that. Clinical, precise, and so calm. He watches you speak softly to your patient, your free hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, a syringe poised in the other. But the patient is struggling harder, too panicked, and in too much pain. 

It happens in a split second.

The patient sits up so quickly that Bucky almost stumbles back in surprise. The patient now has an iron grip on your lower arm, white knuckles, moving in a blind frenzy, pulling you clean off your feet, half over the bed. You yelp in as much surprise as in pain as your knee collides with the metal bed frame. Your face is contorted in pain as you struggle back, trying to regain your footing. 

“It’s okay, I’m here to help you,” You keep repeating patiently. Never let them know you are scared: they can’t calm down if you are not in control.

Your voice doesn’t waver one bit. Bucky clenches the small torch between his teeth, trying to free your arm from the patient’s grip. 

“N- no” You breathe, clearly in pain now. “Please, Major, just help me to hold him still,” 

You are still holding the syringe, poised to strike. Grabbing the patient by the shoulder and forcing him back against the pillow. In the struggle, the torch falls from his mouth. It clatters on the tile floor and rolls away. He is so focused on his task that it’s almost by surprise when the struggle ends within a few seconds, and the patient drifts off again. He never saw you give the injection.

You both stand there, breathing heavily. Bucky bends down to retrieve the torch from the floor. It’s still shining, although it flickers uncertainly with every move. When he straightens back up, he catches you looking at your arm, the brown sleeve of your vest rolled up messily. When you realize he’s looking at you, you pull the sleeve back down and busy yourself tucking the patient back in. But Bucky has seen the angry red fingerprints imprinted on your forearm.

“Thank you, Major Egan,” Not a quiver in your tone, although your breathing has barely slowed down. “It’s probably best you go now,” 

“Are you alright?” He cannot help but ask, gaze traveling to your arm. He can’t help but notice you must have been issued a vest a size up, as the sleeves are a bit too long on you. It’s adorable.

“Please don’t worry about me,” You reply, smiling, but it’s clearly a deflection. The corners of your mouth are quirked up, but your eyes just spell tired. “You should try to get some rest, Major. The sun will be up soon,”

There is a certain sense of irony in you telling him that. At least he has a bed to go to, you think wryly. You start walking towards the ward exit, signaling he should follow you. 

“Will you be okay here by yourself, lieutenant?” It’s not his place to worry about you, but you are just… you. And these men are in pain, scared, and -

“The doctor will be back from his rounds soon,” Your soft voice pulls Bucky from his thoughts. You stand at the door, holding it open for him. If he hadn’t just seen that chaos happen, he would have never guessed by your demeanor anything happened.  As he passes you, you salute him. He salutes you back, gazing over to you. The tips of your fingers are shaking. 

The thought is sudden and overwhelming: he wants to lace his fingers through yours, pull you against him, and hold you until you stop shaking.

“Goodnight, Major,” You whisper with a pointed look. You want him out of here so you can check on your throbbing knee and painful arm away from his prying eyes.

“Goodnight, lieutenant,” He replies, tearing his eyes away from you.

***

In early spring, it seems like the rain never stops, from semi-permanent drizzle to raindrops rhythmically ticking against the window pane to the torrential downpour you find yourself in now. The drab-colored trench coat is putting up a valiant fight to keep you dry.

You’re holding your purse over your head but to no avail. The cold trickle of water from your sodden hair travels down your spine. You’re trailing behind your friends, who are making good time through the storm. Water sloshes in your left boot, making it heavy, the drenched woolen sock rubbing painfully against your foot. 

Then you hear it. The all too-happy ding of a bicycle bell. 

You try to walk faster, gritting your teeth, but Major Egan has caught up with you in just seconds. You don’t stop to greet him, just glancing over at him with narrowed eyes. Gracefully, he jumps off the bike, matching your pace by foot easily. His dark curls are plastered to his forehead, his cap sagging under the weight of the water it must have absorbed. He shouldn’t look this good, sopping wet, especially when you feel so wretched.

“Lieutenant, I could get you where you need to be a whole lot quicker,” he calls out.

“No, thank you, Major,” Your tone is polite, but you keep walking, falling behind further and further from your friends as your left boot squelches with every step. You know he noticed. 

“You’re really not going to take me up on the offer? Even in this downpour?” 

“Most drops miss,” You can’t keep the scowl off your face as you march on. 

“You are so unbelievably stubborn,” He laughs. You don’t think you’re stubborn; you just don’t like feeling like your hand is being forced. 

“I don’t need you to save me, Major.” You tell him evenly, finally stopping and turning to him. You know your friends noticed you stopping but probably figured they were doing you a favor and kept going. 

Bucky regards you carefully — you look miserable. The curl has long been rained out of your hair; rivulets of water running down your face, dripping on the collar of your trench coat. The steep downturn of the corners of your mouth pretty much just seals the deal. But despite all the evidence, you would never admit you’re anything but fine. 

“Save you?” He sounds incredulous. Like the thought never even crossed his mind. 

You bite your lip — you might have said too much. But you are afraid that he might ask you for something if you owe Major Egan a favor. He will ask you for something. And you won’t be strong enough to tell him no maybe because you want him to ask. Who wouldn’t?

You’ve seen him look at you from across the room before, and when you scrape together the courage to meet his gaze, it’s like electricity. Short, intense, and almost painful. And then he looks away, his attention turning so fleetingly. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Forget it,” You mumble, clearly embarrassed. Closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, you wish nothing about this moment was happening right now. When you peek through your lashes at Major Egan, you note he looks concerned.

“For what it’s worth,” He clears his throat, not a trace of humor in his voice. “I never considered you to require saving, lieutenant.” 

You keep looking at him sharply, finally shaking your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.” 

There is something deeply absurd about the whole conversation. Just tell him no. Just bid him goodnight and leave. Why are you even entertaining him with your feelings on this? And it’s clearly entertainment to him.

“I’m going to my quarters now, Major,” You state, feeling the need to be polite despite your increasingly impolite feelings about the situation. “And you’re going in the wrong direction,” You add pointedly as you start walking again. It feels like you have an entire puddle in your boot now.

“So what would you prefer, lieutenant? A more classic approach?” That devastatingly handsome grin is back on his face again as he walks beside you. How is that what he took from your last statement? Your shoulders sag when you feel the butterflies in your stomach. “At the next dance, I buy you a drink and sweep you off your feet on the dance floor?” 

