This Just Makes Me So Happy

okay but I literally loved this

Confessional - Cardinal Copia x F!Reader

Summary: As a sister of sin, it was your duty to confess at least once a month, to have your sins praised by a higher up member of the clergy. But you only ever chose Thursday nights, when you knew he was on duty. And tonight, you were working up the courage to confess your darkest sin - the dreams you had been having...

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Mutual masturbation, graphic description of oral sex and penetrative sex, corruption kink, shame kink, obviously sacrilegious themes (hello?? It’s ghost…), some nastiness akin to panty-sniffing… (you’ll see what I mean lol) PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3

Your shoes clacked on the solid flooring of the ministry, resonating on the marble to fill the silence. It was already late, the sun long gone and no longer illuminating the stained glass of the windows as you passed them.

You couldn’t help your hands nervously wringing as you walked towards the chapel, pace quicker than normal. Perhaps rushing there was doing nothing for your current nervous state, but idly walking was closer to torture, and any slower, you might miss him…

There were only a few minutes left of confessional, and whilst you knew it would be incredibly quiet this late into the evening, you had left it as long as possible for fear of running into anybody else.

Thursday night confessional was the quietest – after all, it was his night, and he wasn’t a Papa. Your siblings favoured their Papas, any chance for a one-to-one conversation with them but not you… You only wanted to speak to him.

The doors to the chapel at the end of the hall stood before you, your mind still toying with the idea of turning and running, maybe trying again next Thursday… It had taken you weeks to muster the courage to confess this evening, and the chapel doors were the furthest you had ever got without retreating to the safety of your dorm. Tonight, you were determined – you had to confess.

With a deep breath, your hands – which you had adorned in some very pretty black lace gloves – opened the doors to the chapel. The creak echoed along the intricate stone architecture, and with it you heard a smaller creak of a wooden door, followed by a tiny slam. Had you not been looking dead ahead at the confessional booth as you entered, you perhaps wouldn’t have noticed it was in fact the confessional door closing very quickly.

On his side.

‘He thought he was done for the evening’, you thought.

You stayed put for a moment, contemplating just running back to your dorm and allowing his evening to end here – maybe he was disappointed that a sibling had come to confessional at the very last moment.

“Sh-should I come back next week?” you asked to the open room.

“Oh, uh… no, no. Please, sister. I was just, uh… stretching my legs. Por favore, come. Sit,” he invited.

You couldn’t help but smile a little at his sheepishness, like a child being caught with his hand in the cookie jar, protesting his innocence.

Quickly, you shut the chapel doors behind you and clacked your way over to the confessional, taking a seat across from his side and sitting awkwardly on the plush leather bench. The screen between the two of you kept a comfortable separation, forbidding you from having to look him in his wonderfully mismatched eyes.

You weren’t sure you could do this without that luxury…

“When you’re ready, Sorella.”

You took a deep breath, your hands playing with the fabric of your habit at the knees.

“Cardinal, I… I have sinned,” you began.  

“Which of the sins have you committed, Sorella?”

This was harder than you had anticipated, the fear of judgement so prevalent in your mind you thought of making up something far less than that you had planned to express.

Of course, you would not be judged for your sins – but praised. Confessional was not to be absolved of your sins, rather to celebrate them. You were supposed to sin, and at least one confessional per month was mandatory as a Sibling of Sin at the ministry. But this one felt like one you perhaps should have kept to yourself…

“Sorella?” he urged again, gently attempting to coax your sins from you.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal, this is… embarrassing.”

“Take your time, but know that no matter what, the dark lord will be pleased with y-“ “Lust, Cardinal. It’s… it’s lust,” you interrupted.

“Oh…” he seemed taken aback, almost awkward himself. “Well, uhh… In your own time, eh?”

You looked up from your hands where you had been staring at the lace that adorned them, taking a look through the lattice screen and barely seeing his outline across from you. You could only just make out the red of his cassock, not so bright in the dim lighting of the booth. The red was your favourite…

“Cardinal, I’ve been having these dreams…” you began, “well, the same dream. Always the same… and it follows me. I can’t think straight anymore, it’s… affecting my days, my work. My siblings are starting to notice my mind wanders and I can’t explain it to them. I’m trying to continue my duties, but I find it so hard to focus after having this dream.”

In the booth beside you, Cardinal Copia listened intently. “Sorella, is this a… dream of a, uh… sexual nature?” he asked tentatively, shy himself.

Copia was perhaps the most awkward of the higher ups, nothing like his brothers in their blatant sexuality and charm with women. Perhaps that had been where this started; a curiosity of sorts. Perhaps his somewhat goofy persona is what had caught your eye, made your thoughts wander during seminars and Black Mass.

Whatever had sparked this, it had only grown.

“Yes, Cardinal… They are,” you shuffled on the bench, the leather squeaking beneath you, “I dream I’m studying late, in a seminar room and… well, I’m not alone. One thing leads to another, and… I’m sure you can imagine what happens next.” You hurried to finish your sentence, praying to Satan himself the Cardinal didn’t press the subject of your dream much further and this may be enough of a confession to please the dark lord.

But imagine is exactly what the Cardinal was doing.

Had he not seen it was you who opened the chapel doors at 10:56pm on a Thursday evening as his confessional duties were coming to an end, perhaps he could have remained professional, listened to your confession without issue.

But you were exactly the issue. His sweet, most innocent Sorella…

The Sorella who smiled at him in the hallways, no matter who she was walking with.

The Sorella who never misses a seminar he’s hosting.

The Sorella who only ever confesses on a Thursday, during his duty.

The Sorella who keeps stealing glances at him as his brothers perform Black Mass.

His heart ached a little at the prospect you were dreaming of someone, of anyone other than him. But whilst his heart ached, his crotch twitched… Already, the picture you had painted for him was enough to be the focus of his imagination long into the night.

Copia coughed once to rid the thought from his mind as best he could.

“And these are dreams, you say?” he asked, hoping to drag your confession out just a little longer, to see if you would let any more information slip.

“Well, they started that way…”

The Cardinal’s head snapped to look at the screen between you both as if he were looking directly in your eyes, but he could only see the silhouette of your side profile in the dark.

“Please, explain...”

Heat crept onto your cheeks, a blush spreading as you recounted the dreams in vivid detail that had turned into daydreams.

“My mind wanders during the day… I can’t help myself.”

The Cardinal hadn’t realised he was squeezing his own knees with his hands until he heard the leather of his gloves squeak from the pressure. He quickly shook them out, ridding his mind of the thoughts you had placed there without intention.

“The subject of these desires – is it always the same person, mio cara?” he asked bravely.

“Yes, Cardinal…”

He took a deep breath, a part of him so hoping this wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Do you wish to tell me who, mio cara?” He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t praying to Satan himself that the subject of your fantasies was him. He wouldn’t know what to do with the information if he had it, but he needed to know, he had to pry…

“This is why I’m embarrassed, Cardinal… I-“ you paused. Were you really about to do this? Were you going to confess to this?

“This is a safe place, Sorella. Speak your truth, tell me your sins…” he urged, verging on desperate as he tried to keep his voice composed.

In your booth, your mind swam with the images of your dreams… Slow touches over your habit, gentle caresses of your cheek turning into ravenous kisses and manhandling until you were bent over your dear Cardinal’s desk with your rear on display and core soiling your panties. Just the images were enough to make you squeeze your knees together in an attempt to still the pulsing you felt between your legs…

“Cardinal…” you almost whined in a hushed voice. The poor man beside you had to bite into his leather-clad fist to stop himself from reacting. That whine; it sent a shiver down his spine that rippled across his whole body, the blood seeming to drain from the top of his head to one focal point below his waist… It took all the strength he had not to palm himself through his cassock.

Instead, he remained quiet. The only sound was the noise his leather gloves made as he squeezed his hands into fists. But he needed to give you the chance to speak, he wasn’t going to force you into admission…

“I-I’m sorry, Cardinal… but… it’s you.”

And there it was. Two little words that put his mind in a tailspin.

It’s you.

“Sweet sorella…” he whispered, “don’t apologise…”

But how could you not? You had been mortified the second the admission left your lips. You didn’t have to tell him it was him, but something had forced it out of you, some tiny little bit of hope that he would show an interest, or at the very least, that he wouldn’t chastise you for such dirty thoughts of him.

“Do you think less of me, Cardinal?” you asked in a hushed tone, tears almost threatening to creep up on you.

“Mio cara, as if I ever could… Your sins are celebrated here, you know this, eh?” The cardinal sounded as if he was pleading with you, begging you not to be disgusted or angry at yourself. Truly, that was exactly what he was doing; because he was more aroused by your admission than anything he had ever seen, heard or felt before.

Because it was you.

“But...” “No, Sorella, I won’t hear it. You are free to sin, we… we encourage sin,” he stumbled a little over his words, trying to be decent and professional but his resolve was quickly crumbling.

A beat of silence passed between the two of you, the only sound the creak of the wooden booth as the Cardinal shifted on his bench. The mere thought that the Cardinal might encourage this behaviour, that he might encourage your filthy thoughts about him had you biting your lip to save the whimper that had crept up your throat.

“May I ask something, Sorella? A question you don’t have to answer,” he asked, leaning slightly closer to the lattice between you and lowering his voice as if others could hear.

“Mm-hmm,” was all you could manage, still holding back that whimper as your thighs squeezed together a little tighter.

“Do you ever… act on those dreams?”

It was unprofessional, and he knew it. It was invasive, and he knew it. But he could never forgive himself if he didn’t at least ask.

In the tiniest voice, barely audible even in the silence of the chapel, you replied, “Once…”

But he heard you. Oh, he heard you loud and clear.

And the thought of his cara, his sweetest sorella fantasising about him to a point of arousal where she simply cannot help herself but to reach under her habit and… Well, it was driving him wild. His already wildly engorged erection was almost painful, begging to be touched. In a battle between his mind and his body, his body had won – his palm pushed against himself, slowly as to evade suspicion from just his shadow alone.

The guilt he felt as he crumbled… If you knew how filthy the old man was being, how he couldn’t help himself when it came to you, how he just had to touch himself as you confessed in confidence to him, you would surely despise him. He knew that.

And yet, at this point he was close to risking it all for just one moment of bliss.

“Cardinal, I’m so sorry… this was too much. I shouldn’t have come tonight, should never have said anything,” you panicked. He’d been quiet for a beat too long, and it was driving you insane. You needed to go, to run back to your dorm and lock yourself away to take care of yourself and the heat pooling between your legs whilst simultaneously avoiding any and all encounters with the Cardinal for the foreseeable future.

You stood up to leave when…

“No, no, wait, per favore…”

His tone stopped you in your tracks – the distress, as if he were the one in the wrong out of the two of you, as if he were the pervert.

“Mio cara, I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. And I don’t want you to feel like what you have thought or done is wrong.”

At least, not wrong enough that you should feel any shame. Sin was indeed the point, after all...

“And I certainly wouldn’t want you to leave without a sense of climax, eh?”

His chosen words felt cryptic, as if he himself were testing the waters but you couldn’t be sure. Yet the slight possibility was enough to make you sit back down and wait for him to continue.

Did he mean confessional? That you hadn’t heard his usual ‘celebration of sin’ speech he did for every confession before you had left? Or did he mean it in the literal sense?

Oh, Satan, you hoped for the literal sense. The one and only climax you had ever allowed yourself with thoughts of him running rabid in your mind had been the single most religious experience you’d had since joining the ministry.

“Dolcezza,” he began, “If… if you so wish, you can tell me about your dreams. I’ll think no less of you, te lo prometto (I promise you)…”

His tone was so soothing, as if he had morphed into the very serpent that tempted Eve to the apple. Was that what he was doing? Tempting you? You had no time to ponder the thought, your mouth betraying your mind as you began to recount the parts of the dream you had hidden from him before.

“I’m studying… Latin translation, Cardinal – your specialty,” you spoke with admiration, “you offer to help me, standing beside the desk as I translate a text for you. It’s about… sins of the flesh, and how they can be used as an offering to Lucifer.”

The Cardinal beside you listened intently, his palm slowly resuming the pressure he’d put on his length over his cassock before.

“I… tell you I’d never committed that sin before. At least, not with another… that’s when you crouch down beside me, and tell me it’s the most wonderful feeling. How… important the female orgasm is, and how… I should try it sometime. With someone I trusted, of course. And then, I…” just thinking of what you say to him in the dream had you squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment, cringing at yourself but your cardinal beside you… he was so desperate to hear what you do next.

“I tell you I trust you… And you tell me you’ll take good care of me,” you divulged.

Oh, he would take good care of you, he thought, gripping his cock through his cassock hard to stifle the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. The shame that washed over him as he gave in to his own selfish desperation weighed heavy on his shoulders, and had it been anybody but you he wouldn’t even dare to indulge. But it was you – his sweetest sorella…  

“Sorella, I would take good care of you...” Copia tested the waters, relieved to hear the tiniest of whimpers from your side of the booth as his words settled in the air. You squeezed your thighs tightly together, your knees raising as you twisted in your seat to feel as much friction as possible without having to reach down between your thighs.

“Please, continue mio cara…”

You took a deep breath, “you lean in to kiss me, gently at first but… your hands push my veil back from my hairline until it drops, and wind their way into my hair. I just… I can’t help myself then. Before I know what overcomes me, I’m gripping onto your cassock and pulling you as close as possible, Cardinal. I get… so desperate,” you breathed, your hand snaking to cup yourself between your legs, unable to stand the lack of pressure any longer.