“I might be more agreeable when it’s not freezing or raining,” You sigh like it’s paining you to admit it. Maybe he’s imagining it, but Bucky likes to think he saw the shadow of a smile pass over your face as you say it, even though your voice is painfully neutral. 

“Is that a yes?” Again, that hopeful edge. 

“No,” You reply curtly, but you feel bad the moment you say it because you see his smile fall — he’s staring at you somewhere between confusion and growing frustration. It’s making you feel bad. A horrible little selfish part of you wants him to only smile at you. Major Egan could light up a room with that smile — he regularly does. The selfish little monster in you wants to be the reason that he smiles like that. 

“Ask me again at the dance, Major,” You amend carefully.

The way his face breaks out in that broad, beaming smile makes you weak at the knees. 

***

Bucky is on pins and needles tonight. Even Buck, usually so even-tempered, is getting irritated with him. Drumming his fingers on the bar, tapping his foot not to the beat of the music but to blow off some of the anxious energy. People are flittering in and out of the hall, but there is no sign of you yet. He’s going through his whiskey too quickly, and it’s doing very little to calm his anticipation.

After an hour of only half-listening to the conversation going on around him, constantly glancing at his watch, he finally sees the pack of nurses come in. Bucky’s heart drops a little because you aren’t with the group. You’re always with that group. Knocking back the rest of his drink, he resolutely makes his way to the table now occupied by five gossiping nurses. All eyes are on him as he approaches.

“Good evening, ladies,” He smiles, eyes searching the table. All chairs are occupied — clearly, your friends aren’t saving you a seat. A chorus of good evenings and giggles comes in reply.

“How can we help you, Major Egan?” A blonde nurse asks, peering up through her lashes.

“I’m actually looking for my favorite nurse,” He replies easily, holding his smile despite feeling mildly annoyed. When he mentiones your name, another chorus of giggles. 

“I thought I was your favorite nurse,” One of the girls pipes up. The girls burst out laughing.

“She’s on the night shift,” An earnest, young-looking nurse cuts in, pushing up her glasses. Bucky doesn’t really recognize her — she must be quite new. “I asked to switch shifts because I haven’t been to a dance here before.”

“You should have found someone from the afternoon shift,” the blonde nurse sighs in a bored tone. “The poor girl is putting in a double shift now,”

“No one else would switch with me,” The bespectacled nurse defends herself with a small voice.

Bucky should be annoyed. Did you scheme this out on purpose? You run so hot and cold between your lingering looks and thinly veiled barbs. But then again. Of course, you would switch shifts with the new girl out of kindness. You slept on the floor to stay close to those most needed care. Doc sang your praises in the officer’s mess regularly for staying late to finish inventory, covering in emergencies, and keeping the OR running smoothly. Kindly caring for everyone around you.

He should be annoyed. But instead, he feels jealous. It’s a horrible feeling. But you cared more about the new girl than him? Is it really so bad that he wants your kind attention aimed at him? That he wants to be your choice? You wouldn’t even give him a shot. 

It just won’t do. But now, at least, he knows where to find you.

At the end of the dark hall, a faint light. A lone lamp on a lone desk, with a lone nurse sitting at it. You hear him coming, of course. Your bright eyes look straight at him as he emerges from the darkness. You are already getting up out of your chair, ready to greet him, notes and medical textbook forgotten on the desk.

“Good evening, Major Egan,” you greet him, your voice soft. Your gentle tone carries sweetly through the quiet hall. You didn’t expect him to come find you. It feels far too serious, far too earnest. You haven’t seen or spoken to Major Egan for over a week now, and for your own sake, you decide that he hadn’t been serious—that you hadn’t been serious. It was just banter.

Truthfully, you were slightly relieved the new girl asked you to switch shifts. But as you sat at the duty desk by yourself, blankly staring at the pages of your medical textbook, your stomach twisted painfully with regret. 

“Good evening, lieutenant -” you cut him off with a sharp shush, tapping your index finger against your lips. You step a bit closer to him, voice a sweet whisper. “Please keep it down,” 

A beat of silence as you’re both clearly uncomfortable in the strange situation you have suddenly found yourself in.

“How can I help you, Major?” You whisper politely as your eyes nervously, guiltily, dart around the room—anywhere but him. He looks sharp in his dress uniform. He smells nice. He clearly made an effort. And you’re standing here in your day-old hospital uniform. Self-consciously, you try to straighten the standard-issue white and brown stripe wrap-around dress. 

“I came looking for my favorite nurse,” Bucky replies sincerely, eyes boring into yours. 

“Then you must not be looking for me,” The words tumble out before you can stop yourself. Bucky nearly bursts out laughing at the pained look that crosses your face as you clamp your mouth shut. 

“I was waiting for you to show up at the dance,” He says with that same heavy sincerity. His stance is casual, hands in pockets and shoulders relaxed. But the way he fidgets — tapping and shuffling his foot — as he waits for you to reply hints that he is not nearly as calm as he’d like to appear.

“I had to stay,” You reply, still avoiding his gaze. It’s a half-truth. You could have said no. But the new girl seemed to want to go to the dance more badly than you did. It felt unfair. And you had convinced yourself quite thoroughly that Major Egan wouldn’t care or notice anyway.

Another silence falls. Neither quite sure where to go from here.

“How are the boys doing?” Bucky asks conversationally, reaching out to the large doors leading into the intensive care unit. On a whim, you grab his hand before he touches the handle, your fingers gently wrapping over the top of his large hand. He stills, and for a moment, you think he’ll shake your hand off his. But instead, he waits in acceptance.

“It won’t help you,” You whisper. It took you a while to figure out why Major Egan was in the hospital that night. When people spoke of him, they spoke of how much he cared for his men — a heavy burden to bear.

“Help me?” His voice is suddenly loud. He is offended at the notion that he’s doing it for himself and offended that you called him out like that. He opens his mouth again to argue with you.

Startled by the volume, your brain misfires fully, and instead of replying, your free hand reaches out to his face, your index finger landing on his soft lips to silence him. He stares at you wide-eyed. You are sure you look as shocked as he does. You try to gather your thoughts quickly.

“I - I understand,” You implore him in an urgent whisper, finally looking at him. Bucky sees his own sorrow reflected in your eyes. 

Sometimes, you can only wait. There is no next round of medicine; there is no operation that will help. Waiting for the body to do its work can be frustrating and maddeningly slow.

“But there is nothing you can do now, so going in won’t help you or them,” You swallow. Why is your finger still on his lips, and why is he letting you do that? “They need to rest. You need to rest.”

His fingers lace through yours as he steps closer. It’s inappropriate how close he is standing to you. It’s inappropriate how the tips of your fingers caress the seam of his lips. It’s inappropriate how your hand has latched onto his, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the pulse point of your wrist.

“I don’t need rest.” His voice is soft and close. The intimacy of his lips moving against your fingers is intense, each breath setting your nerve endings on fire. He leans into your touch, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. Finally, you look at him.

“Then what do you need?” Your question comes automatically. Always looking for how to help. Always so kind. He could melt into your soft touch, warm voice, and how you look at him so sweetly.

“I need to know when you’re done here so I can sweep you off your feet,” His eyes meet yours, keenly following your every move. 

You want to take a step back and break the increasingly feverish connection, away from his oddly earnest confession, but Bucky pulls you closer with a small tug on your hand. Your head is swimming; your heart is hammering in your chest. You shouldn’t entertain any of this, but it feels like your heart is pouring out of your mouth.

“My shift ends at 0500,” 

Bucky grins at you—not in a teasing way, but with that infectious broad smile—the one you cannot help but smile back. It gives you butterflies. You’re smiling at him now, beautifully, genuinely. It feels like a victory to Bucky.

“I’ll keep the party going if you promise me the last dance.” His voice is low and inviting; he is reeling you in further with every word.

“Don’t torture everyone on my account, please,” You feebly try to inject some levity into the situation. You know yourself well enough: you are no match for John Egan and his attentions. From sparks across the room, now it’s like you’ve touched the live wire, and the current has a hold on you. That’s why you always avoided him so.  

“Torture? Darling, it’s a party,” He needles you gently, eyes glinting merrily. “Only you would equate that to torture.” 

“Major -,” “Bucky,” He interjects. You blink at him, biting your lip. 

“Bucky, please,” The moment you utter his name, so beguilingly, so breathlessly, he presses your palm against his face fully, his hand covering yours. He needs you closer. The golden buttons of his jacket brush against the front of your dress. His lips press against the soft flesh of your hand as he studies your reaction. The hitch in your breath is embarrassingly loud to your ears. 

“Please, what?” 

“Don’t torment me like this,” It sounds even more pathetic when you say it out loud. And exactly as you’d expect, the admission of your weakness, the slightest chink in your armor, is an in for him. 

“How do I torment you, exactly?” His voice is so warm, so encouraging. 

“You take far too much pleasure in making fun of me, for one,” You try to play it off in a last-ditch attempt. But under his heated gaze, his breath brushing on the sensitive skin of your wrist, you falter. You frown before you utter in a small voice: “It’s not nice how you toy with me, Bucky, because it’s obvious that… that it’s just a joke to you, and your idea of a joke could get me dismissed, and sent home,”

You look down at your shoes, embarrassed. You want to pull away, but Bucky is not allowing you an inch of slack.

“It’s not a joke to me.” He sounds surprised. You look up at him, unable to keep the skepticism off your face. “It wasn’t a joke from that night I saw how calmly you handled that panicked patient, the moment you saluted me with those shaky fingers, and then every time you denied my help, you stubborn, stubborn girl,” His face is so close to yours now; a finger tracing down the side of your neck, down, just along the collar of your dress, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The way your hand rests on his cheek, you could pull him even closer if you wanted to. “I’ve wanted to grab hold of you, wrap you around me-”

Footsteps. You pull back from Bucky with a jerky movement, who mercifully releases you immediately, stumbling back two steps, almost hitting the desk with your legs. It’s strangely cold suddenly without his hands wrapped around yours, without him so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Blood is rushing in your ears. Bucky looks too collected, but to your relief, you spy a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

So it wasn’t just you.

Hands folded, you take another furtive step back behind the desk, making sure there’s a respectable distance between you as the doctor on duty turns the corner. Bucky and the doctor start talking in low voices, but you are not listening. In your mind, you keep returning to his words, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. 

That night on the ward. That was the first time you spoke and saw each other in more than passing. That’s when Bucky suddenly formed this habit of popping in places he had no business of being. Places you happened to frequent. You really hadn’t been vain enough to consider that the common denominator in those situations was you. It had to be a coincidence that he had just turned into a joke. 

“Nurse,” The doctor turns to you, handing you his clipboard. You nearly jump out of your skin, being so lost in thought. “Please update the log,”

“Yes, doctor,” You nod, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. The men start leaving, still talking. 

“Good night, lieutenant,” Bucky turns to you, unable to keep the cocky smile off his face. Before he turns, he winks at you. It makes your knees so weak you nearly collapse back into your chair. Covering your face with your hands, you try to focus, but the smile won’t come off your face.

Seven more hours until your shift ends.

***

It’s a misty summer morning, dew covering every inch. The sun is just breaking through the clouds, and it’s promising to be a beautiful day.

When you leave the infirmary, you blink against the early morning sun. It’s still so early that few people are around. You hesitate. Surely, the party is not still going on. You wouldn’t put it past Bucky to actually do it. Rubbing your eyes and yawning, you’re unsure if you could even stay on your feet long enough for a dance.  

Luckily, you don’t have to make a choice. 

The sound of the bicycle bell makes you smile now. Bucky’s looking remarkably fresh and well-rested. The party clearly didn’t go that far into the night. He dressed for duty, his signature sheepskin jacket hanging open.

“Are you going my way, darling?” 

You purse your lips because you’re fighting to keep the smile off your tired face. You don’t stand a chance. You dart over to him like you are pulled by a magnetic force, the live current arching between you.

Sliding onto the back of the bike, you grab handfuls of the thick sheepskin to steady yourself, trying to find your equilibrium. Bucky’s large, warm hands encircle your wrists and easily pull your hands off his jacket. Instead, he gently nudges you forward by your arms, tucking them under the side of his jacket, wrapping your arms around his waist. The side of your face is resting against his back. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, resting just under his sternum; you move along with his every breath.

“Ready?” Bucky peers over his shoulder. 

“Hm–mh,” You hum in reply, face buried in the folds of Bucky’s jacket. “Drop me off before the last turn?” You mumble, gazing up at him pleadingly. “Matron will be awake and on the prowl by now,”

“Don’t worry, darling,” His free hand wraps over yours, pressing a kiss on your knuckles. “I’m not going to get you into any trouble,”

“I’m holding you to that,” You yawn, wrapping yourself around him tighter. You’re going to make the most of this moment — the quiet morning, the soft sheepskin, the smell of Bucky’s aftershave. 