“Tesoro…” he moans beside you. His hand effortlessly unbuttons his cassock, pushing its way past the waistband of his pants to grip himself bare underneath.  He’s too far gone to worry about you catching on. Hell, he almost wished you would.

Like a bolt of electricity, a shock shot through your body to your core at the sound of his moan. It was better than you had dreamed, far deeper, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. It only served to push you into confessing more…

“You lift me to sit on the desk and stand between my knees, your hands disappearing from my hair to under my habit,” your hand began to rub against your core, the other bunching your habit up around your knees, pulling it higher and higher to expose your legs beneath.

You felt utterly mortified at yourself, so eager to relieve yourself beside your cardinal. But you wouldn’t dare stop, not when you could still hear his breath deepening, slowing as if trying to control himself also.

“You touch me, and… it feels incredible,” you whine, your own fingers replicating his in your dream, now able to push your panties to the side and slowly drag through your soaked core, the lace of your gloves dampening. Copia could barely drag his fist over his length from under his pants but it sure as hell didn’t stop him as he envisioned getting to push his gloved fingers into your beautifully glistening pussy…

You don’t wait for any kind of response, your fight or flight instincts kicking in. To give him an opportunity to interrupt and scold you for your dreams would be a grave mistake on your part and one you may not recover from – so you just continued…

“Your fingers, they… slide into me. The leather feels cold – I like it, it’s… nice,” you whine, pushing your own laced fingers into you as you spoke, slowly… “But you take them out again, and you taste them…”

“Merda,” he hissed, squeezing himself. The picture in his mind was so perfect, he could practically hear your moans, hear the way his fingers sounded gliding through your slick…

No, wait…

He really could hear that…

His eye shot open – he hadn’t even realised they were shut this whole time – and he sat bolt upright, the hand in his pants slipping back out. He stilled, listening out for that tell-tale sound again, the quiet, wet squelch of what he prayed to Satanas was your fingers gliding through your slick.

And he heard it again.

His heart weighed so heavy in his chest, shame washing over him. You were part of his congregation. He was someone you looked up to, turned to for guidance and teachings and yet here he was – letting himself paint the filthiest picture of the two of you. You trusted him, and here he was having to force his hand away from his cock as you confessed your sin.

‘Copia, you pathetic old pervert’, he thought to himself.

“C-Cardinal…” you whined, and that was enough for him. Perhaps he was a disgusting, perverted old man who was hopelessly in love with a member of his congregation, and he just had to live with that – because there wasn’t a single circle of hell vile enough to deter him from unlacing the front of his pants to let his thick cock spring free and chase the pleasure he denied himself after hearing his name spill from your lips like that.

On your side, your mind couldn’t string together any form of coherency aside from recounting the details of your dream aloud. The lace of your glove was sodden with slick, fingers delving as deep as possible as you slumped against the back of the booth, legs spread and habit bunched around your hips.

“Y-you get to your knees in front of me, and… and you use your mouth,” you sob, clenching around your own fingers. “Your tongue, it… feels… ohh,” you moaned wantonly, catching yourself in what you were doing and suddenly realising you were no longer being remotely subtle.

Your eyes widened, fear rushing through you as you looked to your left at the figure behind the lattice. What would he think of you? He would be so ashamed of you… how could you ever look him in the eye again? Your mind raced with panic, until movement in your peripheral caught your attention.

A slow, rhythmic shadow… where his lap should be…

Paired with the short, sharp breaths he tried to hush that followed each movement of that shadow, you could surely draw only one conclusion.

And the thought had a fresh wave of heat sweeping through your core…

“S-sometimes this part, it’s… different…” you began again, slowly resuming your self-pleasure.

“Mmf, how… how so, dolce?” he asked, slowly pumping his cock in his hand, his eyes squeezing shut again and leaning his head against the back wall of his booth.

“Sometimes you… you make me cum on your tongue but sometimes… you c-can’t wait…” you stutter, picturing the scene in your head as your free hand comes to circle your clit, adding a layer of pleasure that had fresh slick slipping past your fingers.

“Fanculo… What do you mean, Tesoro?” he asks, his thumb spreading the beads of precum shining at the head of his cock. The leather glove he wore shone wet as he fisted his length.

“You uh… you spin me around a-and, you push me down against the desk…” you avowed, “and you f-fuck me, Cardinal…” If you had learned anything about yourself today, it was that you had a shame kink – because the way your pussy clenched around your gloved fingers as you spoke was too telling…

“In nome di Satanas (in Satan’s name)…” he growled beside you, his fist pumping fast enough that you could hear the sound of his cock gliding through it. “I… fuck you, Sorella?”

“I-I’m sorry for… my language, Cardinal…” you pleaded, unable to stop yourself from fucking your fingers deeper into you, your foot propped up on the wall opposite you.

“Oh, mio cara… don’t you apologise,” he smirked as he sat basking in your sweet attempt at an apology as if he didn’t know you were doing far worse next to him than cursing. Satanas, he fucking loved your innocence – but more so, he loved knowing that it was him who could corrupt it.

Still, he heard those delicious noises from beside him, his mind racing trying to imagine how you would taste given the chance to try… His dolcezza… Just one chance to taste you and he’d never forget how sweet you truly were.

But oh, Satanas, the thought of bending you over that desk in his classroom and sinking his length into your tight, wet cunt… It was almost too much for Copia. He had to squeeze himself at the base to stave off an early orgasm. No way was he finishing before you had confessed all to him.

“Will you tell me how, Tesoro?” he asks, and your willingness to answer him stuns you; how easily you gave in to your Cardinal, wanting nothing more than to please him.

“You’re… gentle with me. You take care of me, make sure you don’t hurt me… At least at first,” your hands slowed to the pace you envisioned his hips meeting yours, the building pressure in your abdomen lessening for the time being. The cardinals fist did the same, simulating the feeling of filling you.

“You always tell me how good I’m doing, that... you know I can handle more.” How you had got him so accurate in your dream is beyond him; as he slowly fisted his cock he knew that he would say those things to you, he would always praise you, tell you how good you were being for him. He’d only ever want to take care of you, to make sure you not only felt every single ridge and vein of his thickness but that you were comfortable while doing so.

“I know you’d be good for me, amore mio…” Copia was too far gone to recognise his own tiny confession as he talked you through your dream.

“C-Cardinal…” you whimper, your fingers curling inside you to reach the spot you just know his cock would hit with every slow thrust.

“It’s okay, Sorella…” he reassured, willing you to continue. If he got to hear you climax, to hear those gasps and sordid moans spill from you as you came, he could die a happy – if somewhat perverted – man.

“You start to get faster… harder… I can feel the edge of the desk digging into my thighs,” your clit pulsed under the circles you drew over it, “y-you p-pull my hair a little… a lot,” you corrected yourself as you stuttered. In your dream, Copia would wrap his fingers in your hair and pull until your chest lifted from the desk. “It hurts a little, but… I like it.”

He couldn’t take much more of this. His cock was leaking profusely as his fist quickened its pace. From beside you, you could hear his grunts, and the moment he spits into his palm to make the glide of his fist easier. It only served to heighten your arousal more.

Imagining his hips pistoning into you from behind, you couldn’t help but rut against your own fingers, little whimpers leaving you with each thrust. In the booth beside you, Copia was doing much the same, hips thrusting up into his fist which had now stilled to allow the next best thing other than your pussy.

“Sorella, I… merda,” he didn’t even know what he was trying to say, his mind simply clouded with thoughts of you and only you.

You were giving in, hands working so fast to race towards an end. You needed release, you needed to cum. For how long you had stopped yourself from touching yourself to these fantasies, you could barely edge yourself any longer. You’d only ever allowed yourself a release to thoughts of Copia once before, when it had become too much and now you were finally allowing yourself again.

And not only you, but the Cardinal was sat beside you, furiously fucking into his fist as if it were you because of your fantasy… You couldn’t hold off if you tried.

You pressed your lips together in a hard line as you hummed, suppressing a moan that would ricochet off the chapel walls for the ministry to hear. The pressure built and built, heat turning into a spark, to a flame until you ignited an inferno…

“C-Copia… Please,” you howled into your shoulder, curling in on yourself as you met your end. You fucked yourself through your orgasm, feet kicking out against the wood of the booth.

At the sound of his name – his real name – being thrown from your lips in desperation was enough to make his cock pulse in his fist, hips stuttering as he shot thick spurts of cum across his hand and down the front of his cassock. But the sounds of your fingers deep inside yourself and the thumps of you thrashing around next to him drove him animalistically wild, continuing to desperately thrust into his fist into overstimulation.

The both of you had to slow to catch your breath, slumping into opposite corners of the booths and both of you removing your hands from the messes you had made of yourselves. Your glove was sopping, to a point it almost repulsed you – you had to slip it off, letting it fall beside you as you recovered from your post-orgasm exhaustion.

The silence between the two of you was leaving too many unanswered questions, neither one of you knowing how to proceed from here. But frankly, you both needed to catch your breath and calm yourselves down before you could even think straight.

“Sorella…” Copia started, tucking himself back into his pants. “You…” he sighed, shame washing over him once again now the orgasm haze had dissipated. He ran his clean hand through his hair, and slotted himself back into Cardinal mode. “You should say your prayer of thanks…”

Disappointment washed over you, followed by a helping of embarrassment. He wanted to wrap up whatever this had been quick, and have you go on your way… Why had you expected anything different?

“Um… yeah, I… I should,” you started. Sitting up, your roll your habit back down to hang around your ankles and began your prayer. “Satanas, I thank you for your guidance and celebrate my sin with you, shrouded in your darkness. Nema.” You kept it short, now desperate to flee the chapel as fast as possible to run and hide in humiliation.

“I celebrate your sin in the name of Lucifer, our Dark Lord,” Copia stayed on script, as if this were any regular confession.

“His wrath endures forever,” you respond, as you knew you should.

“Your sins are celebrated…” he hesitated – he didn’t want you to go like this, he was screaming at himself in his head but his professionalism stopped him from wavering. “Go in peace,” he sighed, leaning forward against his knees, unable to even watch your shadow as you stood and left the booth.

The regret Copia felt stung in his chest – not for the act of sin he had just committed, he could never regret a moment with you. But he regretted the way he let you leave, hearing your heels clacking on the marble floor faster than they had approached earlier that evening. You got out of there fast, and he was so mad at himself for making you feel like you needed to run from him.

Copia looked down in his lap at the mess he had made of himself. He shrugged out of his cassock, the stains localised to just the jacket so he could at least leave with a little dignity in his pants and shirt underneath. He stepped out of the booth, checking that there was nothing to clean up on his side – luckily not, he was already far too ashamed of himself to have to spend any more time here.

He walked to your side to check for the same, praying to Lucifer there was nothing left on the bench either. Cleaning up his own mess was humiliating enough, but cleaning up yours? Satanas, he’d be mortified…

As he opened the door to the other side, he noted no stains on the leather of the bench. However, he noticed a small black heap in the corner. With a gloved hand, he reached for it, picking it up between pinched fingers.

It was lace… not panties like he had first thought, but a glove. Your lace glove.

You wore them often when he saw you around the ministry, enjoying the pretty pattern no doubt. He laid it in his palm, wondering how to give this back to you without combusting on the spot in horror after what he had just done when he noticed it left a dark, shiny mark on his leather clad hand. A wet mark.

Realisation dawned on him and the blood drained from his face.

You hadn’t taken it off… That mark; that was all you.

He quickly scrunched the glove up in his hand as if hiding it from prying eyes, despite being alone. With a quick guilty look over his shoulders and around the empty chapel, he opened his fist a little closer to his face, picking up a sweet, intoxicating scent as he did so.

He twitched in his pants again at the knowledge that was your scent. That was how you smelled.

Satanas… How could he ever look you in the fucking eye again?

His Sorella… his amore…

What a sick, perverted old Cardinal he was.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 A/N: Hey! Welcome, I'm Bee - I'm new to Ghost tumblr, and well, to Ghost too... but not new to writing fan fiction and so this seemed like the natural progression of my new found love of this band. So hi, welcome. I'm planning more fics as we speak... but feel free to send me some prompts and I'll write little blurbs/one shots out of those too... SEND ME A PROMPT

darling | robert reynolds x reader,

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts. Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general. Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.

Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.

“Darling, can you pass me that book?”

“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”

“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”

The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.

But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.

He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.

He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets. 

The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.

It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead. 

There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.

“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.

Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.

He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling. 

Across the room, you hear a groan.

“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”

“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”

You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”

Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.

You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.

“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”

Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon. 

You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”

“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.

“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it. 

You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.” 

Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness. 

“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.

“You know it’s different then.” 

You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’

There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?

Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.

“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.

It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease. 

You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to. 

“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.

Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”

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?

I love receiving asks and I'm usually open to any suggestions and requests, don't be afraid to be friendly!!

I won't tolerate any sort of negativity on this blog, think before you post.

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 ♡

I'm here!! I literally just stumbled across this and I have never related more to a post dude! do you listen to radiohead??? trying so hard to motivate myself to write

trying to motivate myself to be a little more active here, i want to discover some new writeblrs to follow!! feel free to reach out if you wanna!

i'm particularly interested if you...