You drift in and out of sleep, even though the trip by bike is tortuously short. After almost twenty hours on shift, you should be allowed this comfort. Whining in protest as Bucky starts to unlatch your arms from him, you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it. 

You slide off the back of the bike, ignoring where the metal was jabbing into your backside on the bumpy road, and rub your eyes, trying to get rid of the haze in your vision. A small yelp escapes you as Bucky tugs you against him by the tie at the waist of your wraparound seersucker dress. The bike lays forgotten in the grass by the side of the road. All the tension and anticipation from last night are suddenly back — you feel wide awake again.

Bucky’s fingers are resting lightly against your waist like he is testing the waters, slowly, gently guiding you closer to him until you are inches away from him. Automatically, your hands sneak back up his jacket, running up his sides to the front of his chest. He is so warm against the crisp morning air. 

“Are you going to ask me for a kiss now?” It comes out almost naively as you look up at him. God, you hope he says yes.

“I promised not to get you into trouble,” He teases gently, grinning, inclining his face closer anyway, his lips just ghosting over the corner of your mouth. He is rewarded with a shuddering sigh from you — his grip on your waist tightens, prompting you to close the remaining distance between you. 

“This, of course, is perfectly innocent,” Only you could be looking at him with those big eyes, full of want, your curious fingers roaming over his chest, and still speak so earnestly. Bucky buries his face in the crook of your neck, shaking from laughter. You wrap yourself around him, head buzzing. It’s like you’re short-circuiting, sparks flying with every move, every breath. 

Bucky nips at the sensitive flesh of your neck, hoping to elicit more of those small sounds from you. If it weren’t for the quiet morning, remnants of mist dissolving in the first light, he would have missed the softest moan of his name that falls from your lips. He could do this all day. Just explore every move of your body against his, every way you can say his name, every touch that brings you closer to him. You move in effortless synchronicity with him, purely on instinct. 

“Then it’s trouble you want, darling?” Bucky murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw.

“It’s only trouble if we get caught,” You reply breathlessly. 

His finger is under your chin, tilting your face up to him, and finally, Bucky’s lips find yours. For a second, it’s just that: his lips pressed softly, almost chastely, against yours. You push yourself up on your tiptoes to get more leverage, wrapping your arm around his neck. Your other hand stays pressed against his chest, fisting his shirt, feeling how his heartbeat speeds up as you open your mouth for him with a sigh. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss, cupping your face. His other hand is roaming boldly over your back, applying light pressure on your spine so you arch into him, skimming just over the curve of your behind, playfully tugging at the ribbon of your wraparound dress. He knows exactly what he is doing and how to get exactly what he wants from you, and you’re more than eager to please.

Your mouth starts to tentatively explore the column of his neck as he whispers your name longingly, encouraging your little adventure. When your lips touch a particularly sensitive spot right under his ear, Bucky hisses — you can feel his muscles clench. It’s exhilarating; he feels the sparks as much as you do. Bucky doesn’t allow you to bask in your small victory too long, greedily capturing your mouth with his again, wrapping you around him, tucking you against him. His soft touch turns feverish, grasping at your hip. You match in kind, nails grazing the nape of his neck, just along his hairline — anything to keep the tension, the current arching.

You can feel the sunshine on your skin and see it through closed eyes. Breathlessly, you pull away just a fraction — Bucky’s lips are still ghosting over yours. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asks so softly you’re unsure if you heard or felt the words against your lips.

“I have to go,” You mumble as you move to stand feet flat on the ground again. It’s like waking up from a dream. Time is getting away from you. You’re not ready to pull away from Bucky yet, wanting to stretch the moment out. You gently fix his collar, running your hands over his front once more, as much in an attempt to straighten out the wrinkles you left on his shirt as to feel him move under your palm again. When he steps away from you, you release a shuddering breath. You feel like you’ve just been hit by lighting. 

“I’ll come find you,” He winks at you, grinning. Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture feels intimate, more personal, than you could have imagined.

It was everything you feared happening when you said yes to John Egan. It was everything you dreamed it to be. As you watch him leave, you know that you’ll have a damn hard time giving that up. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

note: this was literally supposed to be a quick 2k words fun meet cute kind of thing, just a quick adventure Morty, but oh god I'm in too deep. forgive me for this detour from Of All The Stars in The Sky, but it was necessary, you understand.

About this Blog

Welcome!! My name is MJ and this is my little archive of hyper fixations! (Seriously, I cycle through media like it's no joke— it might be a problem . . .) I'm 21, I work full time and take care of my family and I'm also working on starting my own art business.

Over the years, writing (and reading) has been crucial to my mental health and something I've always turned to for comfort. I've lost touch while life has gotten in the way and I've become too busy to truly immerse myself into my own creativity. But, I really want to get back into writing and find that passion again— sharing it with like minded people is the best way that I know how. Come with me for the ride?

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Minors do NOT interact as I often reblog other writers' NSFW work and may even begin to write some of my own in the future. I will block anyone without their age posted in their bio. Thank you for understanding :)

Remember you are in charge or your own media consumption.

Get To Know Me MORE!

I hate choosing a favorite color because genuinely it changes every day, but a notable mention is definitely a lovely dark cherry/maroon red or a deep plum purple ♡

Lately, I've really been into the ACOTAR series, Arcane, Supernatural, Marvel, Harry Potter and Hogwarts Legacy (fuck JKR tho wtf is wrong with her), Stranger Things, Star Wars, TASM, and plenty of other fandoms

My top favorite movies include (but aren't limited to), Brandon Lee's The Crow, The Last Unicorn, Interview With The Vampire, and Pulp Fiction

I listen to a lot of Radiohead, Weezer, The Cranberries, Mazzy Star, Sugar Ray, Arctic Monkeys, MCR, Deftones, Ghost, No Doubt, and TV Girl (manipulator music fr, smh)

I have two kittens and a dog and they are the sweetest ever ♡

this is so sweet i just might burst

healing

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 5,445

warnings: swearing, smoking, mentions of past trauma (starcourt), slight sexual innuendos??

a/n: hi! remember when i made you do a poll for my 1k celebration? and one bed with billy won? well this is that fic! i'm sorry it took so long to get here, but school was kicking the ever loving shit out of me. anyways, i really hope you like it. it's a little different than other fics i've written, but i think that's a good thing. just for context, this is post the end of season three, with billy and hopper being okay and jopper being in full swing. i think that's all i wanted to say. thanks again for 1k followers. that's still so wild to me. i love you. and billy loves you too <333

————

November 1985

“No.”

“What do you mean no? You just fought an interdimensional being, don’t you want a vacation?” 

Lucas wipes both hands down his face, flopping down on the arm of the couch beside where Max sits with El between her knees, tying off one of the two braids she’s trying to make. 

“Max, can you help me? Please?” Lucas has been arguing about this for fifteen minutes. 

She rolls her eyes, but looks up from her work nonetheless. “Billy.”

The man in question crosses his arms, locking eyes with the redhead. “Maxine.”

Max finishes Eleven’s braid and she hops up to join Will where he’s working on a puzzle. Joyce brought it home from work a few days ago, and it’s been spread out on a card table in the corner of the living room since then. Will couldn’t watch The Golden Girls with Joyce from the kitchen table. 

“Just come with us, Billy. We all know you hate it here. It’ll give you a chance to get away for a little while.”

Except that’s not totally the truth. He doesn’t hate it here. Not with you around. 

“There’s a pool.” Will looks up, a little shyly, from the puzzle, fingers flipping around a single piece. “At the place Robin found.” 

Billy nods, and it’s enough to make Will smile at the acknowledgment. 

It’d been Steve’s idea, after everything that happened in July. He thought everyone going on a trip together might be a good idea. Go a little ways out from home, calm down. 

You and Billy started going to school, though Billy is still working. He found a job at a record store across the street from Melvald’s that opened after the mall went to shit. It definitely wasn’t his first choice, but it works. And he’s slowly fixing up the Camaro. 

Steve had offered to pay for the repairs in full, considering he did most of the damage when he rammed the side of it, but Billy couldn’t handle that. So far Max has only convinced him to let Steve cover the really expensive parts. It hurts Billy more than he’d care to admit—having Steve Harrington give him money. 

But he can’t lie, going somewhere away from Hawkins, even just for a couple days, sounds really nice. It’s the group part that’s bothering him. He’s still not used to everyone wanting him to tag along, but apparently major trauma brings people together.

There’s the slamming of car doors, and footsteps running up the driveway before the door swings open, Robin bursting in with a stack of movies in her arms. She’s followed by Dustin and then Steve, bags and keys being tossed every which way. 

Billy doesn’t see you for a moment and starts to worry maybe you aren’t coming. He’s already supplying excuses for having to go home, but Steve left the door ajar, and after a moment, there you are. 

You look sleepy, footsteps the quietest of everyone else as you carefully push the Byers’ door shut behind you. He watches as you accept a hug from Eleven, overhears her ask, “how did your test go?” 

He’s happy to hear you tell her it went well. It’s only after you’ve looked at her and Will’s puzzle and snapped a few more corner pieces in that you make a beeline for the open spot on the couch beside Billy. 

When you’ve settled, your knee bumps against his. “Hey.”

He looks at you, a little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His arms are still crossed, thumb playing with the pendant resting on his chest. A chest surprisingly covered by a sweater, though the sleeves are pushed up. 

“Hey. Glad your test is over?”

That sound of his voice makes you smile, and he’s never been so grateful for something, even if it’s just an expression. “Yeah.”

You glance down at the new tattoo on his arm, a dark colored snake wrapping around the skin covering his elbow. You run your thumb across the tail that flicks across his forearm, and Billy relaxes into your touch. 

“You have work today?”

Billy shakes his head. You’re glad he had the day off. And you’d tell him so if it weren’t for the sudden bombardment. 

Lucas is suddenly standing in front of you, having returned from the kitchen where you think he and Dustin may have been cleaning out Joyce’s fridge. 

“Holy shit, thank god you’re here. I need you to convince Billy to go on vacation.” 

You glance at Max, assuming she’s already tried. She looks rather annoyed. “Lucas, would you sit down?”

The boy looks at Max, and she glares at him. Clearly he knows better and sits down next to her. 

“Billy doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do,” you finally say. 

The man in question turns to face you. You have to lean your head back some because of how close he is. 

“Are you going?” he asks, voice quiet and thick with something you don’t know that you’re supposed to notice. 

“Y-yeah. I was gonna. Robin only went on about it to me for an hour over the phone last night. I just think it might be nice to get away for a little while.” Billy doesn’t break eye contact with you, and while it makes you a little nervous, it tells you he’s listening.

“And I can watch Max for you if you really don’t want to go. Just make sure she doesn’t kill Lucas or anything.” Max snorts at your response, though Lucas looks at her in panic, already calculating how best to prevent that sort of situation. 

Your gaze softens and you fight the urge to reach out and run your thumb across Billy’s cheek. 

Please come with us. I want you to go. I want you there, you think. But it’s not what you say. You don’t know how badly he needs to hear it. 

“You really don’t have to go, Billy. Not if you don’t want to.”

“But there is enough space, man.” Steve stands behind the couch, handing El a scrunchie he retrieved from her bag. His voice is calm, informative. “If you decide to go. There’s plenty of room, and we’d be happy if you did.”

Billy could make some smartass remark. But he won’t. He knows that Steve is being honest, and that he’s not trying to be a dick. It seems that witnessing the guy who beat the shit out of you almost die not even a year after he moved to town really brings you together. 

Billy gives an acknowledging nod. “I’d be very happy if you did,” Eleven says. She loves having Jonathan as an older brother, really she does, but Billy lets her play with his hair. And in her books, that really ups the scale. 

He smiles at her, and El considers that a win. 

You notice him shift next to you, and then he’s leaning forward to whisper in your ear. “Come with me?” He cocks his head in the direction of the door. 

He gets up, assuming you’ll follow him. You always do. 

When you’ve shut the door, you move to the porch swing. It’s your favorite spot out here, and Joyce says it makes her happy to see someone use it. She used to sit there with Will in the mornings after Jonathan left for school and read to him. She did the same with Jonathan, but he was a much more fidgety kid, wanting to find something else to do. 

Billy lights a cigarette, and you watch where he fidgets with the ring on his middle finger. 

He’s standing a little ways away from you so as to not breathe the smoke directly in your vicinity, but you wish so badly that he was closer. You like having him close. The weight of his body next to you, the warmth, how solid his arm feels when it’s pressed to yours or when he slides down on the couch some and it's more so pressed to your side. 