🎧 write adult fiction, especially literary fiction, horror (gothic or otherwise), gothic romance, fantasy, or really anything with a gritty/emotional feel

🎧 like any bands from the 90s grunge scene (or 80s hard rock) (i can and will yap for days)

🎧 like vampires, pirates, or cowboys

🎧 are a fellow college student (we can struggle together!!)

even if we don't have any of this in common, i'd love to chat anyway! hopefully this finds some folks <3

okay but the symbolism behind removing his face paints i'm so normal about this i—

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 5

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: When it rains, it pours, but the drops wash away the uncertainty swimming in your mind.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: Thank you all for your patience!! I usually try to keep updates going every 10 days or so, but this one's a little late, so I apologize. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!! <3 If you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!!

Warnings: possible descriptions of anxiety, you and Copia being idiots, mutual pining.

AO3 / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

You hadn’t known it was supposed to rain this morning. But now that you tilt your face up towards the gray-blanketed sky, you remember that it had been rather dark when you and Copia stepped out of the kitchens. The breeze around you feels sharp and the birds have gone quiet since you emerged from the flower labyrinth. The leaves—small and sparse after having just budded for spring—turn over to reveal their pale undersides. A sure sign of a rainstorm. 

As you hold your finger in front of your face to observe the rain drop that had landed on your nose, another falls on the top of your head. Beside you, Copia also lifts his head to look at the sky. He squints and flinches a bit when a drop lands in the middle of his forehead. “Ah, cazzo,” he mumbles, and uses his free hand to swipe it off. The raindrops are fat and heavy, and they scatter the tiny stones of the gravel path under your shoes when they fall. 

Another drop lands on your shoulder. “Should we go inside?” you ask. Immediately you realize that it is a stupid question. Of course you should go inside, crétin. It’s about to rain and you have no idea how long you’ve been outside for. 

That nagging thought tugs at the back of your awareness. The thought that you shouldn’t be taking up so much of Copia’s—Papa’s—time. He’s a busy man, and he probably doesn’t have time to walk the entire garden path during working hours. 

But… he had offered. And if you could, you’d walk the entire loop just to spend more time talking with him. 

“Yes… that is probably a good idea,” Copia answers with a small smile. 

He doesn’t want to go inside. He wants to keep holding your hand, keep walking on the secluded garden path until the sun goes down and it grows too cold to stay outside. And even then, he wants to take you back to his office, light a fire, and share a kettle of tea with you and talk some more. Maybe kiss you once or twice, if you’d be willing. Satan knows he would be. 

But you can’t spend what could very well be your last full day at the Abbey just killing time. He knows he should take you back and walk with you to the library. Copia knows he should encourage you to keep trying with Elizabeth’s diary until Sister Imperator is literally pushing you out the door, but he wants more time. He needs more time with you. This can’t be over yet, it can’t. It hasn’t even started, this thing that exists between you. 

The trees begin to shift a little more, a soft whooshing sound blowing with the breeze as the leaves and coniferous needles brush together. 

You blink once, twice, and then it’s pouring. 

“Diable ci-dessous!” you curse, swiping your free hand over your face as if that would help keep the water out of your eyes. The rain very quickly soaks through your habit and the wind bites at your skin. 

Copia squeezes your hand. “Sorella, come, come!” He tugs you into a run along the path. The gravel crunches and moves under your feet, making you both stumble every few steps. Your hands clutch together like a lifeline. 

Through the sound of the ever-growing rainstorm, you can hear the shouts of Siblings working in the garden who had also been caught in the weather. You can’t discern any words. The wind and the rain and the sound of your soaked shoes drowns out anything else, except for the bright laughter bubbling up from the man beside you. 

The rain falls in sheets, and you find yourself laughing with Copia. It’s ridiculous, this situation you’ve found yourself in. Like the sky had heard you speak to each other about your less-than-ideal childhoods, and decided to provide you with the clouds over your heads in a more literal sense. 

It takes you a moment to realize that Copia isn’t leading you back up the path towards the Abbey. You’re still running on the gravel past the greenhouses, which are teeming with Siblings hiding from the storm. Looking up through rain-soaked lashes you see the approaching silhouette of the tiny, sort-of-abandoned chapel in the far corner of the Abbey grounds. You can’t make out any details through the rain except for the small spire with its inverted cross. 

Your heart jumps at the thought of being cooped up in the small space with Copia until the rain subsides.

“Here!” Copia calls. He surges forward to the door of the chapel and almost loses your hand in the process. It takes him two tries before he can shoulder the door open, and then he’s practically dragging you over the threshold. His leather gloves are soaked and slippery, but his grip on you tightens until you’re both inside and safe from the rain. He closes the door behind you and it slams against the threshold with a creak and a loud rap of the ancient brass knocker. 

Then, you’re alone. It’s quiet inside the chapel, save for the storm pelting against the old, warped panels of stained glass along the side walls and the frantic beating of your heart in your ears. 

You wonder why a chapel has a knocker. 

You also wonder why such a pretty, quaint little chapel isn’t used anymore. The inside is lined with dark wood pews on either side of a carpeted aisle. The door is made of the same wood, as is the modest pulpit stationed at the front of the room. It stands on a raised platform, and behind it is another, higher platform with what looks to be a long table sheathed in a black cloth which reaches down to the floor. On either side of the pulpit are elaborate iron candelabras empty of any candles. 

The windows on either side of the chapel aren’t elaborate like that of the main Abbey. They each depict a single inverted cross of clear glass, with red stained glass filling the negative space of the arched windows. The walls are thick and built of stone, and each window lines up with a pew. Several books, which you infer are unholy prayer or hymn books, are perched on each windowsill, and you’re very suddenly reminded of Marseille. The stone walls, the tall, narrow windows, the old wood, the books on the sill. 

For a moment, you’re home and you’re very near to tears. 

“Cara,” Copia says softly from behind you. In your reverie you’d turned around to take in every little detail and your back is now facing him. His hand still holds yours, although you’re sure the soggy leather must be making your (and his) fingertips prune. 

Copia had watched you, watched your eyes flit around the chapel as you turned on the spot. He remembers what you told him about your home and realizes that this little building must remind you of it. He had watched your face alight in unrealized comfort and he had watched as your eyes grew glassy when you made the connection. He calls out to you. Cara, he says, and he means it. You are dear to him and it surprises him just how quickly you’d managed to become that way. 

You turn back to him, trying very hard not to let the tears building in the corners of your eyes slip down your already-wet cheeks. But then you see his face. Oh, your poor Papa, his face. 

One might think, for a Ministry with worldwide influence and many, many resources, they might be able to afford waterproof, smudge-proof paints for their esteemed leader, but they hadn’t. 

“Oh, no,” you giggle. It bubbles up in your chest and escapes your lips without your intent. And then your giggle turns into a rather unattractive snort and a full laugh, because your poor Papa looks like Hell. His paints are running down his face and dripping onto his leather vest. The black rings around his eyes have been tracked down his cheeks so that he looks like an overdramatic actress with terrible mascara. The pigment on his lips and beside his mouth have smudged so badly with the rain that he looks as if he’d drank a gallon of black paint. The white paint has almost completely run off, except for where it settles in the creases beside his mouth and between his brows. 

All together, he looks like a rather soggy zebra. 

Copia pouts at you. “What?”

You wish you had a mirror to show him. Part of you feels horrible for laughing at Papa, but you know that the man behind the paint will also find it rather funny. Slightly embarrassing at worst. “Your–” you try to stifle your giggles. “Your paints, they’re…” 

Copia’s eyes widen in realization. “They’re… not waterproof, no,” he says flatly. “Satana, devo sembrare uno stupido.”

He peels his sodden gloves off his hands and stuffs them in the front pocket of his pants. He swipes a finger under his eye and brings it back to find that his fingertip is gray and patchy. 

“No, you don’t look like an idiot,” you try to soothe him, although you’re still slightly laughing. “You simply… look like a man who was caught in a rainstorm with a full face of paints.” “Sì, so, like an idiot.” 

Copia begins trying to wipe his face with his sleeve. It does nothing to actually remove the paint, instead just smudging around his damp skin. Though, you’re beginning to see that his cheeks burn a pretty red through the streaks of whitish-gray paint, and his ears are nearly completely red. You guess that his face might feel just as hot as your own. 

He huffs in frustration, flicking his wet sleeve and causing water droplets to smack against the stone floor. “Dannazione,” he mutters to himself. “Shitty paints making me look like a…”

You remove your veil and bandeau—which are nearly plastered to your head from the torrential downpour—and wring them out. “Sit,” you command gently. Gesturing to one of the pews nearby, you fold your veil into a neat square. 

When Copia continues mumbling to himself and fruitlessly wiping his face, you reach out and tug his sleeve away. “Copia,” you say again, “Asseyez-vous.”

Copia reluctantly obeys. He knows his face is completely red now, for multiple reasons. It’s cold, for one—the rain had felt like tiny daggers of ice even through his shirt, and now that the two of you are in a drafty little chapel with soaked clothes, the air feels even colder. He’d also made a complete and total ass of himself, thanks to the rain. He’d spent so long this morning leaning against his mirror, going over and over the black paints to make sure each line was crisp and clean and perfect in the off-chance he might see you today. It had made him late arriving at his office, but it had led him to bump into you just minutes after his paints had dried, which is when they look their best, in his opinion. 

But the primary reason his face is practically glowing is because you’d commanded him in French. The language sounds sinful on your tongue. And spoken in that gentle but insistent tone… oh, he could come apart from just your words. You could string him along forever if you only speak like that. 

He sits on the edge of a pew with a sigh. Copia knows he’s being ridiculous—it’s only paint—but he’d spent an embarrassingly long time on it in the hopes it might impress you, and here he is, looking like an idiot. 

You approach him. You’re taller than him like this, so he has to tilt his face up to meet your eyes. Before you can overthink, before you can begin to question yourself, you gently reach out to place a finger under his chin and lift his head up a bit more. “Let me,” you say, almost a whisper. Your finger remains on his chin, keeping his head in place as you place your damp veil against his brow and begin to wipe. 

Surprisingly, the fabric of your veil is much more effective than his shirt, and the paint comes off easily. “Oh,” you say, lifting your brows in mild surprise. “It’s working.” 

You notice that Copia’s eyes slid closed at some point. “It feels nice,” he tells you softly. 

“It’s French,” you say with a little huff of laughter, which Copia echoes. 

Yes, he had meant that the fabric of your veil feels nice against his skin. But mostly he had meant that your finger gently tipping his head back feels like so much, all at once, and he doesn’t have words for any of it. It feels like it belongs there. He wants to touch you back, but where? And would you be okay with it, his hands on your hips or your waist or the backs of your thighs? 

So, he settles for shutting his eyes and clenching his hands on his knees to resist pulling you closer. You’re standing between his knees, which are spread wide enough to accommodate you without touching the sides of your legs.

He wants something. Something innocent, not presumptuous, because he really doesn’t know how you feel about him at all. He lets his legs fall closed a bit more, until the bends of his knees just barely brush against your legs. His pants and your habit are absolutely soaked but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric, and oh, he’d never guess that leg-to-leg contact could feel so intimate. 

Copia opens his eyes when you gently drag your finger over his hairline to brush back the hair stuck to his forehead. You’re so focused on your task, as you always are. Your hands are cold and gentle as you wipe away his ruined paints. He wants to take your hands and kiss every finger until they’re warm again. 

Slowly, carefully, you uncover new expanses of Copia’s face with each pass of your veil. You press a little firmer into the lines along his forehead and between his brows to completely clear his skin. His eyes are closed again, and you’re partially grateful because if he had looked at you like that any longer, you might have leaned down and kissed him. His freckled cheeks or his strong nose or his lips, you don’t know. 

Somewhere between wiping the paint from his mustache and chuffing your veil under his chin, you begin to shake. 

“Tesoro.”

“Hm?”

“You are cold,” Copia says, his voice barely above a whisper. You can feel his warm breath on your fingers as you drag your paint-ruined veil over a spot of white you’d missed. 

“I’m alright,” you say. It’s partially true. Yes, you’re cold, but you don’t want to think about it or else you’ll really be cold and there’s nothing here to warm you up. Realistically you know it’s your habit; it’s soaked through and so are your socks and shoes. But it’s also the realization coursing through you that you have feelings for this man. 

Lucifer, they had developed quickly. It had been so easy for him to push past the barriers you’d set up around your heart and mind. He’d just walked right in, lit a cozy fire within your soul and asked you to call him Copia. And you let him. He’s carving a place in your life that you’d gladly have him occupy, and it scares you. 

He makes you forget why you try not to get attached. He looks at you and you forget the pain of leaving everything behind when you were eleven, which you are deathly afraid of having to do again. 

You’re brought out of your thoughts when Copia’s ungloved hand gently takes yours. You cringe at how clammy your hands must be compared to his warm ones, but you don’t pull away. “Sathanas, tesoro, your hands are like ice,” he says. His other hand comes atop yours to sandwich it between his own. 

You feel like you need to run. Your heart kicks against your sternum as your eyes meet his own. 

Copia’s face is bare now. His freckles stretch across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose, with a few scattered on his forehead and chin. You want to rip your hand out from between his own and tumble out the door into the rain. You want to bring him closer and trace little patterns into his freckles. Satan, you don’t know what you want. 

You want to protect yourself from hurting again. 

Copia, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants. But he can practically see your mind working, churning back and forth between whatever turmoil is going on inside your head. As he sits in front of you, he can see the exact moment when you begin to panic. He can feel your hand begin to shake in his. He knows you’re not blind, or ignorant. He knows that you both know there is something happening, that it has been happening since you met, that it’s big. And he knows you’re scared of it, what it could become, what it could mean. Darling, he knows.