“Which part of it are you worried about?” you ask him. 

He shrugs. “You really think they want me there? You think Max wants me around?” “Billy, I know she does. And I know that voice in your head is telling you that it’s a pity invite, but it’s not. And, besides…” you trail off, but he’s not having that. He needs you to reassure him. 

“Besides what?” 

You look up at him. “I want you to go. And yeah, I’ll be sad if you don’t go, but that shouldn’t sway your decision either.” You push your feet against the concrete porch a little harder, and the swing responds to the movement. You move quicker, now feeling very pleased with yourself. 

Billy almost laughs at the child-like look on your face, but you look so at home on the swing that he holds it in. A grin escapes nonetheless. 

“Say that again.” He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray either Hopper or Joyce have left outside. He’s watching you again. 

“What?” He’s not gonna let you go all shy on him now. He needed to hear that. He needs to hear it. 

“You know what.”

“I want you to go.”

“Then it’s settled. Need to get out of this shithole anyways.”

————

The place Steve found is about two hours from Hawkins, with three bedrooms, a shockingly luxurious pull-out couch, and bigger common areas than you’ve ever laid eyes on. Excluding the ones in Steve’s house. In short, the rental is like Hopper’s cabin, if Hopper’s cabin were updated and substantially larger. It feels like the kind of place rich people have to take weekend trips. You’d rather not find out how much Steve is paying for the lot of you to stay there. 

Robin takes you on a grand tour while everyone else explores the backyard. Dustin is already determined to climb a tree. One of the rooms has two sets of bunk beds, dedicated to the four boys. “To ensure no cootie-spreading,” Robin proclaims. 

She and Steve will share the couch, with Max and Eleven in the smaller bedroom. 

Robin stops at the end of the hallway. “Which leaves…” 

You and Billy. 

You and Billy Hargrove.

Sharing a room. 

Sharing a bed. 

Speaking of, the man in question brushes past you, setting his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. Robin takes that as her queue to leave and gives you a thumbs up on the way out. You hope she can feel your death stare on the back of her head, and she knows it, being quick to run down the hall. 

“So we’re roomies, huh?” Billy says, gathering his hair at the base of his neck. You hadn’t even realized he had a tie on him, and it takes him finishing off a lazy bun to realize it’s a blue scrunchie. You have to bite your lip to keep from saying anything. 

“I can sleep with Max and El, if you want. Or–”

That crease between Billy’s brows forms. “Why would you do that?”

You’ve gone all warm. You’d have to sleep in bed with him. And you sit next to him all the time, but this is different. Isn’t it?

Maybe it’s not so weird. You’re just friends. It’s like a sleepover, right?

“I don’t know, you might not want to sleep together or something.”

He cocks a brow, but you catch the double meaning of your words just in time. “You know what I mean, Billy.”

He sits on the end of the bed, and reaches out for you. You move towards him slowly, but the moment you’re within his grasp, Billy spreads his legs and grabs your waist, slotting your body between them. 

“You can go if you really want to. If you think I’ve got cooties or somethin’ and you don’t wanna share a bed with me.”

You snort, and Billy drinks in the sound, knowing he’s the one that made you laugh. 

“I don’t think you’ve got cooties.”

You realize in that moment that his hands haven’t left their spot on your waist, never straying anywhere else. The weight of them on you is enough to keep you focused on him, and he seems to acknowledge that. 

“Then what is it?” he asks, in that low drawl you fear could get out any answer he wanted from you. 

You hesitate, but say it anyway. “You don’t think it’ll be weird? Sleeping in the same bed?”

Billy fights the urge to rest his forehead against your stomach. He wants to tell you he’s wished you were in his bed on more than one occasion. Sometimes he just wishes you were there so it wouldn’t feel so cold, so he’d have someone to pull him out of his thoughts before they eat him alive altogether. 

“No, I don’t think it’ll be weird.”

You nod your head, and try to move back from him. 

Billy whines. “Uh uh. Nope.”

You go to put your hands on your hips, and they graze Billy’s on the way. He grabs hold of them. “You don’t want to have a sleepover with me?”

Billy’s looking up at you with those watery blue eyes, and you know this is a battle you’ll never win. 

“Really?”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, and your eyes fall to his neck when he tosses his head back. 

“Yeah, baby.”

Baby. 

It feels like every cell in your body has been sent into overdrive, like you can’t compute a single coherent thought. All because Billy called you “baby”. 

And if he’s being honest with himself, he feels the same way. He hadn’t meant to say it. It’s just that he calls you “baby” in his head all the time, and it just…happened.

“I’d love to have a sleepover with you, Hargrove.”

“Mhm. Thought so.” 

This time he lets the laugh out, and it’s a beautiful sound. The kind of sound you’d commit unspeakable acts to hear again. And this time, he does let his forehead drop to rest on your stomach. It surprises you, but you’re not mad about it.

“Oh, fuck off,” you say, and you can feel his chuckle against your skin.

When he quits, you find yourself just standing there, find your hands moving around his back. He’s always so warm. You rub your hands up and down his back, the denim of his jacket rough on your fingertips. 

You feel him shift, feel his change in position, the hard press of his chin against you. Billy is looking up at you, and you know he’s hoping you’ll return his gaze. His eyes bore into yours, and you hate to think of what you must look like from this angle. Clearly he doesn’t mind. 

You push a curl behind his ear, a shockingly perfect ringlet that’s too short to be contained like the rest of them. 

Billy would be taken aback by the gesture if it weren’t for the fact that you always go this easy on him. Like you know he’s healing, in more ways than one. 

“We can’t stay here forever, you know. I wanna go look around.” 

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I’m sure it’s riveting.” He lets you go anyway, following you down the hall to the rest of the cabin.

————

Your back rests on the base of an oversized chair, one that’s surprisingly comfy, your body in between Robin’s legs. She’s sitting next to Steve, watching you moderate El, Lucas, and Will play Twister. Dustin’s already out. 

“Right hand blue.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“Sinclair, have you never played this game before?”

Lucas scoffs, trying to reach the blue on the other side of the mat without toppling into Will. Max went with Billy to the store, but they should be back soon. You have a sick feeling they’re taking advantage of having been given Steve’s debit card. 

“Yes, I’ve played the game before. If you’re so good, why don’t you get down here and show us how it’s done, Harrington?”

“Yeah, Harrington, why don’t you show us how flexible you are?” Billy’s voice makes you look up from where you’ve been mindlessly twisting the spinner on the board around with the tip of your finger. 

He stands just inside the living room, holding the door open with his leg. He kicks it shut once Max has made it in. She heaves the paper bags she’d been holding up and onto the counter. Steve rises to help unpack them. You follow on instinct, handing the spinner to Robin instead, and Dustin is quick to take Steve’s spot before Mike can. 

Billy won’t let you take anything from him, but he will let you help figure out what the hell to do with all of it. “Do I even want to know how much you both spent?” you ask. 

He gives you that fucking smile, and you know you don’t. “Max said she wanted to have a spa night–whatever that means–with El, so we sort of split up. I’m sure Steve’ll live.” 

“For your information, Lucas,” Steve continues, clearly not ready to let the quips towards his limberness go, “I was the captain of the swim team.”

“What’s that got to do with being flexible, dingus?” Robin directs the two remaining players, the young boy in question having just busted his ass. 

“Swimming is an art form, Rob. You gotta learn to respect it.”

You choke on a laugh, and Billy is quick to rub your back while he chuckles into your shoulder. 

“Something funny over there?” Steve questions. 

You straighten, trying to wipe the smile from your face though it’s to no avail. “Nope, Steven. I’m sure you’re just incredibly stretchy. Like Mr. Fantastic.”

His brow furrows. “Mr. Fantastic?”

Dustin snorts, elbow deep in a bag of chips, and you quickly realize that you probably shouldn’t have given him an opening, but you don’t exactly regret it either. 

The lot of you spend the rest of the night in this fashion, playing games, eating way too much food, taking turns smacking the top of the television so your movie will keep playing. 

It feels like home. It feels safe. You wish it always felt this way. 

————

You’d just finished brushing your teeth when you hear the bedroom door click shut, hear footsteps you can tell are in search of you. 

You peek your head out of the bathroom and Billy grins at the sight of you in pajamas, a smear of moisturizer on your forehead you’ve yet to rub in. 

He squeezes in the small room, about the same size as his at home, to join you. There’s something about this moment, the domesticity of it, that makes your heart swell. It feels like something you could get used to, getting ready for bed with him. Neither of you have to say anything, you just do your own thing, but having him be there, having his presence–it’s more than enough for you. 

When you climb into bed, you try and read for a while, the sounds of Billy washing his face comforting you. You find it easy to read even when he does get in with you, the mattress sinking underneath his weight, the sheets rustling as he moves around experimentally, trying to get comfortable in a bed that isn’t his own. 

You feel odd though, reading when he’s right there, so it isn’t long before you close the book and slide further into the covers with him. Billy’s quick to turn on his side, wanting to see you like this. 

He watches you yank the blankets up to your chin, looking at him over a blur of fluffy white comforter. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’ in here,” you tell him.

“C’mere then.”

You burrow further into your pillow, fearing you know exactly what he’s going to suggest. “Huh?”

“You’re cold. You always whine about me being warm or somethin’ and I’m telling you to come here.”

“Billy.”

“Stop.” He lifts the covers up some, untucking you from them, and he wraps his arm around your back, tugging you into his side. 

Suddenly you’re pressed against him, having slid across the sheets easier than you’d have imagined. 

He’s let go of you, his arm hovering over your back. “You want me to hold you or no?” 

“Yeah.” 

Billy lets his arm drop against your side, his fingers splaying out over your back. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, hoping it’ll warm you up. “This okay?” 

“Yes.” 

He nods. You’re looking at him like he’s something special.

Billy realizes, in that moment, that that’s how you’ve always looked at him. Even before. 

He also realizes that your hands are tucked under your chin and your legs are curled up and into you like you’re afraid of making any contact with him. 

“You can loosen up, you know. It’s just me.” 

You let out a breath of a laugh, and he can feel it against the skin of his neck. 

“It’s okay, I promise. You can touch me.” Billy has this feeling that you’re afraid of hurting him. He’s sure you’ve noticed that he’s wearing a shirt to bed, something he never did before. And he thinks that you’re worried he’ll break. 

“You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

He watches you unfold your hands and stretch your arm over him, hooking it around his hip. You want to rub up and down his side, but you’re nervous. 

It’s just me. 

“Do they hurt at all?”

Your thumb skates up a little further, and you don’t have to tell him what you mean. 

“Not all the time,” he says, voice low and thick with drowsiness. “At first, yeah, like hell. Now it’s just sometimes. They can feel a little tight, or just bug me. Depends, I guess.”

You nod, feeling brave enough now to slide your hand up a little further. Your touch is light, barely there. You close your eyes, trying not to think about when it happened. How he’d screamed. 

He can tell when you’ve calmed down some, because your arm relaxes and you hug him a little more firmly. You scoot in a little closer, close enough that your noses would touch if you tried to make them. 

“Goodnight, Billy.”

He makes the move, dragging the tip of his nose across your forehead. He kisses the top of your head, and you grin so wide you feel like a kid in a candy shop. 

“Goodnight, baby.”

————

When you wake up, you almost don’t want to disturb him, but you know you should get out of bed.

Billy is sprawled out on his stomach, having separated from you at some point during the night. His tank top is rucked up from the tossing and turning of sleep, and you look away when you catch a glimpse of pink skin. It doesn’t feel like your place to look. 

You wander out of the room, carefully shutting the door behind you. You make it down the hall, and find that Robin seems to be the only other one awake. You should’ve guessed. She told you once before that her body doesn’t seem to let her sleep in. 

Steve is still passed out on the pull-out couch, completely covered by the blankets. The only sign of him is a tuft of messy hair against the light colored pillow case his head rests on. 

Robin waves at you from her perch at the kitchen counter, a bowl of cereal in front of her. “Want some?” she whispers, pushing the box in your direction. 

You fill up your own bowl, having a feeling that Robin is about to ramble. 

“Sleep okay?” she asks. 

“Mhm. You?”

“Fine. Though, y’know, Steve is a horrific bed hog. Seriously, he was half on top of me the whole night. I might have to bunk with Max and El.” 

You laugh, and Robin takes that as her queue to ask what she’s been pondering since she woke up. 

“Was it okay? Sleeping with Billy? Well, not like that. Well, I’m assuming not like that, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I just meant like actually sleeping? Please stop me.”

You grin at her. “Please breathe, Rob.” She does, over exaggerating her inhales. “And it was fine.”