So, he stays silent. If he says anything or does anything, you’ll flee. This thing between the two of you is delicate, so delicate and new and foreign that any sudden movement will shatter the careful balance you hold in the little chapel. Anything but silence will cave the roof in and drench you all over again. Copia stays silent and holds your hand through your own tempest, and lets your eyes explore his face in search of answers he hopes you’ll find.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper after another moment. “I want to stay and figure it out.” 

Copia doesn’t know if you’re talking about Elizabeth’s diary, or this thing between you and him, or both. Honestly, neither do you. 

He squeezes your hand tenderly. “Let’s get you back to the Abbey then, eh?” 

“It’s—” your eyes dart to a window, “it’s still pouring, Copia.” Copia simply smiles at you, leaning in as if to tell you a secret. “What’s a little rain going to do, cara? Ruin my paints?” 

~~~

By the time you make it back up the hill, to your dorm, to the shower, and into dry clothes, the lunch hour is long gone. You hadn’t realized how long you’d spent with Copia that morning. It had been just past nine when you left Sister Imperator’s office, and now it is well past two in the afternoon. Somehow it felt like only minutes had passed in the cozy little chapel, and in that chapel you made the terrifying realization that no matter how long you spend with him, it will never be enough. 

You can’t think about that right now. 

Right now, you need to get to the restricted room. You’re halfway out the door of your temporary dormitory, slipping on your only spare pair of shoes as you desperately hold onto the idea you had when you and Copia were about halfway up the hill. 

With your shoes already soaked through, you and Copia had struggled to find traction on the sodden grass. With each step you found yourself slipping backwards, hands flying through the air until you regained your balance, or until Copia firmly grasped it in his own and didn’t let go. The two of you trekked your way up the hill, slipping and sliding and giggling at the absurdity of it all. Your hand would find his own whenever it would slip from his grasp, like they were magnetized. It felt natural, seeking his hand. Even if it was only for balance. 

As you slowly made your way up the hill, soaked and shivering, one thought prevailed in your mind. You only have today, you kept thinking. If you don’t figure out the diary, you’ll only have today. 

It was true of two situations. You have one word of the diary—Today—and you have only today if you can’t decipher the rest. 

You took a step forward, and slid back slightly. Copia’s hand steadied you. 

Only today. Elizabeth. Today. Copia. Today. 

Today. 

You’d stopped completely, just standing in the near-freezing rain. Copia had looked back at you like you were insane (which you might be), and tugged on your hand again. “What is it?” He’d shouted over the rain. 

You’d begun to climb the hill with a renewed vigor. “Today!” 

Copia had no idea what you’d meant by today, but he couldn’t question it when you were pulling him up the hill. It was like you’d suddenly found your footing in the wet grass, and he was glad of it. His shoes were completely drenched and he was shivering nearly as violently as you were. He didn’t need to understand what you were talking about right now. All that mattered was getting you (and himself) out of the cold. He can ask you later. 

Later, he’d thought. Would there be a later?

Yes, there would. As he watched you climb the hill towards the kitchen door, still clinging to his hand and helping him up, he’d decided there would be a later. Sister Imperator may control every other aspect of the Abbey and his life, but not this one. Not you. 

The Siblings working in the kitchen had looked at the two of you like you were crazy when you burst through the door, sopping wet and dripping onto the tile. Perhaps it was a mix of confusion and surprise—you’d wager that none of them had seen Copia without his paints before. You feel immensely privileged that you’d been the first, that you’d been the one to take them off. You’d been the one to strip away Papa. 

“Eh,” Copia had said, looking back and forth between you and the Brother who had smiled at you earlier, “We— I— sorry. We’ll be going, yes—”

He’d grabbed your hand again and pulled you through the kitchens the way you came that morning. Once you both had stepped out into the refectory, which was thankfully empty at this time of day, Copia stopped again. The sounds of his ruffled shirt and your habit dripping on the floor echoed in the large room. “Be honest with me, cara. How bad is it?” 

You’d struggled to hold in a laugh. “It’s… not as bad as you think,” you’d told him. In truth, it wasn’t. But you realized then that you’d missed a spot of paint in his hairline, which now trailed down his forehead in a distinct white line. Without thinking twice, you reached up to swipe it away with your thumb. “I can’t imagine I look any better.” 

Copia huffed a laugh through his nose. “We… should probably go get cleaned up,” he’d said. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” 

“You either, Papa,” you said, and Copia had mourned the loss of his name on your lips. He understands—within the walls of the Abbey, he is Papa and you are Sorella. But perhaps he could make an exception for you. 

You and Copia had parted ways then, to wash up and resume your duties. All the way back to your dorm and through the time it took to shower and change, you’d recited the word today in your head like a prayer. Even now, as you quickly walk through the corridors on the path you've taken every day for the past week, you repeat today, today, today as if you would lose the thought if you didn’t.

If Elizabeth is the key to the first word, perhaps today is the key to the second. Two steps forward, one step back. The hill in the rain. You must look back before you can forge ahead.

With practiced ease, you open the diary’s lockbox and place it onto your usual desk. Having donned the pristine white gloves again, you unfold the linen and the gold embossment on the cover catches your eye. You smile. Soon, you promise to Elizabeth, you will live again in these pages.

The familiar string of letters greets you as you open to the first page of writing. You write the sequence again on a blank sheet in your notebook, the letters flowing from your pen with ease after having written them hundreds of times already. 

LzlhelzhkxbgwfqmnJkcfolBfbalBoiovtsheq.

You already know that the first five letters translate to today, so you cross them out. Underneath the next letters, you write hodie again and again, as you’d done with the word Elizabeth the first time. Your hands are shaking. Please, please, please…

You trace your finger over the letter grid, quickly mapping each letter of the cipher to its partner in the key. L of the cipher and the H of the key map to an E on the grid. You jot down a messy E. Z of the cipher, o of the key, l on the grid. And so on, until you’re confident you’ve found the next word when the deciphered letters stop making sense. 

The second word in the line reads electus. Chosen. 

Without translating the whole sentence, hodie electus could mean a number of things. Word order does not matter in Latin—hodie could be the subject of the sentence, or the object, or an arbitrary time frame. 

Your heart is beating hard in your ears. You continue, using electus as the new cipher key. 

The next word is sum. The Latin word for self, or I. 

Hodie electus sum. Today I was chosen. 

Sweet Satan, you think. Your breath comes shallow and quick. Holy Hell, I’ve figured it out.

You continue, your hands flying back and forth between the corresponding letters of each new key and the grid, double and triple checking to make sure you map the correct letters. Your head feels light, your chest heavy. Like if you dared to look away from the diary or your notebook or the grid, you’d find that you were wrong. You must translate this first sentence before it shifts and your idea doesn’t fit anymore. 

It’s easy to find where the first sentence ends, because it is isolated in its own paragraph in the diary. That also tells you that it’s an important statement; important enough to be separate from the rest of the text, which is a continuous flow of letters down the page. 

The final word of the cipher confirms your suspicions that Elizabeth wanted to keep her diary a secret for a long time. The final word deciphers as Papae, the Latin possessive form of Papa. 

Hodie electus sum ut Primus Motor Papae.

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @nikkyatyourservice @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone

You’re losing me

Summary: Azriel has always put his duties as spymaster above his own needs and wants. How long can you let him keep putting work over you before boiling over?

Author’s note: I am so sorry about this babes, this is pure heartbreak. Anyway angst is a new genre for me so please lmk how this goes for you (good, bad, awful - lmk)

(1k celebration masterlist 🍾)

You sit in the library of your shared home, the soft cushion of your favorite armchair not providing the comfort it used to. The library was your favorite room in the house - you and Azriel spent thousands of hours in here reading independently, reading to each other, or just enjoying the silence with each other for company.

The room was beautiful- you both adored the entirety of the house, but this room drew both of you in immediately. It’s beautiful stain-glass windows creating brilliant hues of color to move about the room during the day, bringing life to the dark wood that adorns the walls of the room.

Vivid colors from the scenes in the stain glass window would dance across the floor, as if reenacting the depictions just for you two.

It’s dark now, the sun having set hours ago, and you can’t remember the last time you enjoyed the light of the room. The last time you and Azriel had enjoyed the light of the room.

The last time you and Azriel just enjoyed each other’s company without knowing he was going to leave in a matter of hours.

It was a song and dance you were familiar with by now - he’d return home from doing some work requested by Rhys, you’d make him some food, you two would snuggle or have sex, and he’d be gone by the time you woke up.

It wasn’t always like this, but the two years since the war have caused Azriel to dive headfirst into his work, accepting every scrap of work Rhysand would push his way, darting out the door like it was calling to him.

You hear the front door open, knowing who it is despite their silent entrance. Sighing, you stand up and walk out of the library, closing the door behind you.

You walked through the halls of your home, feet softly padding on the hardwood floor until you see him across the living room, still in his leathers.

It used to amuse you, when he’d return in his leathers, compared to you in your frilly nightgowns. It was quite a sight, the dark leather surrounded by the satins and cottons of your nightgowns.

Now it just furthered to prove the divide between you.

“Az, we were supposed to go to the bakery today to taste cakes.”

You hardly let him walk through the door before picking a fight, but his absence at the bakery hours ago left you ample time to stew in your negative emotions.

He runs his hand down his face, the purple and blue bruising under his eyes having grown more and more prominent over the weeks. Truthfully, you don’t want to start a fight, but you’ve let too many of these things slide in the past two years and you’re at your tipping point.

Missed dates, rescheduled dinners, missed anniversaries, cancelled trips. You had tried talking several times about it, but you need your fiancé around more than he has been. No amount of begging can make him do anything about it, though.

The most egregious of all was the continually delayed status of your wedding ceremony. You’ve had to rescind the invitations two times now, and you’re have tempted to send out fresh ones that just say “date: TBD”.

He just sighs in response, telling you, “I had to work, I had a mission.”

You sigh, knowing it was the truth. Your fiancé would never cheat on you, but he would put everyone else’s needs above his.

And above your own.

“Azriel, I really needed you today. It was important to me for you to be there.”

“It’s just a cake - pick any flavor you want. You know what I like,” he says, sitting onto the couch and taking off his boots.

“It’s not just a cake! This is your wedding too - I cannot make every decision for this. It’s supposed to be about us, not about me.”

You shake your head, exasperation bubbling to the surface, “I feel insane going to these appointments because I have a fiancé who never shows up! I swear I heard the florist say she pitied me because I pretended to be engaged!”

Azriel drags a hand down his face, “can we not do this now? I’m exhausted and want to bathe before bed.”

You huff out a laugh, as Azriel tries to move past you but you continue to follow him. “When would be a better time? You’re hardly home lately, and you leave at a moment’s notice for Rhysand.”

He whips his head at you, “it’s my job, my duty.”

You roll your eyes, “I’m pretty sure you could delegate a decent proportion of your work to the people under you that you both hand selected and trained yourself!

He sighs, exasperated, “it’s my job.”

A line you’ve heard a thousand times. You knew who he was when you began dating him, you’ve always known who he was and what he did.

But you thought his need to feel worthy would wane with time, not get worse.

“You put Rhys’s needs over mine!” You’re shouting now, something you never do, and Azriel bites back, “he’s my high lord - and yours.”

“That doesn’t mean he gets to keep you at his beck and call!” Your hands were running through your hair, unable to have the same argument again and again.

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“Oh so was it Rhys’s beck and call to push our wedding back three separate times?”

He whirls around at you, pointing, “That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Three times is not fair! It’s like you don’t even want it!”

His silence to your accusation rings through your ears. A damning, deafening silence.

You count to ten in your head, and he hasn’t made a sound, only looking at the ground.

His lack of words echo through your mind, even as his hands reach out to you, his desperate pleadings of “I-” and “baby” falling on deaf ears.

“I’m glad to see where we stand.”

You begin to turn, but stop yourself.

“When I told Nesta our wedding was delayed again, she told me if you really wanted it, really wanted me, you’d suggest we just run off and get married like Rhys and Feyre did.”

You take a shaky breath, “but you never did.”

You step back from him, unable to look him in the eye, unable to do much of anything, except retreat from your shared bedroom, softly shutting the door behind you.

Azriel stands in the now empty room, your footsteps ceasing down the hall but continuing in his mind. Every second he stands there, the further you become. He starts to move, starts to pick up his feet, his shadows urging him to go, go, go.

You can fix this, they tell him. Go, now.

His thoughts are broken up by Rhys’s voice, a smooth sound at such odds with the chaotic edges of his thoughts.

Az, I need you.

Azriel doesn’t even ask if it can wait. You’ll understand. He’s sure of it. He can fix things when he comes home. Rhys just needs him right now, he can help him out, then he can talk to you.

He scrawls a quick note on the table for you to find before retreating into his shadows.

He returns home a few hours later, his assistance speeding up Rhys’s needs. He stops to grab you your favorite flowers, a book you’ve been eyeing, and a necklace he’s had his eye on in the shop for ages.

The necklace gives him pause, as he realizes he first saw it eight months ago, its shine reminding him of your eyes.

Had it really been eight months?

He kept telling himself he was going to buy you the necklace for a special occasion, but so many have slipped by without his acknowledgment this past year.

Gods, he thinks, did he even celebrate your birthday?

Surely he hadn’t gotten that caught up in his work.

Had he?

The streets are quiet as he makes his way back to your shared home. He thinks over the past year and how he hardly saw you, and when he did, he often left not soon after seeing you.

He opens the door, the house eerily silent following your fight earlier. He deserved your silence. He couldn’t tell you how scared he was to marry you, tethering your soul to his for the rest of your lives.

You, who was so kind and so loving, shackled to him for eternity. He knew the insecurities were ridiculous, that you loved him with every part of yourself.

But that didn’t stop the self-hatred from oozing out of him every moment.

He hadn’t been there for you this past year. He had let his own need for approval overshadow your needs.

He groans, needing to find you so he can fix things. He walks through the house, not even realizing the book he’s carrying is a duplicate to the one sitting on the coffee table.

He starts really thinking, trying to remember the last time he had touched you, kissed you, held you.