“Okay, good. I was kind of worried you’d be frustrated with my matchmaking tendencies. I just really want you two to be happy. And he seems so calm when he’s with you, and I realize I’ve just told you that I’ve been pushing you two together and I–”

You wipe milk from your chin, having almost spit out your cereal. “Robin, sweetheart, it’s okay, I promise. I know about your matchmaking tendencies. But I think we’re just friends, right?”

“Just friends, my ass.” You hadn’t even seen Steve get up, but he’s reaching for the fridge and pulling out a carton of chocolate milk. He really can’t say anything about Dustin’s eating habits when he has the exact same diet. 

“Oh my god.”

“Listen, I’m just saying, there’s been something going on between you two since before the world went to shit. I don’t know why you two tiptoe around each other like it’s not obvious that you’re in love.”

“Steve!” you exclaim. “Seriously, what the hell? I’ve been up for like twenty minutes and you two are schooling me on my love life?”

“Or lack thereof,” Robin says. 

“Okay, damn. You know what, I’m going back to bed.” 

Steve pushes your bowl back towards you when you attempt to get up. “No, you’re not. I’m just saying, there’s no sense in avoiding this. You both clearly feel a lot for each other, and I don’t see any reason to avoid it when you could be together.” 

He’s being vulnerable with you, his big brown eyes boring into yours and trying to convey how serious he’s being. 

“Just think about it, okay? There’s no harm in talking about how you feel with him. And don’t say that you don’t feel anything, because that’s a goddamn lie.”

————

Billy’s had his swim trunks on all day, but he hasn’t done more than sit in the shade by the pool while everyone else makes a mess and plays ridiculous games in the water. 

It’s killing him to watch you in there from time to time, swimming around or sitting in the shallow end. You told him once that swimming calms you down. 

It’s not until after dinner, when everyone has moved inside for the most part, though there seems to be the plotting of a water balloon fight out front, that he’s brave enough to head for the pool. 

You follow him out there, see him contemplating the water. 

“Whatcha doin’?” 

Billy drops the cigarette he’d been smoking, snubbing it out. “Thought about going for a swim,” he tells you. 

“That sounds nice.”

“Mhm.”

“I can go back inside, if you want.”

Billy turns to face you. “No. No, I want you to stay.” He wants you to see. He can’t explain why, but he does. 

“Okay.” 

He takes a shaky breath, hoping you don’t catch it. You do. You always do. 

“I just…wasn’t ready for everyone to see.”

“I understand, Billy.” 

You know what he’s really saying. He wasn’t ready for everyone to see. But he’s ready for you to see. 

“I can get in first, if that helps. And I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” you say. 

“That helps, yeah. And you can look. It’s okay.”

He watches you wade in, watches the way your swimsuit changes color as you tread water. 

Billy takes another deep breath, and he’s pulling his shirt off. He’s quick though, diving straight into the deep end, knowing he needs to get it over with. 

When he comes up, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and he flips it out of the way, giving you a glimpse of the broad pink scar on his chest. 

He meets you halfway, and you think he’s in a serious mood until he’s splashing you like a child. 

“You motherfucker!” 

You get him back, and he’s laughing. 

Billy is laughing and he looks so pretty in the last of the day’s sunlight, beads of water sliding over his collarbones and down his arms, and you feel like you could die. Like seeing him this way is enough. You don’t need anything else.

You try to return a particularly aggressive splash, but he catches your waist, pulling you up and over his shoulder. 

“Billy!”

“What?” His voice is teasing. He tosses the rest of the way over, your laughter fading out into the water. 

You come up, a brilliant smile on his face. Billy’s sure if you stood close enough you’d be able to hear his heart beating. 

When you’ve both gone quiet, your eyes drop to the scars on his sides, the way they stretch across his skin, mean and twisting. Some spots are darker than others, and while it hurts you to look at them, you know it must hurt him even more. But he looks just as beautiful as before, if not increasingly so. 

“See something you like?” Billy says it on instinct. To hide the fact that he’s worried you don’t really like it. That maybe you think he’s gross looking. But he knows that’s all in his head. He fucking knows it. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Billy Hargrove.”

You say it with such surety, such admiration, that he can’t even begin to doubt that you mean it. 

He smiles at you. It’s boyish. You’d do anything to see a million more of them. 

He moves towards you, the sky having darkened enough that the outside lights have come on, the lights in the pool too. All that remains of the sun is a slash of deep orange, though the night quickly pushes it away.

Billy’s got you backed up against the wall of the pool now. His hands find your sides.

It’s overwhelming, having him this close. You can feel his breath on your face, see the rise and fall of his chest, the freckles on his cheeks. 

When he kisses you, you think your heart stops. His mouth is warm against yours, and he tastes a little like chlorine, but you don’t care. Your hands find his face, and you’re smiling so hard that he pulls away because he wants to see. You don’t let him for long though, pulling him back, wanting more. He laughs into your mouth, and your chest aches with this feeling.

Eventually you do let go, and when you hold his eye contact, he knows what you’re going to say. He needs to tell you first, though.

“I’m in love with you, you know.”

“I know,” you respond.

He tosses his head back in a laugh, and you press a sweet kiss to his throat. 

“I’m in love with you too, Billy.”

“Damn right you are.”

You snort against his chest, lowering slightly to kiss his scar. His breath catches. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you. 

“About fucking time!” Steve’s shouting and Robin is yelling, and Max would be making barf sounds if she wasn’t so pleased with seeing her brother so happy. 

“So much for that,” Billy says.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

————

“I’m regretting this, Billy.”

“Stop whining.”

Billy wraps his arms tighter around your back, pressing a kiss to your jaw in hopes that you’ll let him keep doing this. 

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Get off, please.”

“Make me.” 

There’s the sound of a slap, your hand having met his ass.

He raises his head from where he’d buried it in your chest, looking at you drowsily. “You just spanked me.”

And you’d do it again. 

“Didn’t work, did it?”

“No. Shut up and take it.”

By that he means continue letting him lay on top of you, his entire body pressed to yours. It doesn’t matter to him that there’s an entire bed, one that’s made for two people.

You settle for playing with his hair, something he seems to enjoy, and you’d mess with him about the fact that he’s essentially purring if it weren’t for him looking so content. 

He might be heavy, but having Billy Hargrove sleep on top of you isn’t exactly something you just give up. 

He’s never had this before.

Hell, you’ve never had this before. 

And he thinks it’s healing him. More than the salve he puts on his scars, or the physical therapy, or fixing up the Camaro. 

You’re healing him. You. 

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.