Too long, he realizes, as he’s made his way through the whole house without a sign of you. A shadow wraps around his wrist, pulling him into the kitchen. He finds the note he had left earlier still on the table, but you had scrawled a second message underneath. Five words that break his resolve, forcing him to his knees. Your handwriting so clear, save for the splotched ink, wet from tears.

I wouldn’t marry me either.

Part two

LMFAO BRO

If texting were a thing in the 1890s pt 5

Sebastian: do you love me Ominis: ????? Ominis: was that meant for MC Sebastian: no it was meant for you Sebastian: MC and Poppy say they love each other all of the time and you NEVER say you love me Sebastian: aren't we best friends? Sebastian: haven't i known you for years? Sebastian: why don't you love me Ominis: why does it matter Sebastian: wow so that's how much i mean to you Sebastian: i'll remember this

Sebastian: MC do you love me MC: uhhh like in what way Sebastian: as a friend Sebastian: the way you love Poppy MC: oh then no. not like that. Sebastian: wtf do you all hate me???

Sebastian: we're settling this rn Sebastian: so neither of you love me huh Ominis: did i say i don't love you??? i don't think those words came out of my mouth Sebastian: YOU BASICALLY DID YES MC: i never said i didn't love you. i just said i don't love you the way that i love Poppy. big difference there I think Sebastian: so you DO love me? MC: can we talk about this outside of the group chat with Ominis pls Sebastian: ?????? do you hate him MC: no wtf Sebastian: then why can't he be here MC: ugh seb pls Ominis: i'm not saying it sorry Ominis: i hate verbalizing love Ominis: makes my stomach hurt Ominis: makes my body cringe Ominis: makes me wanna throw up MC: you weren't hugged enough as a child Ominis: lol ur right Sebastian: so that's it???? you won't say it and MC won't say it in a group with you either. because she hates you. thanks a lot Ominis. MC: that's actually not true MC: he's my best friend. i love you Ominis. Ominis: love you too Sebastian: WTF???????

new obsession omfg

Cheirophilia - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Following the summer leading up to your seventh year, you return to Hogwarts to discover that Sebastian has undergone changes that greatly appeal to the eye. Your eye, to be specific. There’s no easy way to tell the man you’ve been dating for two years that your attention has been fixed on a part of him otherwise deemed normal, but after a while, you’re forced to face the truth of the matter. 

Alternatively summarized as you have a hand kink and Sebastian Sallow has extremely nice hands.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, explicit sexual content, hand kink, size difference

Full fic can be found here on Ao3 (with more diverse tags)

You had to be losing your mind. That was the only plausible explanation for the wild, unrestrained thoughts that had been plaguing your brain for the last week every time you so much as glanced at Sebastian. Yes, he was attractive. He was charming and confident, and quite frankly he was the epitome of male perfection as far as you were concerned. Not a day went by where you didn’t consider yourself lucky to be able to call him yours, and you knew he was just as enamored with you.

But your newfound infatuation with his hands had started relatively recently, and you had no clue what to make of it. 

Sebastian was touchy to begin with, and he always had been. From casually brushing shoulders with you in the Great Hall during mealtimes, to tucking your hair behind your ears at night– the man was constantly finding ways to be closer to you, and your appreciation for his efforts knew no bounds. It made you feel treasured, wanted, revered, and a slew of other things that made your heart swell with affection. Maybe you could attribute your blatant ogling of his appendages to that, or maybe you had just finally started to notice after your Divination class last week. 

Professor Onai, for all her outlandish preachings on clairvoyance, had taken a more mundane approach in teaching her students ‘fortune telling’ a few days ago. “Palm reading,” she had said, “is a delicate and fixed art. It can be as vague as it can be accurate, and it takes an expertly trained eye to decipher the true meaning behind the grooves in one’s hand.” 

You were far from an expert in anything relating to Divination, but you did have an eye for nice things, and Merlin– were Sebastian’s hands exquisite. They were nearly twice the size of yours and covered in calluses, a lingering sign of the grueling physical labor he’d done over the summer in Feldcroft. His fingers weren’t as dainty as Ominis’, but they were long, thick, and lined with pulsing veins that stretched across the backs of his hands and coiled around his toned forearms. As you’d traced the lines on his palm with your fingers, he’d shivered at the featherlight feeling and chuckled at the deferential way you seemed to commit every part of the appendage to memory. 

You didn’t even want to begin to recount the way your heart had hammered in your chest when it had been his turn to read your palm. Maintaining your composure had taken every ounce of willpower in your body.

Since then, your mind had wandered an unhealthy amount.

By some miracle, Sebastian hadn’t noticed your unwavering eye contact with his hands yet. The two of you had been kept preoccupied with the mountains of classwork that came with the start of the new school year, and as a result, your only opportunities to spend time with him had been during mealtimes. Today was different, however, because Lucan had finally set up the first Crossed Wands match of the season. You and Sebastian were both participating, and your boyfriend was all too eager to jump back into dueling after the summer months spent away. 

Your eyes scanned him dutifully from across the room, watching with rapt interest as he chatted with Brattleby about the upcoming fight. Sebastian had grown considerably since your fifth-year, virtually towering over Lucan as he looked down at the curly haired Gryffindor. The latter had gone through a growth spurt of his own, but it was easy to overlook him when he was standing next to your boyfriend. Sebastian was big; broad shouldered with long, powerful legs and thick wrists that complimented his massive, mouthwatering hands. 

Said hands were fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt as he rolled them up, nodding down at Lucan as he replied to something the younger boy had said. You didn’t know what they were discussing, and quite frankly, you didn’t care. His deft fingers adjusted his uniform as he prepared for your duo’s duel, and instead of following suit, you were unabashedly studying his every move. That is, until a voice from your left drew your attention. 

“Did something happen over summer?” 

You startled easily, warranting an eye roll from Imelda as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the wall. It was a rarity to find her in the Crossed Wands courtyard, but you knew she had been hounding members of the Quidditch team to prepare for trial runs and scrimmages, and Sebastian factored into that assortment of people. Schooling your nerves the best you could, you started to shed your robe in an effort to simultaneously get ready for the duel and distract from the metaphorical eye candy across the room. 

“What do you mean,” you asked vaguely, keeping your eyes pointed at the floor as you moved. 

Imelda was having none of it– clearly smarter than you deigned to give her credit for. “Don’t play coy with me. You’re always checking Sallow out, but since we’ve been back it’s ten times worse. Did he sprout a second cock or something?” 

You damn near choked on your own tongue as you whipped around to glare at her. “Do you have to be so crass all the time?” 

She waved you off, “Yes, I do. Who else would rile you up this way if not myself? Now answer the question.” 

Heaving a deep sigh, you draped your robe over a stack of crates and began to gather your hair back into a loose braid as you muttered, “No, nothing happened over summer.”

“But something is going on. Come on,” she implored with a taunting tone, her brown eyes glimmering with amusement. “At least tell me if it’s something bad.” 

“It’s not bad,” you relented. “It’s– I’m not sure what it is, to be honest. We haven’t even done anything since we’ve been back, we’ve been too busy. But…”

You trailed off, staring at the wall behind Imelda as you brought your hair over your shoulder to finish off the plait. She waited patiently, however, all too eager to get the inside scoop on your love life. “But?”

“I don’t know– have you ever found yourself focused on other body parts? Like, really random parts of another person?” 

The Quidditch captain’s face shifted into a confused expression as she chanced a look at Sebastian, evidently trying to figure out what on Godric’s green Earth you were referring to. “Uh, no? If you’re talking about his feet though then I’m going to ask that you forget I even brought this up–”

“No!” You blurted loudly, drawing the attention of a handful of students in the courtyard, Sebastian included. He cocked a brow at you from across the room, and you flashed him a bashful smile in silent reply before mouthing a timid ‘sorry’. Imelda snickered under her breath when you turned back to her, a deep scowl settling on your face. “Dammit, not his fucking feet. I’m talking about his hands. He has really nice hands– I never noticed before.” 

“You’re telling me you’ve had your knickers in a twist for the last week and a half because of Sallow’s hands?” 

To say Imelda looked dumbstruck would be an understatement, and you suddenly felt incredibly stupid for having said anything at all. You kept your eyes downcast as you tossed your braided hair over your shoulder and slid your wand free from its holster, doing your best to ignore the woman’s burning stare. “Nevermind– forget I mentioned it.” 

“I doubt I could even if I wanted to, but for the sake of your dignity I’ll go grab a seat and let you get your head in the game.” You felt your cheeks heat up instantly in response to her snide comment, and you lifted your eyes in time to watch Imelda turn towards the far corner of the room with a smile on her face. She paused before taking off, murmuring over her shoulder, “Make sure you’re paying attention to your opponents and not Sallow’s hands.”

Sweet Merlin… you should have kept your big mouth shut.

***

As it turned out, your head was so far out of the game that it became collateral in the midst of your duo’s duel. 

It was your own fault, really. Despite doing your best to focus on the task at hand, your eyes had continually wandered over to Sebastian, tracking his movements as he fired spell after spell in retaliation against your opponents. He had always been exceptionally graceful while fighting– be it in Crossed Wands or in the Highlands at your side– and his sudden growth spurt over summer had only added to his preexisting agility. It was all too easy for you to get absorbed in his fluid movements as he ducked and rolled, then blocked and countered every attack with astonishing finesse. 

Unfortunately, that meant you were left wholly unprepared for the Depulso charm that sent you careening across the room into a stack of crates. Your head had been positively spinning as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, but your vision cleared in time to watch as Sebastian abandoned the duel entirely to hurry over to where you lay prone against the broken wood. Lucan had shouted something about the match being called off, but you could hardly pay any attention to his words with Sebastian fretting over you, mere inches from your face. 

“Merlin’s bloody balls, what the hell happened?” The brunet hadn’t even given you ample time to reply before he had hoisted you up in his strong, capable arms to carry you to the Hospital Wing. 

That was how you’d ended up where you were now; laid out in an uncomfortable hospital bed with Nurse Blainey hovering too close for comfort while your boyfriend sat beside you with his arms crossed stiffly over his chest. His expression was virtually unreadable, but you weren’t able to focus on him for long without your head pounding in silent protest. 

“Drink this,” Nurse Blainey dutifully instructed, thrusting a vial of Wiggenweld in front of you as she scanned your bandaged temple. “It will help with the swelling and the gods-awful headache I’m sure you’re sporting. My diagnostic spells came back negative for any internal injuries, but that doesn’t mean you can rush back to your foolhardy dueling club. A concussion is a concussion, no matter how small.” 

Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth so you nodded in response instead of speaking– only to instantly regret the movement. Sharp, concentrated pain shot through your head, and you took it as a sign to carefully knock back the contents of the potion she’d given you. A soothing warmth overtook you in a split second, and the throbbing in your skull lessened considerably, prompting you to relax against the pillows situated behind you as your eyelids fluttered. Evidently pleased with your subdued demeanor, Nurse Blainey jotted something down on the clipboard that had been tucked under her arm before turning to Sebastian. 

“I trust that you’ll ensure she actually takes it easy for the next few days, Mr. Sallow?” 

Your eyes cracked open in time to watch Sebastian’s gaze flicker to yours, and the muscle in his jaw ticked as his attention zero’d in on the thick bandage that now adorned your head. “Of course. She’ll be a model patient for as long as needed.” 

Satisfied with his agreement, Nurse Blainey pivoted on her heel and strode to the back end of the room, leaving you and Sebastian alone in a tense silence. 

Heaving a heavy sigh, you gathered your hands in your lap and let your head tip back against the bed frame, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. All of this because you couldn’t stop ogling your boyfriend for a measly twenty minutes when it mattered most… it was an embarrassing and stupid mistake to acknowledge. Moreover, you’d basically ruined the first Crossed Wands duel of the season– something you knew had to be bothering Sebastian, given his competitive nature. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled half-heartedly. “I should have been paying closer attention.”

Sebastian scoffed to your left, and when you peered at him through the corner of your eye, his head looked like it was on the verge of imploding. “Are you seriously apologizing for getting a concussion right now?” 

There was no stopping the frown that spread across your face, and you nervously started picking at your cuticles as your mouth opened, shut, then opened again. “Yes– I mean– no. I’m sorry that the match got canceled because of me. You were probably excited to get back into Crossed Wands and I just… messed it up. I wasn’t thinking clearly out there.” 

“Obviously,” Sebastian countered easily, the amused glimmer in his eyes vanishing before you could take proper note of it. “You’re never one to let your mind wander when you fight, but you have to know I’m not mad about the duel. I was worried about you– I don’t think you realize how terrifying it is to see you of all people bleeding.” 

You gaze fell to your lap as you pursed your lips and lifted your hand to the bandage taped to your temple, trying and failing to recall if you’d actually bled at all. It was all something of a blur if you were being honest. When you looked up at Sebastian once more, he had sat forward in his seat and was reaching towards you, wearing an expression that was equal parts concerned and curious. With your brain still muddled, all you could really do was stare wide-eyed at the nearing culprit of your misfortune; his Merlin-be-damned hands. Those long, flexing digits came to gently stroke the side of your cheek, turning your head to the side briefly to allow him a good look at your patched up face, and as Sebastian tsk’d disapprovingly, you were fighting back a slew of unholy thoughts that had no business arising in the midst of such a tender moment. 

The side of his mouth quirked up as he thought back to your debacle in the clock tower courtyard. “Did your inability to ‘think clearly’ have anything to do with whatever you and Imelda were talking about earlier?” 

Being reminded of your discussion with the Slytherin woman at such an inopportune time caused your face to flush a deep red, and you nervously clasped your boyfriend’s larger hand in your notably smaller one and drew it into your lap. You gently thumbed over the veins on the back of his hand, taking note of the constellation of freckles that ran up his wrist and forearm, and you saw Sebastian tilt his head to the side as he let you fondle the limb. 

“Maybe…” you drawled lazily. Perhaps you would chalk it up to your concussion later on, or perhaps you just wanted to get your insane obsession off your chest. Regardless of the why, you steeled your nerves and swallowed thickly before muttering, “You have really nice hands.” 

Silence. Sebastian said nothing– and that was considerably worse than him saying something– anything. Your brows slammed down just as you lifted your head to gauge his reaction, only to discover a bewildered smile plastered on his smarmy face. 

“…I think you hit your head harder than I thought. Should I call Nurse Blainey back over here?”

Ah. He thought you were delusional. Brilliant. 

Letting go of him as though his skin were heated metal, you sighed and sat forward to swing your legs over the edge of the bed, shivering slightly when Sebastian placed his hand on your hip to steady you. His face conveyed genuine apprehension as he asked, “Are you sure you should be trying to move right now?” 

Part of you was thankful he hadn’t taken your confession seriously, but another stronger part of you was annoyed that you had said anything to begin with. Here was Sebastian, acting chivalrous and doting on you in the wake of you flying face first into a crate, and all you cared to think about was having his hands on you. On your bare skin, between your legs, around your neck…

Something was definitely wrong with you. 

“I’m alright– stop worrying. I promise I won’t overdo it. At this point I just want to eat and go to sleep.” Thankfully he made no move to stop you when you stood yourself up on shaky legs, instead placing that damnable hand on the small of your back to help you keep your balance. You closed your eyes momentarily to will away the vile, uncouth thoughts that seemed to run rampant in your concussed skull, but if the way his fingers tensed against you was any indication, Sebastian clearly thought your brief pause was due to your injury.

“Fine,” he bit out, sounding all too displeased with your stubbornness. “Food, then straight to your dorm. But if I think for even a second you can’t manage, I’m carrying you to bed myself.” 

It hurt to do it, but your eye roll was heavily warranted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dad.” 

As the two of you walked from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall, you realized just how serious Sebastian was about his promise to Nurse Blainey. His hands were constantly hovering at your side, ready to catch you at a moment's notice in the event you required the help, which you fortunately weren’t in need of. You didn’t think you could take any more coddling– or any more… hands-on-torment, so to speak. 

Ominis joined the two of you for lunch shortly after you’d arrived, and you were unsurprised to discover that he was very much aware of your blunder in Crossed Wands earlier. He made sure you were in good spirits and feeling alright before he began nagging you in typical Ominis fashion. 

“Honestly, a Depulso charm?” He chastised you further, resting his chin on his palm as his other hand came to tap absentmindedly against the surface of the table. “I would have expected something like Bombarda to finally end your win-streak, not a paltry Force spell.” 

“That’s what happens when you get complacent,” Sebastian added helpfully, skewering yet another sausage from the platter in front of you. He had to have inhaled four of the blasted things already. Those deep brown eyes of his darkened as they shifted to the injury on your temple, and if he deposited his food on his plate a little more aggressively than normal, you certainly didn’t say anything about it. “She’s just lucky things didn’t end up worse.” 

Ominis hummed in agreement and looked in your direction. “Yes, do make sure you’re not breaking your fall with your face anymore. I would like to think the three of us will graduate in one piece together, but between the two of you and your extracurriculars, my hopes are lessening by the day.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” came your monotonous reply. “Thanks for the words of encouragement, guys. You really know how to make a girl feel better about getting launched into a bunch of boxes.” 

“Well it was quite the spectacle. I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the school for at least a few days, so get used to it.” 

You didn’t even need to turn around to know Imelda stood directly behind you, presumably with her hands on her hips and a wicked smile stretching from ear to ear. She was exactly who you didn’t want to deal with right about now– especially considering she was the only living soul privy to your innermost thoughts regarding Sebastian– but she had no qualms about sidling up beside you and making herself comfortable at the table. Her face swam into your peripheral vision as she inquisitively scanned the side of your head now decked out in thick gauze and tape. “So, what’s the verdict? Brain hemorrhage? Cracked skull? Memory loss?” 

“Concussion,” Sebastian answered around a mouthful of food. He fixed you with a stern look as though to remind you, “She’s been instructed to take it easy for a few days which means no broom trials, Reyes. Don’t even think about dragging her off the castle grounds.” 

The Quidditch captain’s hands shot up in mock surrender, her expression the picture of innocence as she shifted back a little in her seat. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I take it that means you’ll be out of class for the foreseeable future?” 

You answered swiftly this time around, lest your boyfriend deign to speak on your behalf once again. You’d hurt your head, not your mouth. “For today at least, yeah. I doubt I’d be much good in Transfiguration with a splitting headache.” 

If you were only allowed one word to describe the look that overtook Imelda’s face, that word would be trouble. Her tawny eyes crinkled at their corners as a mischievous glint twinkled within them, and you could practically see her gearing up to say something you knew would piss you off. She folded her hands neatly over one another atop the table and leaned sideways on her elbow to shoot you a conniving look, and you couldn’t help but stiffen as a wave of apprehension crept up your spine. 

“Well let me know if you need a hand getting notes for the day. Though I’m sure Sallow would be more than happy to assist. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?” 

The emphasis she placed on the word didn’t escape you, and judging by the confused expressions on both Ominis’ and Sebastian’s faces, they didn’t miss it either. It took unwavering focus to maintain your composure and not react, and you prayed to whatever higher power existed that your cheeks weren’t as rouge as they felt. You sighed softly and glanced at the brunet through your lashes, all too aware of the puzzled look he now bore. “How about it?” You opted to simply play along for the time being in a bid to hide the true meaning behind Imelda’s telling comment. “Can you bring me the notes later?”

Sebastian nodded slowly, his gaze shifting between you and Imelda for a long moment before he set his fork down and ran his long, dexterous fingers through his hair. Your eyes tracked the movement against your will, which only seemed to intensify the curious glimmer in his dark eyes, and when he flashed you that sinful Sallow smirk you were all too familiar with, you swallowed nervously. 

Surely Imelda hadn’t just helped him put two and two together, right? 

“Am I missing something here?” Ominis chimed in from across the table, a scowl tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“No, no,” Imelda said, the words dripping with false dismissal. The urge to throttle her was intense. “I was just implying that our dear friend here is bound to be a handful for the next few days, so she’ll need help. Let me know if I can do anything, although I’m sure you’d much rather have Sebastian be the one to–”

She was cut off by the booming slap of your hands against the tabletop as you clambered to your feet, desperate to escape her pointed comments and Sebastian’s prying stare. “Will do!” you exclaimed with too much bite. You lowered your voice and did your best to keep your tone even, “I’m sure I’ll manage, but I can’t be bothered to figure it all out right now. I’ll just– I’ll see you guys later.” 

You didn’t dare look back as you swung your legs over the bench and took off towards the massive double doors. At this point, you were wishing that your collision with the crates had put you in a coma. Maybe then you could have avoided Imelda’s inevitable pestering, but even then you were positive your nuisance of a friend would have found a way to taunt you in your dreams. This was something you were going to have to acknowledge with Sebastian sooner or later, but until that day came you would do everything in your power to avoid any more awkward run-ins with Imelda. At least when Sebastian was with you, you reasoned. For now, you needed to get away from the general public and sleep on your deranged thoughts before anything else embarrassing could happen.

Apparently the universe had other plans for you, however. You recognized Sebastian’s heavy footsteps running up behind you without even checking to be certain, and even though you wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep the remainder of the day away, when his large hand came to coil around your bicep to halt you in your tracks, you let him. 

“Hey, are you alright?” His eyes softened as they took in your miserable appearance, but all you could pay attention to was the feeling of his thumb caressing the back of your arm as he held you in place. “I’m sorry if I upset you– I didn’t realize Imelda was trying to poke bruises, otherwise I would have told her to leave as soon as she came over.” 

Shaking your head absently, you stared over Sebastian’s shoulder and directed your next words towards the wall, because that was infinitely easier than eye contact at the present moment. “I’m not upset, you don’t have to apologize. She’s just… a lot to handle right now.”

“I’ll say,” he concurred easily, moving his head so it was in your line of sight– only to furrow his brow when you ducked your chin to avoid looking at him. His jaw clenched and his hand around your arm tightened, if only briefly, and then he was tugging you along after him. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your dorm.” 

***

He knew. 

He had to know. 

It was the only plausible explanation you could come up with to give reason to Sebastian’s over-exaggerated use of his hands for the last three days. At first you hadn’t thought much of it; you still had a staring problem and Sebastian still had really nice hands, but the difference in the last seventy-two hours was apparent. It was as though your boyfriend was modeling his hands for you, constantly finding ways to dangle the appendages right under your nose and simultaneously letting his touch linger against your skin for far longer than normal. It was driving you insane, and you were positive he was doing it intentionally. 

Realistically it had started the day after your botched Crossed Wands duel. You, Ominis, and Sebastian had been sitting in the Library to study and work on assignments, your motley trio focused intently on your individual work for the bulk of the afternoon. Ominis was using his dictation quill to take notes, his foggy blue eyes narrowed in concentration while he muttered softly under his breath. Sebastian skimmed his own Herbology textbook with hooded eyes, the book propped against the knee he had crossed over his other leg, and his laid back posture coupled with the way his fingers idly played with the hair around his temples was enough to leave you entranced. Once he had taken notice of your staring, however, he’d smirked to himself and made a show of licking his finger to turn the page over, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time. 

You didn’t need a mirror to know you’d flushed beet red at the suggestive act. 

The day after that, the two of you had been in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Sebastian had been asked to demonstrate the proper wand movement for Confringo by Professor Hecat, and shortly thereafter she had asked another student, Hector Jenkins, to take point across from your boyfriend for a friendly duel. Naturally you were prohibited from participating without Nurse Blainey’s go-ahead, so you’d stood at the back of the crowd and looked on ahead with rapt interest, eager to watch Sebastian make short work of his opponent, because of course he would. Chocolate brown eyes had met yours from across the room, and the movement that followed was subtle but obvious– at least, to you it was. 

As Professor Hecat droned on and reminded her students of the rules that went hand-in-hand with dueling in class, Sebastian fondled his wand. Quite literally. His nimble fingers had run along the wood, stroking the handle with such a light touch that his pinky had remained elevated the entire time. His thumb and index finger came to pinch at the tip softly before skimming down towards the checkered handle, and he made a dramatic show of wrapping each one of his fingers around the base before deftly angling the thin wood at you. 

Your breath had caught in your throat at the brazen motion, and Sebastian shamelessly winked at you before settling into the usual, confident persona he embodied while fighting. 

To say you’d become a ball of nerves afterwards would be a monumental understatement. You wound up leaning back against the wall with your ankles crossed to ease the rampant ache that had settled between your legs, doing your best to not look like you were going into an animalistic heat, which was easier said than done. 

Later on during dinner in the Great Hall, you found yourself seated next to Sebastian and across from Ominis, as per usual. The evening had started out much the same as always; with the three of you discussing the events of the day and planning for the upcoming weekend. The only difference was your boyfriend had seemingly taken it upon himself to distract you from the conversation entirely, covertly placing his hand on your thigh beneath the table to run the damn thing up and down your leg. Every time he reached your knee, he would steadily drag his palm higher up, teasing you with an occasional squeeze the closer he got to your center. Since you didn’t want to clue Ominis in on his best friend’s antics you were forced to keep your lips firmly sealed– left with no choice but to silently endure your boyfriend’s unique form of torture. 

As Ominis idly discussed wanting to escape to The Three Broomsticks on Saturday, Sebastian’s grip on your leg tightened while he sat forward to spoon a serving of the night’s dessert onto his plate; a colorful fruit tart with a healthy dollop of whipped cream slapped on top. You swallowed thickly as he delicately skewered a strawberry with his fork and brought it to his lips, pausing to reply to Ominis before popping it in his mouth. 

“I’m game, better to go now before Quidditch practice starts again. Merlin only knows how many trials Imelda intends on cramming into my weekends before long.” 

Ominis snorted and set his cutlery down on his plate, “You say that as though she’s doing it to spite you and you alone. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s six other people to account for on the team, and not all of them were blessed with the free time to practice over summer like you.” 

Sebastian side-eyed you briefly, and the corner of his mouth quirked up into a condescending grin. “That has a whole lot of nothing to do with me and everything to do with them being lazy. But my point still stands– that woman lives to invade my free time, so butterbeers this weekend sounds like a solid plan. What do you say, darling?” 

The brunet chose that exact moment to sensually take the strawberry between his teeth and pull it free from the fork prongs, smiling wickedly at you all the while. A tiny bit of the whipped cream had stayed behind on his bottom lip, but before you could point it out to him or wipe it away yourself, Sebastian did exactly that, drawing his finger into his mouth to suck deviously at the remnants. Your eyes were wider than saucers as you watched his tongue lave over the pad of his thumb and forefinger, and the telling squeeze he bestowed upon your thigh immediately afterwards all but confirmed your fears. 

He absolutely fucking knew. 

***

“I think there’s something on your mind,” Sebastian said from beside you. “Something that’s been on your mind for a while now. Care to share?” 

The two of you were on your way to the Room of Requirement, having just left the Hospital Wing after Nurse Blainey had summoned you there to evaluate your recovery progress following your mentally arduous week. She’d been all too pleased when Sebastian told her you had adhered to her guidelines to the letter– minimizing your physical activity and resting at every opportune moment, much to your boyfriend’s credit. After a few diagnostic scans, mobility trials, and a never ending list of questions designed to test your memory, she had deemed you fit to return to your usual activities– though not before making you swear to stay out of her sight for the rest of the year. 

Affectionately, of course. 

Sebastian’s comment reeled you back to the present moment, however, and you shot him a stern look out of the corner of your eye as you ascended the spiral staircase within the Astronomy Tower. “Unless you’re referring to how stunned I’ve been thanks to your obscene behavior this week, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He skipped ahead of you until he reached the top landing, spinning on his heel to face you as you breezed past him without so much as a second glance. “Oh, but I think you do. Surely you know why I’ve been behaving so ‘obscenely’. You’re the one who gave me the idea after all.” 

Keeping your expression schooled was difficult, but you managed. As the wall concealing the door to the Room of Requirement began to shift and change, you were all too aware of Sebastian sidling up next to you so he could run the tips of his fingers up your arm and over your shoulder, sending shiver-inducing chills down your spine. The gesture was intimate and suggestive, and you sighed softly as you stepped out of his reach to make for the fully formed entryway in front of you– not particularly keen on putting on a show for any students that potentially milled about the tower. 

You made it three steps inside the room before Sebastian grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you sideways, swiftly and effortlessly guiding you backwards until your back collided with the wall, and the startled gasp that ripped from your chest seemed to ignite a spark of interest in your boyfriend’s eyes. The hand he had on you traveled up along the smooth skin of your neck until he had a loose grip on your chin, and the sinful way his thumb trailed over your bottom lip spoke volumes about his intentions. 

“Do I need to coax the truth out of you, or can you be a good girl and say what it is you want?” His other hand slipped beneath the fabric of your blouse, his touch blazing and leaving you hot with want the higher up your torso it traveled. The tantalizing feeling of his blunt nails scraping along the plane of your stomach had your muscles clenching and your breath hitching, and Sebastian dipped his head lower so he was directly in your line of sight. You knew he saw your rampant need for him reflected in your eyes when his pupils dilated, and he moved his thumb away from your lip to caress your cheekbone as you stared wide-eyed up at him. He cocked his head to the side as he goaded you further, “Come on, darling. You’ve never had a problem with saying what’s on your mind before, why switch up on me now?” 

“Because it–” you started to say, cutting off mid-explanation when Sebastian curled his long fingers around your waist to press against your ribs in a way that nullified all coherent thought. His domineering presence over you left you nearly breathless. 

He smirked, all too aware of the effect he currently had on you. “It what?” 

Merlin, he was doing you in with barely any effort. Reducing you to nothing at the hands of his… well, hands. You were pathetic. He waited for your response though, his fingers dancing up your side promisingly while you worked to formulate a sentence. “I-It’s ridiculous,” you stammered out. “It’s embarrassing…”

The hand he’d tenderly ghosted across your cheek slipped behind your head, and his fingers tangled in your hair at the back of your skull to tug gently. The motion forced you to crane your chin up to follow Sebastian’s unwavering gaze, and his lips were close enough to yours that you felt his airy chuckle fan across your nose. “I already know what it is and I can tell you this much; you and I have very different definitions of what qualifies as ‘embarrassing’, darling.” His head dipped into the crook of your neck so he could better bestow wet, open mouthed kisses against your thundering pulse, and your stomach flipped at the sordid sounds he made as he went. “Come on, say it,” he implored you, his voice like velvet. “It’s only us here– tell me what you want.” 

“I…” you began, shuddering immediately after when Sebastian nipped at the spit-slick skin of your throat. Finding the words was only going to get increasingly difficult from here on out, you wagered. “I want your hands on me. I haven’t been able to get the thought out of my mind since school started.”

As though to punctuate his retort, Sebastian’s hold on your hair and your waist intensified, and a barely there squeak weaseled its way past your lips as he pulled away from your throat to fix you with a heated look. “My hands are already on you, sweetheart. Tell me why, use your big girl voice.”

Bastard. Your eyes sharpened in response to his quip, and your palms came to rest flat against the larger man’s chest before you dug your nails into the fabric of his shirt. “Because you really do have very nice hands. Because the mere idea of having them on me does things to me that I can’t begin to describe. And because I’m asking you nicely,” you purred the last bit to the best of your ability, relishing in the insatiable, hungry look that crossed Sebastian’s face at your tone. “Touch me, Sebastian. I want you– all of you. Please?”

As soon as Sebastian’s lips captured yours, your inhibitions ceased to exist. All you could taste, smell, feel, and hear was him, and judging by the demanding way he pulled you flush against him by your waist, that was exactly what he was going for. You keened needily as his nails dug into your sensitive skin and the fingers buried in your hair wound tight around the strands, and your boyfriend eagerly bit at your lips before backing away just enough to stare at you through his hooded, lust-dark eyes. 

“Keep talking to me like that and I’ll do anything you want,” he groaned, utterly captivated by the sight of you so wound up. You caved to his ministrations completely then, your stomach flipping over on itself when his chest pressed against yours and sealed you more firmly to the wall. His groin followed soon after– the long, hard length of him tangible through his trousers as he leaned into your spread legs further– and your own hands finally came to grasp at his shoulders when he rolled his hips against yours fervently. 

“Touch me,” you implored him, the request practically a whisper as it fell from your lips. “Your hands– please, Sebastian.” 

A pleased sound snaked its way through Sebastian’s clenched teeth as he obliged you instantly, releasing your waist and hair to run his hands down your torso before delving beneath your shirt. The rough, chill-inducing feeling of his calloused palms trailing against the bare skin of your stomach had you moaning in earnest, and your head tipped back against the wall with a thunk as he cupped your breasts in those heavenly hands you’d grown to adore so much. Sebastian took full advantage of your submissive position and buried his head in the exposed crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “You sound incredible when you beg, darling. So fucking perfect– gods.” 

No words came to you to formulate a reply, especially when your boyfriend’s tongue darted out of his mouth to lave down the slender column of your throat, the biting sting of his teeth on your shoulder following soon after. Your next breath caught in your chest when Sebastian ground his stiffening cock against you once more, and his airy chuckle against you was seductive and ripe with promise. Those nimble fingers of his clawed gently over the rounded tops of your breasts before pinching your hardened nipples, and that was what finally pulled coherent English from your lips. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, unaware of just how much the brunet adored the needy timbre to your voice. 

Sebastian’s hands left your body for the briefest of moments to push himself off the wall, then took you by the hand to guide you towards the small bedroom tucked away in the back of the Room of Requirement. Between the two of you, your combined excitement was palpable– thick enough to cut with a knife– and as soon as you made it through the threshold of the door, he was back on you in a heartbeat. It was all a flurry of lips, teeth, and tongue as he steered you backwards towards the spacious bed, those magnificent hands of his holding your hips steady with firm reassurance. 

Once the backs of your calves connected with the mattress, Sebastian pulled away from your mouth with a wicked smirk, giving you a playful shove that sent you sprawling back on the bed with a startled yelp. It hardly mattered, though. Not when the man before you began undoing the buttons on his own shirt, exposing the tanned, freckled expanse of his toned chest. Not when he shrugged the attire off his sculpted shoulders and lowered himself to his knees so he could peer at you over your bent knees. Nothing else mattered aside from him.

“You know,” he started to say as his hands reappeared on your hips, tugging at the waistline of your trousers so they started to slide over your hip bones. “You’ve inadvertently given me lots of new ideas.” 

A shiver coursed its way down your spine at the suggestive tone he spoke the words with, amplified tenfold by the unrepentant fantasies that flickered through your mind. “Oh really?” 

“Really,” he agreed simply. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards and he gestured wordlessly for you to lift your hips so he could slide your pants down your outstretched legs. You obeyed, if only to get a move on with things so you could see the new ‘ideas’ Sebastian had apparently come up with. Dark, eager eyes met yours as he dropped your clothing to the floor, and then Sebastian asked, “Do you trust me?” 

Without missing a beat, you murmured, “Always.” 

Not another word was uttered, and you watched through hooded eyes as Sebastian prowled up the edge of the mattress to crawl over your prone form. Amusement seemingly glimmered in his lust-laden gaze as he set to expertly unbuttoning your shirt with his adroit digits, revealing inch after inch of your flushed torso, and goosebumps broke out over your stomach in the wake of Sebastian’s knuckles brushing against your heated flesh. 

He didn’t bother removing your blouse fully, opting to instead flick the sides of the undone top outward to let them hang disheveled against your sides. The shallow, anticipatory breaths you let loose was the only sound you made as the freckled man above you gathered your wrists in one of his larger hands to pin them above your head, and the entire time he worked to restrain your arms, his eye contact with you remained unwavering. Warriness and excitement alike pooled in the lower pit of your gut, mixing with the telltale ache between your legs that fueled the heat that slithered through your veins. 

Sebastian’s free hand came to touch you then, starting at the swell of your breasts before he gently thumbed over the peak of one of your nipples. The sensation had you sucking in a breath loud enough to make your boyfriend pause– only for him to repeat the motion a second time. “You’re rather pent up, aren’t you?” 

Despite yourself, you narrowed your eyes in response to his taunting and rolled your head to the side in an attempt to hide the blush you knew spread across your cheeks. “Shut up…”

The hand on your breast flew to your face, gripping your chin and turning your head back so you were forced to meet his penetrating stare. “Come on, be honest,” he goaded you further. “You missed me. Say it.” 

“Of course I missed you,” you relented quickly. “I didn’t see you for two months.”

That damnable smirk of his made its grand reappearance, and you hated how much you loved the sight of it. “You managed well enough last summer. Or were you lying through your teeth about handling the distance ‘easily’ on your travels?” 

Your fingers twitched in his unrelenting hold, the urge to crane your neck away again taking over, but you were forced to keep your eyes trained on his. “I wasn’t lying then, but I still missed you.”

The way his head tilted to the side curiously reminded you of an animal attempting to get a better look at their prey. “So why the sudden change?”

Chewing your lip thoughtfully for a moment, you decided to voice your inner thoughts regardless of how bashful the idea made you feel. “Because you changed. You’re… bigger.”

Your drab attempt at an explanation didn’t escape Sebastian, but that amusement still glinted in his eyes as he released your chin and trailed his hand down your torso towards your aching center. “Bigger, huh? Care to elaborate?” 

Skillful fingers slipped under the cotton of your undergarments, already damp with arousal, and you mewled softly when one of his digits slid through your wet folds before pressing down on your clit with delectable pressure. It nearly derailed your train of thought entirely, but Sebastian helpfully pulled away and snickered when your disappointed sigh slipped through your clenched teeth. “Dammit–”

“You talk,” he fucking purred down at you, looking far too smug for your liking, “and I work. Sound like a fair trade?” 

His offer was emphasized by one of his fingers probing at your slick entrance, further enticing you to oblige his request. When you angled your hips to meet the feeling, he pulled back swiftly, quirking a brow at you with a knowing look. 

Bastard, you thought. 

Fine. 

“Y-You’re bigger,” you started to say. “More muscular than before, and I think you grew a couple inches.” 

Sebastian’s hand resumed its teasing exploration of your center once more, gingerly inserting his middle finger inside of you as his thumb took to rubbing titillating circles against your clit. The flutter of your eyelids brought a coy smile to the brunet’s face, and his hold on your wrists tightened a fraction as he increased the intensity of his movements. He mockingly said, “You like having a big, strong boyfriend or something? The scandal.” 

You barely registered the gibe– not with his thumb slowly working over your clit in time with his finger. It damn near voided all of your brain’s function. All you cared to focus on was the bliss that came with finally having his hands on you. “Yes,” you groaned with blatant need. “I love it– I love it so much– you’re perfect, Sebastian.” 

Spurred on by your praise, Sebastian leaned down to mouth wetly at your throat, biting and sucking at whatever smooth skin he found as he pumped his finger in and out of your wet heat steadily. Your head rolled to the side to allow him easier access as he presumably worked a bruise into your flesh, and you relished in the knowledge that he was rebranding you as his after the summer months spent apart. A guttural moan spilled from your mouth as he laved his tongue over the mark and covertly slipped a second finger inside your cunt, crooking the digits up to reach a depth you could never hope to when you were pleasuring yourself. 

He took it slow, half for your sake and half for his own, but as Sebastian scissored his fingers and upped his tempo, he could see how you fell apart for him. You struggled to breathe, your every exhale colored with a panted, needy little sound while your thighs twitched and tensed on either side of his arm. When he shifted his fingers up just slightly, your entire body shuddered as your back arched off the bed and you choked on a breathy whine. You were so sensitive, so incredibly vocal, and it was driving him crazy. 

Sebastian’s size allowed him to stretch over the majority of your upper body easily, his hold on your arms still firm as he dipped his head lower to lick his way down to your breasts. Ever so gently, he took one of your nipples between his teeth and clamped down with a cautious amount of pressure, increasing the pace of his fingers when he heard your breath hitch in your throat. You could feel his lips stretch into a smile against your chest as your heart rate sped up and your hips involuntarily bucked up into his hand in search of more friction– more of him. 

“Merlin–” you writhed atop the sheets as that familiar ache took root in your gut, your finish approaching dangerously fast as Sebastian pressed the palm of his hand against your clit and somehow managed to pump his digits deeper inside of you. “Fuck, fuck!” 

He pulled away from your torso to watch you with rapt interest, a flicker of something primal flashing in his brown eyes as he observed your features pinching together with obvious focus as you chased the euphoria he bestowed upon you. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it… I never thought just my hands could do it for you like this, sweetheart. Consider me pleasantly surprised.” 

His words meant nothing to you– not right now. Your climax was so close, so painfully close that all you cared to focus on was the steady rhythm of Sebastian’s fingers and his strength holding your wrists down to the bed. Brainlessly, you rolled your head to the side as Sebastian worked you towards the edge, only to blink blearily up at him when he released your wrists to grab the underside of your jaw and force your eyes back on him. 

“Look at me while you come on my fingers. I want to see every second of it.” 

Who were you to say no? 

Your release was akin to a tidal wave– crashing over you violently and stealing your breath as you tried your hardest to keep your eyes open and glued to Sebastian. Mouth falling open around an airy moan, your boyfriend continued to finger-fuck you through your orgasm as he captured your lips in a desperate, lethal kiss. “That’s it,” he groaned into your parted lips. “Good girl.” 

The brunet had the good grace to slide his fingers out slowly while he pulled away, laughing softly at the slight jolt your body gave when his palm grazed over your bundle of nerves once more. Dazed and twitching beneath him, you didn’t notice he’d brought his hand to his mouth until it was inches from your face, and the stars clouding your vision cleared just in time to watch him take the two fingers that had previously been inside of you between his lips. 

“I– what are you doing?” Your incredulous tone didn’t deter Sebastian in the slightest, and he smirked around his fingers before pulling them out of his mouth with an audible wet sound. 

“Tasting you,” he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Then with a wink he added, “You’re very sweet.” Nearly all the blood in your body rushed to your cheeks in that instant, warming your face as your mouth fell open in silent shock. It was balmy– completely and utterly bewildering. Yet you couldn’t help but find the brazen move equally… arousing. 

You’d officially lost your mind. 

In a flash, he lowered his hand closer to your own open mouth, shoving the fingers past your lips and grinning when you squealed with indignant surprise. There was nowhere for you to go– nowhere for you to turn your head to escape the taste of yourself on his digits– and so you were left with no choice but to allow Sebastian to run his fingers along your tongue. The added knowledge that you found his hands so alluring only made the whole spectacle more intimate, and before you could stop yourself, you found yourself sucking shamelessly at his skin, working your tongue over his knuckles as you stared up at him with unrestrained desire. 

“Gods,” he muttered, swallowing thickly before pulling his fingers free from your mouth. His voice was shaky, and you dimly registered that your eager submission had gotten to him. 

You licked the remnants of yourself from your lips as Sebastian shuffled back to the edge of the bed, standing straight to hastily undo his trousers and shove the material down his long, toned legs. Numbly, you followed suit, sitting up shakily to shrug off your now wrinkled blouse and toss it aside to join the growing pile of clothing at your boyfriend’s feet. 

Nude as the day he was born, Sebastian confidently stared down at you and took in the full picture of you before him with an animalistic hunger shining in his eyes. His chestnut hair was unruly and curled wildly in every direction, the breaths he hurriedly sucked down causing his shapely chest to rise and fall in a way that dragged your attention to his strong, capable body. You drank in the sight of his tan, freckled skin, your wide eyes roving lower and lower until they landed on his hard cock arching proudly against his taut stomach. 

Maybe you were imagining things, but you could have sworn that was bigger too. 

When your eyes jumped back to Sebastian’s, you were positive he knew exactly what you’d been thinking, if his wolfish grin was anything to go by. “See something you like?” 

“Please fuck me,” you groaned, too turned on by the sight of him alone to be embarassed about how desperate you sounded. 

Sebastian effortlessly crawled back onto the bed and settled over you, pulling you into another intoxicating kiss as he slipped between your spread thighs and rolled his hips, grinding his achingly hard cock against your slit with a dizzying sort of precision. You couldn’t help but moan into the kiss, your eyes squeezing closed before you tilted your head back and arched up against him. “F-Fuck, you’re so hard,” you gasped, loosely hooking your legs around Sebastian’s hips. 

Groaning his agreement, Sebastian nipped at the side of your jaw and murmured, “You have no idea… want you bad.” He nuzzled your ear for a moment, humming at the way you shivered under him, then mouthed his way down your throat with hot, wet kisses that pulled a slew of tiny noises out of you as he rocked his hips again. 

Before you could wrap your arms around his shoulders like you’d planned, Sebastian was sitting back on his heels to manhandle you exactly where he wanted you. Those big hands of his grabbed you by your waist, hauling you down the bed like you weighed nothing so your rear was balanced over the tops of his knees and he was perfectly aligned with your slick entrance. The way he easily moved you around spoke volumes of the physical labor he’d done over the summer, slaving away the muggle way to restore his Uncle’s former home for the two of you to use after graduation. Every stone moved, every log chopped, and every wheelbarrow trundled was cataloged within the corded muscles that lined his body. 

If you weren’t already head over heels for the man, you were certain you would be deemed grossly smitten.

Sebastian’s hands slid from your waist to your thighs to better hold you in place as he bumped the tip of his cock against you, and your breath stuttered in your chest at the first steady roll of his hips, the head sliding home easily into your slick, tight, and warm heat. Your name fell from your lover’s lips in the form of a ragged moan, fingers digging into your legs as he rocked his hips slowly, feeling for any tension or resistance. Everything he’d done to soothe you, however, had paid off, and he found that once he pressed in more firmly, you took him perfectly, letting him slide deeper with every short thrust. 

He really had gotten bigger.

“I could tell you thought so,” Sebastian said around a laugh. Had you said that out loud? “Your eyes just about bugged out of your head when you looked earlier.” 

Embarrassed for the nth time in the last week, you looked away from him and quietly grumbled under your breath, “Whatever… don’t let it get to your head. Your ego is big enough as it is.” 

“It’s not the only thing that’s big apparently,” he countered easily. As though to punctuate the statement, Sebastian pulled his hips back once more before spearing into you with brutal efficiency, and the gasp that ripped from your throat then was followed by a breathless sound that bordered on a wail. 

It was so thick– Sebastian’s cock– and it filled you up and spread you open so incredibly, but it was the angle that was really rendering you incapable of thought. With your hips elevated, the blunt head brushed past your sweet spot with every dragging thrust, re-lighting that fire in your blood that threatened to set you ablaze. You wanted more, but you were almost afraid of how good it would feel, how high it would take you. Sebastian was all around you, with his hands gripping your thighs, deep inside you, stirring you up and coaxing brainless whimpers out of you, not bothering to hold back for your sake– and thank the gods for that. 

A meek keening sound arose from your throat as you gasped Sebastian’s name, and the brunet responded with a rough growl, stroking your thighs tenderly before abandoning one of them to place his hand on the lower part of your stomach. He pressed down with his fingers splayed against your skin, thrusting into you deeper so you could really feel every long, delectable inch of him within you, and the added pressure made your head spin and your walls clamp down on him. 

“Oh, fuck–” you moaned wantonly, arching your spine as much as you were able in a bid to feel as much as possible. Sebastian responded by moving his grip on your thigh to your waist, fucking into you harder until all you were capable of doing was whining for more with your eyes unfocused. Rational thought was gone– you were losing your mind with the way Sebastian was pounding into you now, that fire spreading through you– but you had quickly stopped being afraid of the feeling. The hotter you got, the more Sebastian’s perfect aim drove you higher until you were arching and pleading, noisy and half-coherent as overwhelmed tears filled your eyes. 

When you finally caught hold of words beyond brainless, wavering cries, you threw your head back with a gasping whine to loudly beg, “Sebastian, please, please–” 

“F-Fuck,” he stuttered out, moaning desperately into the empty air before he rasped, “You like it that much, darling? Want more?” 

“Yes!” You clawed mindlessly at the hand he had clamped against your waist, urging him to use the damn thing in the way you had dreamt of every night since returning to school. Ever the fast learner, Sebastian obliged you mercifully and let go of your waist, leaving you to hook your legs around his hips as he brought his hands to your throat to pull you onto his cock harder and faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room and muddling your brain further. 

“You look so perfect with my hands around your neck, darling.” Sebastian growled out in-between bestial grunts. “So pretty, so eager. Is it good?” 

He wasn’t choking the life out of you by any means, but the pressure he applied on either side of your neck added a sort of high that left your tongue useless in your mouth. You could hardly formulate words, much less a full sentence, but you still managed to stammer out a raspy, “Y-Yes, fuck–”

You were fairly certain you were drooling all over yourself, but you couldn’t find the willpower to care. There were too many sensations to keep track of, and through the haze of it all, your climax came into sight. Your hand came to grasp at one of the ones Sebastian had secured around your throat while the other fisted in the sheets, squeezing as hard as you could as you rutted back against his hips the best you could. It wasn’t doing much as far as you were concerned, but Sebastian evidently appreciated your attempt as he groaned roughly, letting his head hang between his shoulders as he began pumping his hips faster. 

“Shit– I’m close, I’m so close–”

Beyond your moans of encouragement, there wasn’t much else you could say. Sebastian took your motivating sounds in stride though, keeping one hand clamped around your neck securely as the other flew down to your clit, instantaneously rubbing urgent little circles around the nub in a bid to take you with him over the edge. Your voice was already raspy but so much louder and needier than Sebastian’s short moans of your name, and his half-baked praises and pleas intermingled with the distant banging of the headboard against the stone wall. Even through all that– through the spiking volume of your pleasure and the blinding need devouring you both– all Sebastian saw was you, and all you saw was ecstasy. 

When you finally came you wailed, long and loud as your hands clung to the sheets beneath you and Sebastian’s thick wrist alike, the latter of which knew better than to stop now. Your muscles tensed dangerously tight, your toes curling hard and your nails scraping fresh tracks down Sebastian’s forearm hard enough to leave welts, and your boyfriend was already holding on by a thread by the time your cunt clamped down tight around him. It was almost too hard to move, but there was just enough give that your climax peaked impossibly further and Sebastian fell right after you, crying your name over and over with the rough, faltering tempo of his hips. 

The two of you were hardly aware of anything as you both slowed down and came off of that high, but you eventually blinked the fog from your mind and came to realize Sebastian had long since abandoned his hold on your throat in favor of laying across your prone form, lightly peppering kisses against your collarbone as he sucked down breaths to catch his breath. The stinging twitch of uncoiling muscles and the swelling bites and scratches only served to bring you both back to reality in slow, leisurely time with one another, and at the end of it all it was Sebastian who found his voice first, murmuring yet another snide comment into the crook of your shoulder. 

“Should I start wearing gloves now?” 

Still breathless and spent from the last hour– hell, the entirety of the last week– your delirious laughter was uncontrollable as you realized and quickly accepted that the truth was now out there, and your boyfriend was more than ready to take full advantage of that. “I don’t think gloves will help, honestly.” 

The remainder of the school year would end up being a testament to just how true that claim actually was, you guessed. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, would most certainly enjoy every second of it. 

this is so sweet I love it so much

I really hope you mean here 🤭

Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"

Thanks for requesting babe <3

cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere. 

The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this. 

You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open. 

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?” 

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes. 

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.” 

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can. 

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?” 

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—” 

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.” 

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper. 

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it. 

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway. 

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Dove?” he murmurs. 

You don’t dare do more than hum in response. 

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.” 

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?” 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” 

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.” 

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.” 

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?” 

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him. 

“Fuck, I’m awful.” 

“You’re not.” 

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.” 

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.” 

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.” 

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?” 

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?” 

You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night. 

adding to my favorites for sure ♥️

I. "Do You Trust Me?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.

Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4217

-------------------------

The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.

“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.

“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.

He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.

It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.

The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…

The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.

“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.

Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.

“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.

------------

Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.

Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.

Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.

Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.

In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.

“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.

He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”

“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.

“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.

It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”

“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.

You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.

Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.

“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”

You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.

“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.

“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.

Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”

“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.

“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.

“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.

He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”

Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.

“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.

“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.

“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.

“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.

You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.

“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.

Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.

Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.

Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.

‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.

As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.

‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’

You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.

“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.

“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.

You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.

“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.

You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.

You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.

He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.

Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.

“That damn cold fish from operations…”

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”

Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.

“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.

“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.

“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.

“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.

“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.

You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.

He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.

He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.

Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.

“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.

You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.

“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.

You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”

Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”

His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.

“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”

“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.

As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.

-------------------------

Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist