Heart Eyes For Real

heart eyes for real

you talked about bartender!sirius in a previous post and omg i can't stop thinking about it!!! could you do a fic with costumer!reader and him being all flirty and stuff (maybe even angst where reader is really drunk or has come to drink all her problems away or someone icky is hitting on her or smth?? idk i trust your judgement<3)

litterly giggling and kicking my feet just thinking about it😭🤭

Thanks for requesting gorgeous <3

cw: alcohol

bartender!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

There are three people working the bar, and you have basically no hope of ever capturing one’s attention. You’re not as assertive as the other patrons vying to get their orders taken, not willing to lean across the bar or shout like they are and perfectly willing to let yourself be pushed out of the way when one of them decides their cause is more prevalent than yours. It probably is. This pub is noisier and more rowdy than you’re accustomed to, and you’re not much of a drinker to begin with, only trying to pay your tax to sit with the friend that invited you here. You’re considering abandoning the endeavor entirely when the next man shouldering you out of the way gets waved off by the bartender nearest.

“Oi, she was here first.”

The bartender’s gaze fixes pointedly on you, which is kind of a lot. He has sharp gray eyes paired with superblack hair—like, the kind of black no light can penetrate—and a crooked smile, a handsome and somewhat menacing combination. He leans across the bar, lowering his voice as if he can tell that’s what you’d prefer.

“What can I get you, doll?”

You fumble for your tongue. “Um, can I have a citrus spritz, please?”

He grimaces. “Wish you could,” he says, “but we just ran out of that gin. Got a second choice?”

“Oh, uh...” You’d only found your first choice after perusing their menu and asking your friend what each thing was, so no, you do not. You take a step back from the bar, yielding your time. “Sorry, I’ll have to—”

“No, come on, it’s alright.” The bartender doesn’t move, but his voice is loud enough that it reaches you, gets you to turn around. He’s on you with that smile again, one hand beckoning you towards him. “We’ll figure something out for you, sweetheart. Come back here.”

You step up to the bar stiffly, more than aware of the irritated looks being shot your way by other patrons.

“What do you like?” he asks you.

You feel your eyebrows pinch, shaking your head helplessly. Your face feels like it could heat a small home. “I don’t—I’m not sure, sorry.”

“You’re alright,” he promises, grin vanishing for a moment as he cuts a glare towards a man trying to talk over you. It’s back before you can miss it. “A sweet kinda drink, yeah? Fruity? D’you want something else with citrus?”

“That sounds good,” you manage.

He winks and pushes off the bar. “Stay put, babe, I’ve gotcha.”

You do your best, keeping your front pressed to the bar even as everyone else moves around and into you. You feel like a rock in a stream. With no one else to talk to, you watch him work behind the bar. He grabs a bunch of bottles at once, pouring without measuring or counting or hardly even looking, and when he starts shaking it all in a metal cylinder you have to look away from how his tattooed biceps bulge from the short sleeves of his shirt. You’re scanning the rows of liquor behind the bar when he gets back, trying to will the warmth away from your face.

“Give this a try.” He sets the drink down in front of you. You notice it’s got a bit of dried fruit on top, and then he sets a small shot glass of something bubbly and transparent down next to it—you wince. A garnish and a side; probably not as cheap as you were hoping for. “If you don’t like it,” he says, glancing between you and the drink expectantly, “don’t tell me. Just bring it to the bathroom and flush it. My ego can’t take the rejection.”

You press your lips together into something you hope approximates a smile and take a careful sip. It is sweet. You can barely taste the alcohol. You rub your lips together as you set it down, hoping you haven’t gotten foam on your mouth.

“It’s really good,” you tell him honestly, and he grins in response. You raise it to your lips for more. “What is it?”

“A pornstar martini.”

You nearly spit foam right at him, somehow reversing at the last moment so you take in a hearty sip instead. His grin widens, showing canines, like he knew the effect the name would have on you. It should make you feel childish, but he doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at you so much as with you.

“It’s good,” you say again, taking out your card. “Thank you.”

He holds up his hands, stepping away from your credit card like it’s a weapon. “Put that thing away,” he says. “You’re insulting me, dollface.”

You let your card hover in the air between you, unsure. “I can’t let you—”

“Sure you can. You have to,” he insists, setting both hands on the bar and leveling you with a significant look. You can’t look back for more than a second before your gaze flees downward. “If I can’t comp a pretty girl’s drink, what am I doing here?” He lowers his voice, leaning across the bar so his face is just a few inches from yours. “And if I can’t add a pretty girl’s drink to a tosser’s tab—” he flicks his gaze over to the man who’s been especially persistent in trying to get his order in over yours since you’ve come up “—then I may as well quit.”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to keep from looking as flattered and flustered as you feel.

“You don’t want to leave me without purpose, do you?”

“No.” You smile down at the bar, privately rolling your eyes. When you glance back up, there’s a waggishness in his eyes that suggests he saw. “Thanks.”

“Thank you. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

You turn, starting back for your table, but stall a couple of steps in. Your seat’s been taken by a man around your age, all smiley and nodding as your friend talks. They’ve both got their elbows leaned on the table, eyes locked like they’re in some sort of competition. And you may not spend a lot of time in pubs, but you know enough to stay away when two people are looking at each other like that.

You stand awkwardly on the fringes of the bar crowd, looking around for another empty table, but it’s too crowded tonight; there are none. You consider dropping by to tell your friend you’re leaving, but now you’ve got this full drink in your hand. Maybe if you finish it quickly…

“Hey!” You pivot, and the same bartender is looking at you again, craning his neck to see you over the crowd. “Hey,” he all but shouts to be heard, “come here.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, working your way through the crowd with murmured apologies and your eyes on the ground to ensure you don’t step on anyone’s toes. When you get up to the bar, he’s waiting for you, holding up a hand to pause the man—the tosser, he’d dubbed him—trying to talk to him. You wonder if he’d halted his order halfway through.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyebrows twitching together. “You looked lost over there, babe.”

“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for. “I just—my seat was taken, so I was just trying to figure out—”

“You can sit here.”

You blink, and he motions to the stools tucked under the bar in front of you, the ones nobody’s using. “I mean, you don’t have to,” he says, the closest thing to hesitant you’ve seen from him yet, “but you’re welcome to. I could use some good-looking company. We’re severely lacking over here.”

“Fuck off,” says another bartender, skimming behind him to grab a bottle off a shelf.

“Not counting you, Marls.” He shoots a sharp-edged grin towards the blond woman before fixing it back on you. His eyebrow twitches slightly in question.

“Okay.” You pull a seat out. “Okay, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, doll, you’re doing me a favor.” He sets his forearms on the bar, leaning towards you like you’re having a far more private conversation. “I’m Sirius.” Something about him softens when you tell him your name in response, and you get the sense he’s been waiting for it. He repeats it back to you like it’s something special. “Alright, y/n, enjoy your drink, and I’ll try to be as decent company as I can while dealing with these pricks.” He makes no effort to keep the man beside you from hearing, then turns to him with an extremely false-looking smile. “Hi, what can I get you?”

Even as the man starts giving his order, Sirius’ eyes flicker your way to see if he made you smile. He did.

Tags

reblog fic rec sirius black Sirius black x reader marauders fic sirius black fanfiction bartender!sirius sirius black au sirius black x fem!reader

Was It Worth It? (Cardinal Terzo x Reader)

Summary: Worth (n.) - the value equivalent to that of someone or something under consideration; the level at which someone or something deserves to be valued or rated.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Cardinal Terzo x AFAB reader / 6.2k words

Warnings: language, graphic description of piv sex, religious trauma, alcohol, poorly translated Italian, angst

aO3 link

Part One: What Goes Up...

Sometimes, when the sun was low in the sky like this, and you could still feel the occasional pitter of droplets dispersing against your skin, you took the risk of abandoning your responsibilities and popping outside for the evening. It was peculiar how the salmon rays of the sun peeked through heavy, sodden clouds. The beams heated the water in the air and made it sticky and heavy. “Hot rain” your Granddad had called it. It reminded you of simplicity. Of home.

You stepped right outside the cloister on the farthest corner of the abbey to soak the weighted air and shafts of light inward as self-anointing. The grass was springy under your feet, verdant, and you lost track of your steps as you meandered out into the less-manicured side of the grounds towards the wooded border of the property’s boundaries.

It had been two years since you decided to join the order. Your family, long gone at the prospect of you choosing a life of sin and vulgarity, and your friends feigning happiness that slowly dripped away as time wore on and contact faded into simple memories. You didn’t mind it. If being a part of the ministry had taught you anything, it was that change was normal - healthy, even - and that embracing and adapting was necessary to find self-fulfillment and true absolution.

The first year as a Sister of Sin proved a heady challenge. With scripture and philosophy to study, on top of a laundry list of new procedures and rituals and ways of living to memorize, you had your hands full. There were some nights where sleep was truly a blessing from below and you started to understand the pull of addiction as you filled your coffee for what seemed like the umpteenth time at breakfast before starting your shift washing the ministry’s linens.

Uncertainty and impulsivity had inspired you to join. Desperation had encouraged you to stay. Like a mid-life crisis happening 20 years too soon, you clung to any open window to find purpose and opportunity. You longed for a defined path outlined in thick black marker on a map with an ‘x marks the spot’.

It wasn’t until a year and a half into your tenure as a Sister of Sin, fresh out of novitiate, that you met a young Cardinal Terzo (as he liked to be called) and your outlook on this new life began to shift. You couldn’t exactly point to why he had chosen you out of all the other sisters. You didn’t feel as though you were the most attractive, or the most seductive, or the most educated or intelligent. You didn’t feel secure in any specific talents and you didn’t feel a drive to accomplish anything specific. If anything, your energy was spent on yearning for direction.

Perhaps he had noticed your propensity to velcro into anything novel or interesting. Or maybe it was your enthrallment and willingness to engage. Whatever the reason, Terzo had chosen you to devote his time to.

You had been assigned to his detail as a temporary member of his small team of siblings. Though your past experience noted a range of clerical skills and literary study, you had instead been chosen to keep his chambers. It had taken all but a few days to learn Cardinal Terzo’s particulars. His sheets, which were a stereotypical black satin, had to be positioned just right (heaven forbid the fitted sheet have a loose corner…one would think that Papa himself had been murdered). Because of their color and Terzo’s…life choices, both the top sheet and the fitted sheet had to be changed nearly daily to save them from resembling Pollock’s “Lavender Mist”. His clothing had to be organized by occasion and style (and as you quickly found out, by random personal preference that seemed to change on a whim). Terzo required his wine fridges (plural) to be stocked twice weekly (including the large collection of reds that rested atop each fridge at room temperature), and it wasn’t uncommon to fulfill last minute requests for antipasto, fruit, candles, or other carnal delicacies to be brought to his room for later that evening.

Completing tasks was a nightmare. You never knew if your assigned shift would lead you into an empty (and disarrayed) room with Terzo having been up and out early in the morning, or an occupied suite that stayed inhabited up into the early afternoon. The latter still caught you off-guard and you made frequent mental notes to work on your stuttered apologies as you awkwardly left his bedroom to wait until it was empty to resume your duties.

However, one day that seemed all but special, you entered his bedroom to change his linens and refresh his wardrobe, only to find Cardinal Terzo hunched over the mantel in front of the fireplace. His head hung low, browbeaten, and a rocks glass of scotch was perched between heavy fingers while his fist was clasped to his right. If you listened closely enough, you swore you could hear his aggravated breathing laced with tears. You froze at the sight.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you eventually peeped out, trying your best to keep your tone even as to not portray any perceived judgment.

Terzo hadn’t turned to face you, but was quick in his reply — his voice gravely and gruff. “It’s best if you go, Sorella,” he responded, gripping even tighter onto the glass. The air felt thick and you could feel your own sweat (whether from the heat of the fire or the anxiety of catching Terzo at an inopportune moment, you weren’t sure) pooling on your forehead.

Despite his request, you stayed stationary.

You couldn’t help but look over the way his hair hung down to frame his painted eyes, tracks of tears threatening to wash away the intricate circular design and painted bow, and how his lips pursed in the firelight. Do you dare overstep your professional boundaries to show a touch of common humanity? To show that despite his role as a prominent Cardinal in the church, he was still a human being that deserved empathy and kindness? It was then that you decided to be bold. You took a deep breath.

“Do you need a hug?”

Your words seemed to catch Terzo off guard, and he suddenly raised his head and craned his neck to look at you, eyebrows furrowed. You gently set down the basket of clean laundry and took a step towards him, wringing your hands in apprehension as you approached him.

Upon seeing you, soft-faced and vulnerable in the dim light, his own expression dampened and he turned his body to face yours. “I think I would like that, Sorella,” he replied.

It was from the moment that your small frame enveloped him, your head tucking in against his chest while your hands moved comfortingly against the smooth fabric of his jacket that hugged against his back, that you felt your heart beam against his. And maybe, you reasoned, you weren’t crazy in thinking that you felt his beam back against your own.

Over the next week or so, your daily visits to his chambers began to change. You could almost bet on him being present for your visits now, and while it had made you nervous before, you had begun to look forward to seeing him lounging about in his chambers, coffee in hand as he greeted you with a warm, “Good Morning, Sorella.” Dinner in the refectory had been previously uneventful, but now was punctuated by stolen glances from (and to) the head table, with Terzo occasionally lifting his ever-present glass of red in your direction — a subtle, yet definite nod to your existence. You couldn’t help but internally swoon.

The second week after your fireside interaction, after replacing the linens, replenishing the firewood, and restocking a few choice wines in Terzo’s chambers, you were met with a personal request from the Cardinal.

Like many nights during weeks prior, Terzo had left his room with a special request for the evening. “A sensuous feast” he had called it, and having fulfilled his wishes before, you knew exactly the way it was to be done.

Ignoring your disappointment (and the pang in your chest when you read the note), you worked with the kitchen ghouls to create a charcuterie board to remember, rife with various fruits, cheeses, nuts, and the homemade rosemary focaccia you knew he enjoyed at dinner. A bottle of prosecco sat on ice in a marble wine chiller on the low mahogany coffee table (and you made sure to stock a couple extra in the nearby wine fridge for good measure), and two glasses were perfectly polished beside it, waiting for eventual effervescence. A low fire was kindled and warmed the plush rug that lay in front of it as it waited for its future occupants.

Swallowing the sharp spasms that assaulted your chest, you gave the room a small, unreturned smile and surveyed your work.

“Beautiful job, Dolcezza.” Terzo’s silken voice frightened you as it broke the quietude in the room. You let out a breath, a chuckle laced between it and your words, and you replied with your same gentle smile.

“Thank you. Will that be all, Your Eminence?”

You had been prepared for the Cardinal to shoo you away, possibly thanking you with another one of his thousand-yard smirks, but to your surprise, he didn’t. Instead, he wrinkled his brows in thought, walking slowly over to the velvet-tufted loveseat across from the mantel. His gloved hand stroked the back, fingertips brushing so lightly that they didn’t even leave a mark.

“Actually, no, Sorella,” he said, eyes fixed on the raspberry-hued fabric. You felt your lungs tighten. Had you forgotten something? You’d be the first to admit that you’d been distracted in your work lately, and it wouldn’t have surprised you to see that you missed something crucial. Terzo interrupted your worried visage, his duochromatic eyes flickering up to you with a sultry gaze. “...would you like to stay?”

His words had hit you square in the jaw, which you were sure was now hanging open just slightly at your surprise. You swallowed and stammered out, “I-I don’t want to intrude on your company, Cardinal.”

“I was hoping you would be my company tonight, Dolcezza.”

It was the first of many evenings spent with Terzo. The debut of your time together, if you will — and it was not at all what you had expected.

Tentatively, you agreed to the invitation, only doing so because you knew that his room was the last on your list to freshen and you were now technically done with your duties. You had watched as Terzo held his hand out to motion towards the seating by the fire, and you hesitantly moved to take a seat on the plump leather couch across from the loveseat.

To say that you had been nervous would be a gross understatement. Your senses drank in the stimulus around you — the pop of the bottle of sweet wine, the fizz of the bubbles blooming in the glass, the spicy, floral musk of Terzo’s cologne drifting through the air as he held out the flute for you to timidly accept — they all became cataloged in your mind as sensory memories of this first excursion.

If Terzo’s smooth, charming attitude hadn’t calmed you down, the prosecco surely had. Not long after you’d taken your first sip, Terzo had sat on the other side of the couch with his own glass in his gloved hand, his cardinal cassock floating down over his crossed legs like sin, and he had struck up a conversation. His body was turned towards yours, eyes always drinking in your form like it was the preferred spirit of the evening, as he asked you more about who you were.

He was easy to talk to (far easier to talk to than you’d expected). You divulged your history with the church and briefly described your one and a half year commitment with a peaceful pride. As a Cardinal, you were sure he spent the majority of the time discussing the intimacies of the ministry and you didn’t want to bore him.

“And what led you to the light bringer, Sorella?” he had asked you, fingertips stroking the stem of the champagne flute delicately, tenderly.

Even though you’d initially fabricated walls to guard you from revealing your past, Terzo’s soothing yet fascinating energy knocked them down almost instantaneously. You explained the falling out with your parents over your decisions for your career and lifestyle, how they’d refused to support you following your passions as it didn’t seem “financially prudent” to do so. With forlorn fondness, you recalled your relationship with your Granddad that had ended abruptly with his unforeseen death and how it had cracked your mother’s inward countenance and plastered it back up with vodka and Valium. The final straw, you explained, was your decision to openly renounce your faith and begin the exploration into different forms of spirituality. Terzo had listened intently, his face bleeding sympathy and compassion as you unraveled your past in a way you hadn’t since joining the order.

But despite the heavy conversation, the night turned to one of true connection as you both polished off the first bottle of prosecco (and eventually, most of the charcuterie). Laughter frequently permeated the air after the second bottle had been opened, and you giggled over shared stories of gossip about the ministry — Terzo even letting a few more secretive and scandalous pieces about the clergy loose after his fourth glass of bubbles.

By the end of the evening, you began to see Terzo in a new light. Before, he’d been the suave, debonair Cardinal with a reputation of philandry. But now, Terzo felt like a true kindred spirit. As you’d gotten up to leave (sea-legged from the alcohol, you might add) the Cardinal had offered you his hand to steady you. After helping you up, he continued holding onto your hand, his body advancing closer to you with a half-step.

You remember the light of the fire reflecting off the yin-yang black and white eye as he took in your features. You remember the notes of apple and pear on his breath. Most of all, you remember the words he purred out in a low, dulcet hum.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Dolcezza.”

And he had. Searingly slow, his lips lingered on yours for countless seconds before he pulled away completely.

It was the beginning of the downfall.

🜏🜏🜏

A mere two days after your memorable night with the Cardinal, you arrived at the workroom connecting the laundry to the housekeeping stores in increased anticipation to start your duties. Yesterday was your day off, and as such, you hadn’t had the opportunity to see Cardinal Terzo.

As soon as you set down your coffee thermos, Sister Teresa, a senior Sister of Sin, approached you with a jollied clap on her hands. She explained that the sister you’d been covering for had healed quite nicely from her surgery and was returning to work early — today, in fact — and your services in housekeeping would no longer be needed. With a chuckle, she reached out to touch your arm, saying, “It’s a blessing of timing from the Dark One. We have been running behind ever since you left!”

Outwardly, you nodded and thanked the sister for letting you know before heading through the connecting door to the laundry. Once out of sight, you sighed, turning to make your way down the walkway towards the oncoming chutes, closed fist lightly pounding against a pile of folded bedsheets as you passed. You weren’t exactly sure when you’d get to speak with Terzo again, which of course disappointed you, but you were arguably more disappointed that you’d spent the time shaving your legs and fussing over the exact flavor of lip balm before leaving for work today — all for naught.

That evening, you took your usual seat in the refectory with a slogged posture. Your hands smelled of bleach and detergent, and your skin felt dry from the dryer sheets you’d spent the afternoon picking from the dryer vent. After pouring yourself a healthy glug of table red from the decanter, you sighed and leaned back, watching as other siblings filled the room. After a few lengthy sips and more disassociation than you’d care to admit, you saw a flash of a black cassock from the corner of your eye. Towards the front of the refectory, seated at the clergy table, was Cardinal Terzo. He was mid conversation with one of the bishops and looked surprisingly pleased as he took a seat and accepted a glass of red similar to yours. His glance turned to your direction by chance and he met your eyes, smirking before raising his glass as he had so many times before. You raised yours back.

And on this went for the remainder of the week — you, successfully seeking out his gaze and him acknowledging you with a raised glass, a smile, or as of the night before, a wink. Each time made your heart patter so high in your chest that you could taste it in your throat (or maybe that was the pinot noir).

This particular night, after placing your napkin on the table and sipping the last drop of wine from the globe of the drink ware, you realized that this week put you into a state of melancholy. You’d felt trapped (an odd feeling in a church based on free will) and you craved a break in your monotonous routine. A walk would do you good, you'd decided. You breezed past a group of siblings and out the refectory doors so quickly that you hadn’t heard the voice calling your name from the other end of the room.

Down the cloister and to the gravel path your feet traveled, and just after you felt the crunch of the rocks beneath your shoes, a hand reached out to cup your shoulder. You’d turned with an inward huff, nearly frightened, but each muscle seemed to relax when you’d seen that it was just him, just Terzo, and a smile crept across your cheeks.

From an outward observer, the walk would have seemed ordinary. It wasn’t out of character for siblings to peruse the gardens in the evening, and members of the clergy indulged too, of course. But as you made your way through the carefully pruned rhododendrons and lilac-lined pathways, Terzo admitted something that made the stroll all but ordinary.

“I miss seeing you in my chambers, Dolcezza. I hope our kiss did not frighten you away.”

And of course you had assured him that it was anything but, explaining the predicament that brought you to the housekeeping staff in the first place, along with the reassignment to the ministry laundry earlier in the week.

As time wore on, you kept to your work in the laundry and he to his in the clergy, but both you and il Cardinale continued your joint traditions — the hushed glances at dinner, the occasional stretch through the church’s gardens. You shared the stories of your respective days, with the conversations always morphing into a mishmosh of memories or past experiences, with the occasional smattering of theological conversation. Sometimes you sealed the evening with a kiss, sometimes you didn’t. However, regardless of how the night ended, you always thought of the taste of his lips on yours (wine-bathed and smoky and soft).

Luckily, on occasion, the senior Sisters of Sin pulled the laundry staff to help out with housekeeping duties in the event of someone falling ill or needing to take time off. Each time this was proffered, you quickly volunteered, buttering the situation with the explanation that you had already filled in before and knew the routines and procedures, including the particulars of the clergy members. It made you appear as if you were flexible, hardworking, and willing to help the ministry in any way needed. Deep down, however, you knew that your real motivation was the off-chance that you’d get to see your raven-haired Cardinal.

One of these days you had all but physically jumped at the opportunity to help out with housekeeping. Your enthusiasm was nearly crushed when you found out that not only were they short staffed, but they had fallen behind due to a fairly extensive disaster left behind in an upper clergymen’s room by what appeared to be an entire pack of ghouls. In spite of your utter exhaustion at the end of the day (and shudders at the recollection of all the oddly sticky surfaces you had to wipe down while tidying up the ghoul pack’s aftermath), you found yourself

making the familiar trek to Terzo’s chambers. Ghoul juices aside, you had a slight jaunt in your step. The day’s unfortunate proclivities wouldn’t put a damper on your excitement of seeing the Cardinal. As soon as you entered his room, however, you noticed something felt strange.

Hoping to finish your more formal duties quickly, you beelined into the bathroom to replace the towels and gather the dirty laundry before passing through to his bedchambers. Removing and replenishing his sheets was like child's play now, and after a couple of minutes you had already balled up the used linens and placed them in the basket with the other laundry before turning to exit his bedroom.

You heard the crackling of the fireplace in his living space before you saw the dim flames, and the occasional scribbling sound of a pen against paper was even more of a telltale hint that you were not alone. Setting the basket down, you padded over to the leathered couch that reminded you of your first visit with the Cardinal and rested your hands against the back of it. Terzo was sitting against the rug, feet outstretched by the fire, with a notepad in hand. It had indeed been him slugging the fountain tip across the page, and from the balled up sheets of paper littering the floor, you gathered that whatever he was getting at was not a success.

“Your Eminence?” you rasped out softly, so quietly that he didn’t hear you. “Cardinal?”

With your slightly louder inquest, Terzo’s head shot up and his pen dropped against the paper pad with an audible clunk. The delighted expression on your face dimmed, though, when you noticed his own.

His usually slicked-back hair hung down in messy strands across his forehead, barely covering the lines that had formed there undoubtedly from a frequently furrowed brow. His eyes looked a little glassy, and although the paint around his eyes and upper lip didn’t seem to be tear-scathed, you could tell that he had rubbed at his face more than once by the blurry edges of the black makeup. In sum, Terzo looked doggedly stressed.

“Dolcezza,” his voice perked up with a hint of surprise, “What a treat it is to see you here.”

You could feel the color creeping into the apples of your cheeks like ripened fruit. “They needed a little extra assistance and I offered to help,” you explained, your voice calm and surprisingly steady at the scene in front of you.

“Ahh, bene.” Terzo threw the notepad down to the floor with a little more oomph than you expected, stretching his feet out in front of him. You noted that they were dangerously close to the fire.

“Is everything alright?” you asked as you came closer, rounding the couch to sit down next to him on the floor, “you seem a little —” you paused, unsure of whether to continue lest you come off insulting, yet decided to risk it, “ —stressed.”

The Cardinal sighed. “SÌ,” he breathed out, slipping his hand through his hair for what had to have been the dozenth time that evening. “I am to give the sermon at black mass tomorrow.”

Your lips curved into a proud smile. “Black mass? That’s…well, an honor, really.”

Terzo nodded. “SÌ… however, I have yet to finish it. I keep coming to a stop, like a eh—” he paused, his hand motioning in circles as if to demonstrate that he was searching for the correct word, “ —barrier, in my mind.”

Folding your legs underneath you (and being careful to adjust the skirt of your habit), you turned to face him. “You have writer’s block?”

“If I am to be completely honest, I have never delivered a sermon at Black Mass before.” He sighed again and you noted that there was a lot of weight in that sigh. He looked down, flipping the pen to and fro between his slender fingers. “A lot is riding on this performance and I fear I will be nothing but a disappointment.”

At this, your body stiffened. Terzo had always seemed so confident, so demure, and you were taken aback by his insecurity. “Cardinal,” you began, inching just a bit closer, “you are anything but a disappointment.”

At this, the painted man beside you laughed. “Ahh, yes, il stronzo, perhaps…”

You rolled your eyes at his self-deprecation. “Based on our conversations during our walks, I think you will do beautifully. You have quite the mind for theology, and you speak eloquently and with conviction.” You licked the curve of your lips, craning a bit to try to see his downtrodden eyes. “Maybe it’s yourself you should have some faith in?”

At your kind words, Terzo raised his head, his hair partially hiding the milky white eye that you had never quite become accustomed to. “I’m afraid I will just disappoint you, cara. As well as the congregation.” At this, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his fist clenching as he softly pounded the ground in frustration. “Figlio di puttana…”

The way he looked right now reminded you of the first moment you approached him: vulnerable, closed in on himself, raw, and before you knew it, you reached out your hand to gently touch his left arm, your own fingertips brazenly trailing up and down the wool-covered limb. Your touch surprised the Cardinal, and his eyes met yours once more — this time, the widened emerald one peering straight through you.

What you didn’t know was how touched Terzo was by your compassion at this moment. Of course, he knew how much you cared and sacrificed for others, but you never ceased to amaze him with your empathy and tenderness. His heart beamed in a way he hadn’t felt since childhood, and as he drank in your alluring stare, he couldn’t resist the urge to study your beauty in the firelight. He noted the way the flames etched against the contours of your cheeks and jaw, shadows drawn across bone.

Putting his gloved hand on your own, he found himself leaning towards you, his fingers squeezing yours as his breath stilled in his throat. Warm lips — one painted and one bare — pressed against your own and you felt at home again. Your kisses with Terzo had always felt this way, and although they were a bit of an unconstant, you relished in the moments you’d get to feel him like this.

Your eyes fluttered closed. Head tilting ever so slightly, your body mirrored his own as you melted into the touch. Faint wine and the bitter tang of paint touched your tongue while you moved your lips against his, the slower series of pecks diverging into something a little more heated, urgent, needy.

As you sat like this, all you could hear was the crackling of the fire in front of you, the light smacking of your lips moving in unison, and the intakes and exhales of shared breath. It felt much more intimate than you were used to with Terzo. But most of all, it felt right.

His hand trailed from yours and danced across the flesh of your neck to your jawline, cupping it gently as he tilted to deepen your connection, tongue tasting your lips (for self-gratification or permission, you weren’t sure). You also weren’t exactly sure how you ended up lateral on the thick rug, or how your hand had found purchase in his slicked back hair, or how his own had pushed the fabric of your skirt up around your bare thigh, or even how your bodies had been pulled so impossibly close. Nevertheless, you found yourself wrapped in air thickened with firewood and his cologne and the humid heat of your kisses and exhales, and Satan below the way his trouser covered leg had parted your own to tangle you both into one being had your mind swimming.

“Let me take you,” he had whispered to you, his breath warm against the corner of your lip and the curve of your cheek, “let me have you here, like I’ve always wanted to.”

That was all it took. The look in his eyes had been flooded with desire and it overcame your ability to do anything but completely submit to his request.

He moved over top of you, his arms lifting up criss-crossed to pull his jacket and button up off his slender, muscular frame. Flamed illumination danced across the ridges of the muscles of his chest, the smooth, lightly tanned skin that still seemed so deliciously pale for an Italian man, and your eyes took in stills to catalog in your memory while he slid his hands up and under your dress uniform.

Terzo mimicked the action with your dress, pulling it over your head quickly before tossing it casually to the side. His hand slipped underneath you and before you realized it, the tension of your bra loosened and the garment was quickly abandoned. As cool air pricked the skin of your breasts, the Cardinal’s eyes wandered down to stare at them in the dim light. He bit at the tips of his gloved fingers to loosen the silken material, pulling them off to reveal slender, strong hands that reached for your soft skin.

He must have noticed he look of insecurity that painted your face, of shyness, because he began to trace your curves with his fingertips, just barely, butterfly wings against the surface, and murmured out “Cosi bella…” as they shimmered across the peak of your nipples.

Far back in the recesses of your mind, you felt dips of worry. Was this something that he said to everyone he was with? Was this how he treated all the women he’d brought back to his quarters — the quarters that you’d cleaned and prepared? But each time your mind wandered there, you pulled it back with a yank of a leash to the present. You were here, this was now, and you were going to enjoy what was happening in this moment.

Your mouths connected again, this time more wantonly, and all you could taste was the uniqueness that was simply Terzo — the wine, the smokiness, the dark face paint. A groan escaped his lips into your own and he moved to box you in with his thighs on either side of your body. One hand found room just by your head against the ground and held him above you, while the other clutched to your left breast, kneading and squeezing at you with a mix of adoration and longing.

When he brought his hips down to press against your own, you let forth your own series of moans into his mouth, and he all but combusted as he ripped your lips apart, hands hurriedly unbuckling his pants to shimmy them down his legs. Your reaches crossed one another’s as you both grasped at each other’s undergarments and tandemly pulled them down over hips and skin, revealing your bare forms in communion.

From there you lie naked on the rug, Terzo on top of you, with sweat-slicked skin osculating as tongues and teeth gnashed passionately. Veil and shoes were long forgotten. You could feel his hard length pressing against the space between your sex and your thigh and it made a chill wash over the expanse of your body. As his hips rutted against your pelvis, he slid between your folds, slick coating him with delicious friction, and your arms wound under his own to curl around the strong muscles of his back and shoulders. You broke the kiss with a whimper and crooked your neck to the side.

“Cardinal,” you hummed out, a little more needy than you had intended to, “don’t make me wait any more.”

He lifted his head to look in your eyes, a chuckle reaching past his lips as his hair nearly dripped across your forehead.

“The virtue of patience isn’t something we celebrate in our faith, Dolcezza,” he purred as he brought his face close to yours, breath pricking across your lips and cheek as he moved his mouth to ghost your earlobe, “ —and I think you’ve waited long enough.”

With that, he pulled his hips back and you whined at the brief loss, your breath stilted as he pushed forward almost immediately, his cock pushing past your folds and into you firmly. You let out a choked groan and your eyes ripped open, watching the darkness of his pupils overtake his unmatched irises as he sank into you to the hilt.

Your leg came up to hook around his hip and thigh as he pistoned in and out of you. Your hand gripped the furry fibers of the rug below, the other still curved around his back to hang onto his shoulder like he’d disintegrate if you let go. With every thrust you found God, and every retreat you went searching for redemption.

Your Cardinal found solace in the arch of your neck, teeth nipping at skin and tendon as he grunted along with each forward movement.

“Così buono con me. Sei così buono con me.”

Tension built up inside of your core, tugging at the muscles of your abdomen, and you felt your grip tighten around Terzo. Despite the stricture, you could feel your core blooming, softening taking everything he had as he worked himself inside of you, hips rolling and grinding.

The smell of the sweat on his skin and the burning wood of the fire lit your own flames deep within you and you could feel your impending release begin to blossom. “More,” you cried, the noise so sweet in taste and sound to Terzo that he couldn’t help but obey.

He pressed his lips to your neck in a series of wet marks. Your hand abandoned the rug and came up to card through his air, fingertips winding around the strands with a needy tug as you felt your pussy begin to contract around his thick cock. He knew you were close because he kept going, never faltering in his pace or touch, moaning little praises into the skin of your clavicle until lightening rushed through your veins.

You came and it felt like everything and nothing all at once. You weren’t sure if you’d made any noise at all, but as your jaw hung open, eyes fluttering back into your skull, you were certain that within the Cardinal’s arms was the only place you were meant to be. Here, now, releasing yourself to him completely, with the firelight plaguing the walls as a reminder of your devotion to him, your Cardinal, and to the flames of hell and the one below.

Terzo was soon to follow with his own orgasm. You could sense him tensing, his length twitching as his hips began to jolt against your own unrhythmically, throaty growls punctuating his movements. And as he filled you, you trembled against him from the fiery char of your release, your own inner muscles twitching as you welcomed his spend as sacrament.

Breath stilted and waned as he lay collapsed against you, skin slick with the proof of your union, and your fingertips found purchase soothingly stroking against his scalp. A beat passed and you relaxed in the aftermath of just the two of you. Terzo was the first to speak.

“Was it worth it?” he hummed out, eyes peering up at you from his head that rested against your soft breasts.

You furrowed your brows with a small smile. “What do you mean?” you asked.

He tittered and brought his hand to trace along the line of your jaw. “The wait,” he clarified, thumb rubbing sweetly over your chin, “Was it worth it?”

You felt warmth course through your chest and leak into your limbs. It was different than before. It was new, yet oddly familiar — like remembrance, uncovering a dusted memory. Your hand came up to clasp over his own on your chin, and you brought it to your lips, pressing them slowly, repeatedly against his skin.

“You’re always worth it.”

🜏🜏🜏

Yet now, as you soak in the humidity that paints your skin while you move across the courtyard and to a lesser occupied area of the Ministry gardens, your mind replays your words from that night. “You’re always worth it.” Always. So finite, so absolute.

You continued to walk, searching for a prayer, a sign from the one below that everything will click into place and the grand plan will be revealed over time. And as you settled down onto an earthen stone bench overlooking an old statue of the Emeritus family, eyes cast towards the statue that partially formed the man you’d fallen from grace for, you realized that there was no hot rain.

Only tears.

Tag list: @copiasghoulfriend @copias-juicebox @the-lisechen @anamelessfool

Image Credit(s): Pinterest

Tags

fanfic ghost band ghost bc the band ghost terzo terzo x reader ghost band fanfic cardinal terzo

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star-reaper

3 weeks ago

I simply adore the way you write Ominis it's just perfect ❤️

Touch Starved - Ominis Gaunt x Female!Reader

Summary: To say you were going insane would be a monumental understatement. Ever since Ominis’ abrupt departure from the bedroom two nights ago, he had exercised an unnatural amount of restraint when it came to touching you. There had been no more playing with your hair. No hand holding. No hugs. No kisses. No cuddling. No sex. You had definitely upset him.

Alternatively summarized as Ominis getting rubbed the wrong way by a joke you crack at his expense, so he makes you suffer for it until he thinks you've learned your lesson.

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, Ominis being petty, explicit sexual content, praise kink

This lovely precious Ominis oneshot is now up on Ao3

Ominis was a touchy-feely person.

It was a trait that went hand in hand with being blind, you had realized after a while. He liked to really take his time running his fingertips over certain things to gauge an object's material, its sharp edges, and the size of it. Even though he had his wand to guide him, you had noticed a long time ago that he preferred to walk close to walls so he could run his palm along the length of a corridor, giving himself an added safety net for getting where he needed to go.

He enjoyed the feeling of soft, gentle things; blankets, grass, running water, and especially your hair. He liked running his fingers through the strands slowly– almost sensually– as the two of you curled up together in bed once the sun had set. For a while you had assumed he did it for your benefit– lulling you to sleep every night with tender, soothing touches that made you melt against him without fail. Upon further investigation, however, you’d come to the conclusion that Ominis derived his own pleasure from playing with your hair.

So when you finally deigned to comment on it one night, the last thing you had expected was for him to become disgruntled.

“You’re like a baby Mooncalf,” you teased softly, your finger tracing random patterns against the smooth skin of his chest. Ominis’ hand stilled against your scalp, a few strands falling from between his long, dainty fingers soundlessly, but you barely paid it any mind. “All clingy with a penchant for soft things. I’m surprised you don’t build nests like they do.”

With your head nestled in the crook of his arm, you weren’t able to glimpse his face following the lighthearted joke, but you did feel him stiffen against you. “Is that so?”

You barely read into the flat tone of his voice. You simply continued to swirl your finger around against his sternum, dragging your nail lightly over the area above his heart. “Mhm. You’re so needy all the time– always touching me. What would you do if I turned up bald one day?”

There was a long, drawn out pause before Ominis removed his hand completely from your hair, the absence of the appendage prompting you to look up at him through your lashes questioningly. “You’re right. Perhaps I should stop. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of such a travesty.”

You blinked with confusion, your own movements against his chest halting as you considered whether or not you had offended him somehow. Then, just as you were about to reach up to reassuringly touch his cheek, you felt Ominis begin to unwind his arm from around you. He sat up calmly before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, picking his wand up from the nightstand as though he were about to go somewhere. Hesitantly, you murmured, “Ominis, I didn’t mean–”

“No, you’re quite right. I should calm down and let you rest,” came his smooth, emotionless voice. That told you more about his true feelings than anything else, and you pushed yourself upright atop the bed as he started to exit the bedroom. “I have some work that needs to be done, anyway. Get some sleep, darling.”

Just like that, Ominis strode out of your shared room without so much as a goodnight kiss. You were left reeling on your side of the bed– completely and utterly stumped as to which part of your teasing had chased him away. Had you known that your jesting would lead to the most frustrating week of your life, you would have just kept your mouth shut to begin with.

—

To say you were going insane would be a monumental understatement. Ever since Ominis’ abrupt departure from the bedroom two nights ago, he had exercised an unnatural amount of restraint when it came to touching you.

There had been no more playing with your hair.

No hand holding.

No hugs.

No kisses.

No cuddling.

No sex.

You had definitely upset him. There was no denying that fact– not when the proof was laid bare before you so plainly. But every time you tried to broach the topic with Ominis, he simply waved you off and dismissed your attempts at apologizing. It didn’t take long for your remorse to turn into indignant anger. He was playing a cruel, unnecessary game, and you weren’t about to let him have the last laugh.

So, you gritted your teeth through the torment and dealt with it.

Every time you felt the desire to touch him, you dug your nails into your palms. Every time your eyes fell to his lips, you would bite your own and look away. It was difficult, but you weren’t about to beg. Not when this entire situation was one of his own making. He was trying to punish you for poking fun at him, but you wouldn’t give in. You would just play along and bide your time until he caved.

That ended up being easier said than done.

Towards the end of day two, Ominis returned home from work. You were in the kitchen preparing dinner, chopping vegetables from the garden with more force than was probably necessary, when the sound of the door closing reached your ears. When you glanced over your shoulder in search of the culprit, you spotted him removing his shoes with his briefcase still in hand. Normally when he came home, he would do exactly that before making his way towards you to give you a kiss in greeting. Sometimes he would even wrap his arms around your waist and perch his pointy chin on your shoulder to take in the sounds and the smells of whatever you were cooking.

But not today.

His wand pulsed once, prompting him to fix his unseeing eyes in your direction before peacefully saying, “Hello, love. How was your day?”

That was it. No hug, no kiss, and no close proximity of any kind. Ominis let his long legs carry him through the kitchen and into the living room to set his briefcase down on the table near the couch, waiting patiently for you to fill him in on what you’d gotten up to that day. Words were failing you at present, though. You were shocked, and maybe even a little hurt.

“It was fine…” you finally managed to reply. Your grip on your knife turned white knuckled as you frowned, then looked down at the pile of carrots and onions you had almost finished dicing. “Ominis, about what I said the other night–”

“Oh, by the way,” he interrupted casually, which only served to deepen the frown pulling at your lips. “My colleague is hosting a gala for the Ministry at his estate tomorrow night. We’re both invited, so be prepared for that. It begins at five o’clock.”

Unbelievable.

“Alright…”

This was absurd. How long was he going to ignore your attempts at reconciling? Aside from refusing to put his hands on you and pretending like he didn’t hear you trying to apologize, Ominis was acting completely normal. He carried himself the same way he always had, he conversed with you, and he wasn’t giving you the cold shoulder. He said good morning and bid you farewell before he left for work, and he ate dinner across from you with a smile on his face once he arrived home.

Your nightly cuddles were a thing of the past, though. His back was always to you when you rolled over to bury your cheek against his chest– an addendum of his self-imposed ‘no touching’ rule.

Resuming your aggressive chopping, Ominis took it upon himself to set the table. He flitted about as though he didn’t have a care in the world, and you openly glared at the side of his head from behind the counter.

This was terrible. It was spiteful and it was mean. But if he wouldn’t let you make amends, then what choice did you have other than to endure?

—

Ominis wore suits all the time. It was more unusual for you to find him dressed down, if you were being honest. His hair was always styled neatly without a strand out of place, and his tailor had perfected the art of selecting fabric colors that complimented his eyes beautifully. If there was one thing you had come to expect from your lover, it was that he would always look remarkably well assembled.

Today, however, Ominis had gone above and beyond preparing for the Ministry gala.

His suit was dark brown with an almost orange undertone that made his eyes pop. The sleeves of his blazer and the length of his trousers were hemmed perfectly– not too long or too short– and it somehow made him look impossibly taller. Soft blond hair was combed back from his face to showcase his high cheekbones, but unlike his everyday look, Ominis had intentionally used less product to keep the strands at bay.

Which meant there were a few pieces of hair hanging deliciously over his forehead. It gave him a bit of a roguish appearance that made your throat dry up and your hands twitch. You wanted to touch him. You wanted to rake your fingers through that devilish hair of his and slam your lips against his. Every part of your touch-deprived body yearned to wrap around him– to feel him the way you had craved for the last three days.

You knew it was pointless, though. He was still annoyingly averse to touching you, and you were still petulantly trying to wait out his weird form of retribution. Part of you was convinced that he had dressed himself this way specifically to get a rise out of you.

He had to know he looked handsome. There was no other alternative.

The gala was a luxurious affair that involved the finest foods, the finest wines, and even live music. The band that had been hired to perform all night was set up in the corner of the grand space, the rich melody emanating from their string instruments blending easily with the idle chatter happening around the dinner table. Ominis was seated to your right, directing a work-related comment to someone across from him while you picked lazily at your dessert.

In all honesty, you were at your wits end.

While you had fully expected Ominis to maintain his infuriating distance from you tonight, a tiny part of you had hoped that he would relent when you’d asked him to dance earlier. When he had turned down your request with some half-assed excuse, you couldn’t help but become positively pissed about it.

He never passed up the opportunity to waltz with you.

In the past, he had divulged that his parents had forced him to master the art of ballroom dancing for the sake of ‘keeping up appearances’– and although you loathed his family for the things they had subjected him to as a child, you were immensely grateful that they had invested in their son learning the skill. Ominis was a wonderful dancer. He led with poise, moved with grace, and always caught you when you stumbled. It felt like you were flying in his arms when the two of you spun across the room together, and you had grown to look forward to any occasion that made dancing with him possible.

So to have been denied even that in the wake of his no-touching-allowed spell was the cherry on top of your already shit week.

Letting loose a shaky sigh, you set your fork down and placed your hands in your lap. You didn’t want to be here anymore. You wanted to go home and bury your head beneath the mountain of pillows on your bed. It was hard not to feel so dejected in response to the weaponized isolation you had been subjected to this week. You knew it was your own fault for having poked fun at him, but you never would have done it had you known this was the punishment you would earn.

Your face flushed in response to the tumultuous emotions running rampant through your mind. You didn’t know whether you were sad, angry, or numb to everything happening around you. It wasn’t until Ominis had stopped being physical with you that you’d realized how much you looked forward to and treasured his lingering touches.

And he would even let you apologize. Where were you supposed to go from here?

“Are you alright, darling?”

Ominis had shifted his attention back to you, his milky-blue eyes narrowed with the faintest bit of concern. After the last three days, you didn’t know whether the look was fake or genuine, but at this point you didn’t care. You didn’t feel like getting your hopes up just to have them dashed again.

Your silence only prompted Ominis to twist in his seat, angling his body sideways just enough so that his knees bumped against yours, and the sudden, unexpected contact made you jolt. The heat in your cheeks amplified when you watched his fingers stretch towards you, following the curve of your shoulder up your neck before the back of his hand settled against your forehead.

It was an innocent enough display, but after three straight days of no physicality of any kind with him, the gentle touch made your heart hammer against your sternum violently.

“You’re rather warm… are you not feeling well?”

Swallowing thickly, your voice came out sounding like a pained croak when you said, “No. I’m fine, just tired.”

Ominis hummed thoughtfully, not at all convinced by your lackluster delivery. He removed his hand and swiftly rose to his feet, excusing himself as well as you by announcing that the two of you would be heading home early. You were hardly at liberty to object– you barely knew any of these people. Besides, any arguments you might have made were dutifully silenced by the blond’s hand appearing on the small of your back to steer you in the direction of the foyer.

It felt like you were moving through dense mud as Ominis pulled you against his side, apparating the two of you into your living room in the blink of an eye before releasing you. The warmth from his skin lingered against your upper arm for a long while, and you remained standing in front of the couch when the taller man moved away to begin fiddling with his cufflinks. Only the sound of his shifting clothing filled the otherwise silent house. You didn’t say a word– just stood there quietly and watched Ominis loosen his attire.

Once he had shrugged off his jacket and neatly draped it over the back of the sofa, his silky voice shattered the stillness of the room. “Would you like some tea? It might help if you’re feeling poorly.”

Poorly… yeah, that was a word for it. “No, thank you. I’m not sick.”

His brows furrowed questioningly, “It felt like you had a fever back at the estate, and you hardly touched your food the entire night. There’s a very good chance you’re ill.”

So he had been paying attention. For some reason, that thought only served to upset you further. He knew you had been sulking, and still he had refused to abandon the ridiculous sanction he had placed on himself in regards to touching you. The only thing that had gotten him to even partially relent was his assumption that you were coming down with something, and all that had earned you was his legs bumping into yours and his hand resting fleetingly against your forehead.

It had been too much and not enough all at once.

“I’m not sick,” you repeated flatly, putting your back to him as you lowered yourself onto the couch. “I don’t need tea. Don’t worry about me, just go get ready for bed. I’ll be in shortly.”

Liar. Tonight was beginning to look like the first time you would willingly sleep apart from him in years. You couldn’t take it anymore– turning over in the dead of night in search of Ominis’ warmth, only to be met with his back to you. It was a unique form of torture that you hadn’t thought him capable of. He had a vindictive side that you had seen inflicted on others, yes, but you had never been on the receiving end of it. Not like this.

It was maddening.

The room fell silent again, and for a moment you were convinced that he had heeded your insistence and gone to the bedroom by himself. But then you heard his feet padding against the floor, getting closer and closer before they stopped behind you. You chanced a look over your shoulder and found Ominis looming over you, his hips flush to the back of the couch, and he tilted his head to the side as a curious expression broke out across his face.

“You’re upset.” It wasn’t a question– he knew you were bothered. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything is perfectly fine.”

The hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, and you narrowed your eyes in blatant displeasure. He knew exactly what had you so bent out of shape, but addressing it directly? No– that wasn’t his style. Ominis would make you confess before making his next move.

What that would be, though, you didn’t know.

“I can’t help you feel better if I don’t know what’s bothering you, darling. Talk to me.” His head dipped down ever so slightly, causing those loose strands of hair to fall in front of his face temptingly. Between that, the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, and that infuriating smirk he was failing to hide, you were quickly reaching your limit. “Does your less than stellar mood have anything to do with my lack of neediness these past few days? Have I not been clingy enough for your liking?”

Bingo. It didn’t even surprise you to hear him acknowledge the root cause of your irritation. Of course you knew that was why he had been so distant. He was remarkably skilled at pretending otherwise, however– behaving naturally apart from keeping his hands to himself.

Bastard.

“I never said that as a bad thing!” Your voice was shrill as you finally erupted, slapping your hands against the cushions indignantly. “I was just teasing! And then you go and ignore me for three days– driving me crazy with your civility, treating me like I’m a blasted work colleague or something! You wouldn’t even let me apologize! What kind of sick, twisted game did you think you were playing?”

“The kind that gets my point across,” he replied smoothly. Ominis left his wand-bearing hand braced on the couch as he leaned forward, effortlessly wrapping the other around the back of your neck to tug you closer. His skin was soft and warm, his even breaths ghosting across your cheeks as he held you mere inches away from his lips. “I had to make sure you learned that I don’t take kindly to being deemed needy or clingy. I am who I am– I love fiercely and without restraint. If those are facets of my character you want to poke fun at, I had to see to it you knew what life was like without them.”

You gaped up at him, your mind spinning with insults and complaints that passed by too quickly for you to give voice to a single one. All of this to prove a point? He was insane! Never before had you thought your lover to be anything resembling petty, but he had remedied that in a shockingly little amount of time. He was petulant. He was mean and vengeful and too conniving for his own good. You had half a mind to retreat out of his hold and give him a taste of his own medicine– pack a bag and stay at some decrepit inn for a few nights out of sheer spite alone. Three days of enduring him keeping you at arms length all because you had tried to make a joke!

You would never jest again. Ever.

But before you could pull free from Ominis’ loose grip and tell him as much, he was kissing you. Suddenly, passionately, wantonly– the taste of him gracing your tongue after so long sent a bolt of arousal through your entire being. Your eyes squeezed shut, your muscles tensed, and your thighs clenched together as your body ignored your brain’s demands to fight back. You wanted to refute his kiss and make it clear that you wouldn’t tolerate such treatment from him ever again. You wanted him to apologize for leaving you feeling so pitiful and lonely for days on end.

But your more primal desires were stronger. After three days of craving everything about him, your mind was quick to shut itself off and drink him in greedily, your wounded pride be damned.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of the couch as you let the imposing man part your lips with his tongue, the wet muscle sweeping through your mouth with devastating precision, and gods, he had you. Ominis, and that prideful expression on his face. Ominis, and that domineering lilt in his voice. Ominis, and those stupid, slender, mind-numbing fingers that dragged up the nape of your neck to collect a fistful of your hair. The pressure of his lips against yours increased as he forced you to crane your neck back, guiding you exactly where he wanted you with indisputable finesse.

“Come on, darling,” Ominis murmured against your kiss-swollen lips after a while. “Tell me what you want. What have you been craving these last few days, hm?”

You were positively dazed in the wake of kissing him, your mind reeling as you struggled to get your vocal chords to obey and answer him. “I– I want you to touch me. I missed you touching me– I hated that you wouldn’t.”

A throaty chuckle sounded from deep in his chest and made the hair on your arms stand on end. “Is that all?”

Fuck– hell no. You wanted all of him.

There was no way you could have stopped yourself if you tried; your hands shot out to grab him by the scruff of his shirt, slamming your lips into his with the strength of a damn Troll. Ominis grunted in surprise– mercifully letting you manhandle him into another kiss– then brazenly hoisted his knee over the back of the couch. He scaled the barrier with little effort, never once breaking away from your mouth as he effectively climbed onto the sofa and trapped you beneath his taller frame. He tossed his wand to the far end of the cushions to free up both of his hands and immediately began running his palms down your sides, gathering up your dress so it sat in a messy heap above your navel.

When the lack of oxygen in your lungs forced you to pull away with a gasp, Ominis took the opportunity to purr, “Looks to me like you’re the needy one now, love. I won’t lie, it’s a gratifying turn of events.”

You were so swept up in your own arousal that you didn’t even care about his taunting. If it took doing the fucking waltz with an Inferi to get what you wanted, you would do it. “Please, Ominis,” you pleaded breathlessly. “Please– touch me.”

“Show me,” he instructed calmly, causing you to shiver against him. “Show me where you want me.”

With trembling fingers, you grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand between your legs, letting him feel the wetness saturating your undergarments for himself. His lips parted with obvious want at the same time your hips bucked up into his touch, deriving your own pleasure from the friction against your clit. “Here,” you gasped. “I want you here. Please.”

Evidently three days was long enough for Ominis to punish you, because he didn’t waste a second before moving on his own. He slipped his fingers under the side of your underwear, sliding his fingers through your folds to collect the moisture seeping from you, then cupped the entirety of your cunt with his palm so he could sink two fingers inside of you. A satisfied moan tore from you then, causing Ominis’ features to darken as he pumped and curled the digits at a slow, even pace. “Like this? Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes,” you stammered, entranced by his methodical movements and obsessed with the way he let his palm press down against your bundle of nerves. “Yes– just like that.”

Through your hazy vision, you watched as Ominis lowered his head so it was nearly touching yours, a pretty, pink flush creeping over his cheeks at the sounds escaping you. “You won’t tease me for touching you again, will you? Is it a bad thing that I enjoy the feeling of your skin? Your hair? Am I the equivalent of a baby animal for appreciating those things about the woman I love?”

With every question voiced, Ominis ground his palm against your clit with wicked intent. Your breathing hitched in your chest as you tried your best to rock down into his rhythmic movements, but your prone position made it difficult to do much of anything. You were entirely at the mercy of your lover, and he hummed pointedly before plunging his fingers all the way to the base of his knuckles– curling them to wring a strangled cry from your throat.

Your eyes flew wide open when the pads of his fingers pressed against the sensitive area hidden deep within you, and you quickly blurted, “N-No. No, you’re not– I won’t tease– it’s not–”

His tempo never changed– his digits never wavering from the incessant come here, come here, come here motion that was quickly igniting you from the inside. You heard him chuckle when you dug your nails into the skin of his wrist, and then you felt his other hand splay against your thigh so it could run up and down your leg appraisingly. “Good… you’re nearly there, darling. I can feel it. Right here,” he pressed into that one spot harder, making your toes curl and your eyelids flutter. “That’s where I’ll aim since you’ve waited so patiently. What do you think?”

That was just it– you couldn’t think. Ominis had effectively nullified your higher brain power with two fingers and his sinful voice. When your senseless noises transformed into shaky iterations of his name and hiccups of pleasure, he closed the minuscule distance between the two of you to kiss you again.

Well, he kissed you. You mostly just whined into his mouth.

You wanted more; more kisses, more touches, more of Ominis. Your body unconsciously arched towards him as he pumped his fingers and ground his palm against you, and your heels dug into the couch cushions as the tension in your lower stomach mounted. In the far reaches of your hazy mind, you could faintly hear yourself calling his name over and over again– repeating it like a mantra as though your life depended on it.

“That’s right,” he cooed, pressing harder on your bundle of nerves and laughing softly when you released his wrist to slap your hands against the couch. “That’s it. Come on, darling.”

You didn’t know if you wanted to be grateful or woeful over the fact that he didn’t stop. It had only been three days, but after being denied every variation of his touch, your body was hypersensitive to everything he gave you. The tension in your gut grew tauter than a wire until it finally snapped, leaving you clutching at the cushions as you rode out every wave of euphoria with a buck of your hips. Ominis groaned at the sounds falling from your lips, his fingers continuing their assault as you begged him not to stop– to keep doing exactly what he was doing. Or, you did in your head, anyway.

Out loud, it came across more like garbled syllables, curses, his name, and “Oh, gods, please”.

When the high finally died down, your whole body buckled beneath him. Ominis’ hand mercifully stilled against your cunt, and he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away and moving off of the couch. Your heart lurched in your chest at the blurry sight of him retreating– afraid for a few agonizing seconds that he was going to leave you and go back to being standoffish.

But then the feeling of his hands on you returned, his arms wedging themselves under your boneless body to lift you off the couch and hold you against his chest. He had reclaimed his wand at some point before that, the red tip pulsing as it guided the man on his short journey to the bedroom, and he let it clatter against the floor once his knees hit the edge of the mattress. You were gingerly set down atop the covers and left to watch as Ominis’ hands fell to his belt, his deft fingers sliding the leather out of the metal buckle with practiced ease.

“I suppose I was rather cruel about this whole charade, wasn’t I?” His voice was laced with mockery as he began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin. “It was obvious you were upset. I’m sorry, love. Can I make it up to you?”

He could do whatever the hell he wanted if it meant he wouldn’t tease you anymore. Weakly, you rasped, “Yes...”

Ominis let his shirt hang open so he could pull his cock from his trousers, the full length of him arching proudly in his fist as a result of his escapades on the couch. He gave himself a testing squeeze before lowering himself onto the bed, feeling for your outstretched legs so he could crawl over them and cage you in with his lean arms. “I could feel your frustration, too. You were wound tighter than a spring– so desperate to make the feeling go away. I almost gave up the other night when I felt you shifting around on the bed, mewling like a neglected kitten…”

Ominis’ tone was sickeningly saccharine as he reached down with one hand to pull your dress up your torso again, dropping the excess material over your chest so it pooled above your breasts. He made short work of tugging off your undergarments so he could trail his fingers over your stiff nipples, thumbing over the rosy peaks and grinning unabashedly when you whimpered. “Do you want it, darling? My touch? My love? All of me?”

“Yes,” you whined, gasping when you felt the blunt head of his cock press against your hole tauntingly. “Yes, Ominis, please. I love you– I want you– I want all of you.”

He hummed gleefully to himself, all too pleased with your pliant, remorseful nature. The hand on your breast skirted lower, lower, until it was splayed securely against the side of your thigh. Ominis shifted your leg over to give himself more room as he pressed into your cunt, the first few inches leaving you stuttering and panting into the empty air above you.

Given how facetious he had been throughout the entire process, part of you was expecting Ominis to take you roughly and without restraint. Instead you were met with slow, shallow thrusts as he cautiously worked himself into you, his long, slender fingers stroking your leg comfortingly until he finally bottomed out with his hips flush to your rear. “That’s it, love,” he muttered huskily, letting his head hang between his shoulders so he could fix his cloudy eyes in the direction of your clipped noises. “You always take me so well.”

You could only writhe beneath him in search of more, squirming against him as your walls began to tighten and urge him to move. Much to his credit, Ominis obliged the wordless command– knowing all too well what your body’s tells were almost better than you did. He pulled his hips back before plunging his cock back into your wet, waiting core, expelling a groan from your throat that caused his nails to dig into your flesh.

“Gods,” you gasped, relishing in how deep Ominis managed to reach. You would always love and appreciate his dexterous fingers, but they could never compare to the long, curved length of him.

“How does it feel? Tell me.”

Ominis began to thrust into you then, setting a steady pace that stirred your insides and made your head spin. That same spot within you he had assaulted with devastating accuracy earlier was effortlessly struck over and over again by the head of his cock, driving you higher embarrassingly fast, forcing more choked moans from your scratchy throat. “Feels– feels so good,” you managed breathlessly. “It’s so good, Ominis. I– I think– I’m–”

Strands of blond hair tickled your forehead as Ominis leaned down to laugh derisively in your face, the closer proximity putting his pelvis flush to your still-sensitive clit. “Are you close already? You poor thing– you must have been really pent-up these last few days…”

His teasing didn’t sound nearly as malicious as it had before. It was strained– shadowed by his own arousal quickly creeping into the forefront of his mind. The sight of his eyes pinching and his lips parting was making you dizzy. Your inhibitions were a thing of the past as you became wholly focused on how Ominis grunted softly, his hips grinding against you with every perfectly measured plunge of his cock. The pressure he inadvertently placed on your swollen nub filled a void inside of you, and in a flash, it was all too much to handle.

“There you go,” Ominis encouraged when he felt your muscles start to spasm around his length, your walls constricting him so tightly that his next panted gasp was laced with a throaty moan. “Go ahead, darling, come for me.”

His velvety praises were your undoing as you trembled violently beneath him. It was as though Ominis had lit a fuse on you and caused every part of your body to explode, your second climax stealing your breath and leaving your body burning hotter than a furnace. His pace stayed the same– never faltering as he fucked you through all of it– and only once you went limp did he deign to change his methods.

Ominis’ let go of your thigh to brace both of his forearms on either side of your head, caging you in so thoroughly that all you could see, smell, hear, and feel was him. His hips moved faster, his breathing fanning across your flushed cheeks quicker, and the hairswidth of space between you both left you with no choice but to watch his expression contort into one of sheer hunger as he chased after his impending finish. Your hands lifted off the bed of their own accord to sneak under the flaps of his undone shirt, stroking over his spine, his ribs, and those two little dimples that adorned his lower back.

Drinking in your fill of his skin after three long, grueling days without it seemed to do as much for Ominis as it did for you; he shivered and buried his fingers in your disheveled hair to clench at the strands, his eyebrows knitting together with concentration as he slammed his hips into yours once, twice, then a final third time before he spilled inside of you. His entire body trembled as he came undone, a drawn out gasp of your name leaving his lips as he slotted his mouth with yours sans the grace of an actual kiss. It was all a clash of tongue and teeth as Ominis devoured the tiny sounds you made, only managing to pull away when the twitching of his cock had ceased completely.

He didn’t get very far, though. Your arms were still wrapped around him– holding him impossibly tight to your chest in your pitiful attempts to keep him close. There was no chance you were letting him get away that easily– not after everything he had put you through this week.

“So needy,” Ominis chided with a smile, releasing his grip on your hair before affectionately smoothing down the strands. “Perhaps I should keep my distance more often if this is the treatment I’ll get for it.”

He couldn’t see it, but you narrowed your eyes up at him challengingly. Your hands slid down his sides so they were directly over his ribs, and when you dug your nails into the sensitive area, he flinched at the same time a strangled hiss slipped from between his teeth. “Don’t even think about it. I’m already forbidding myself from making jokes around you after this.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny,” he scoffed, flicking your nose lightly. “Although I do suppose the role reversal right now is rather amusing. It’s ironic– of the two of us, you’re the one clinging to me like a baby Mooncalf.”

“You’re pushing your luck. This is all your fault.”

“Ah, my apologies. Should I leave?”

“No!”

He was unbelievable. Merlin only knew what future, shoddy quip would prompt Ominis to disappear for a week straight, all in some ghastly attempt to teach you a lesson. You vowed then and there that you would never try to be funny again. Ever.

Tags

ominis gaunt fic recs hogwarts legacy fanfic ominis gaunt x mc ominis gaunt x reader hogwarts legacy fanfiction ominis gaunt fanfiction ominis gaunt fanfic ominis gaunt smut ominis gaunt x you ominis gaunt x female!reader

220 notes View Post

star-reaper

1 year ago

Tags

my love

72 notes View Post

star-reaper

2 years ago

Okokok so this could be for knight bucky 👀

(if reader is like a queen or princess), Bucky is in charge of your safety, he's always near and one day he escorts you to the gardens for a walk and him and reader are alone and he's so tempted to grab your hand!!!! It's aching to know what it's like to feel your skin against his (hand scene from Pride and prejudice iykyk🤭)

carrot you genius

i definitely followed this prompt pretty loosely and it kinda took on a form of it's own but i hope you enjoy it <3

Yes, Your Grace

Okokok So This Could Be For Knight Bucky 👀

Pairing: Knight!Bucky x Queen!Reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Warnings: a little bit of angst, but that's honestly about it.

You never lasted too long at galas, especially when they weren't in your own kingdom.

Not having the familiarity of your staff. The smell of salt in the air as the ocean breeze washed in through your open corridor. The certain click of your shoes against the marble floors. It was all yours and safe and commonplace.

Being in someone else's kingdom, at an event where everyone wants a chance to dance with the unwed queen was exhausting. You almost never left the dance floor with how many suitors were trying to win you over, to take the seat of King next to you. You never enjoyed any of them though. You knew they were just in it for the title, the power. Most of them not believing you should be able to rule on your own. That it was sacrilege that you still remained unwed.

But you put on a brave face, a large fake smile to appease them and to keep the peace. If you didn't provoke them, it gave them no reason to storm your castle's walls.

The exhaustion was evident on your face as James watched you from the sidelines. He was to have eyes on you at all times, especially since you weren't in your own home. He was your protector, hand picked by your father before he passed to be your personal knight until you relieved him or reassigned him. You had yet to do either in the five years he'd been by your side.

His armor clinked as he made his way to you, mindful not to bump into anyone with the bulky metal. Expertly moving through the sea of royals, he paced his steps with the musicians playing in the corner - he'd practiced this dance with you too many times to count. You'd wanted a partner to brush up on your skills and you'd asked him one day during your breakfast. That was the closest he'd ever been to you for that long.

Your dance partner spun you out from their arm and towards James, who gave you a knowing look when you spotted him. He smirked at the pleading in your eyes and quickened his pace, stopping next to you.

"Pardon me, Lord Wilson, I was wondering if I could steal her grace for a moment," He requested, the tone in his voice really leaving no room for argument. He watched as you curtsied and the lord bowed to you before you turned and grabbed James's elbow, allowing him to lead you outside.

"I thought you might like a breath of fresh air," He leaned down a bit so you could hear his whispers as you passed other attendants. "I could tell you weren't enjoying the way Lord Wilson was spinning you around the floor.

The noise that left your lips was a mix between a scoff and a laugh and it pulled James lips into a smile as he looked down at you.

Your hand slipped from his elbow and he let you walk just a step in front of him. You glanced over your shoulder, "I appreciate the concern, as always, Sir James."

"I thought we discussed this," He started, following you as you wandered the gardens that, in his opinion, could never rival your own, "I requested you not to call me James."

"You did," You smirked, stopping at a stone railing that overlooked the small pond as you turned to face him entirely, leaning against the stone, "but I do love seeing you in a fit over it."

"I'd hardly call me reminding her highness of my request a fit," He chuckled as he stood just out of reach, which you took notice of. You always did.

"Why are you standing over there," you asked, your smile slipping, "I won't bite."

He gave you an easy smile, soaking in your attention, basking in it.

It wasn't that you never gave it to him or that you were stingy with it. In fact, it was quite the opposite. You were always speaking with him. He accompanied you everywhere you went, so why wouldn't you? What kind of queen would you be if you didn't speak with your personal knight at all while he protected you?

You two had grown close over the years, your relationship becoming more of one between friends rather than one of subordinate and superior. And James didn't mind one bit. He'd never tell anyone, for risk of being reassigned away from you, but he loved you.

He was in love with you.

He had been for years and it was one of the many reasons that he was so persistent about protecting you, even when you told him to get some rest - he'd just sit on the floor outside your chamber doors those nights. You started having Steve switch with him at night so he could sleep too, but he'd only sleep for a handful of hours and get washed up before coming back to switch again.

You held your hand out to him, waiting for his gloved fingers to gently grasp yours. He did so, but at the expense of the tug in his chest.

In all his years of serving you, he'd never touched you. He always made sure something was between the two of you, his gloves, your fur coat, something.

It wasn't that he didn't want to touch you, he was actually dying to do so. He dreamed of the day that he could feel your skin against his, but he didn't want to taint your perfectly smooth complexion with his dirtied callouses. You deserved someone with a softer touch than his own. You deserved someone's hands who hadn't been covered in blood and dirt and grime and sin.

He let you guide him to stand next to you, waiting for you to drop his hand, but you continued to hold on to it, absently fiddling with the leather covering his skin. God, what he wouldn't do to be able to actually hold your hand. To brush elbows. To feel your fingers on his arm as he led you around town.

"Jamie?" He glanced up from your fingers to see you staring at the still water of the pond.

"Yes, your highness?"

It was a moment before you responded, but you didn't look over at him. Instead, you gazed down at the stone under your fingertips, scratching your nail along its surface - something he knew you did when you were nervous.

"Do you think they're right?" If he hadn't been waiting with baited breath, he would've missed the question with how quiet you were. He figured you didn't want anyone else hearing your conversation so he dipped his head lower towards your ear.

"What about?"

"About me," You glanced up at him then, causing his heart to almost leap out of his chest. He'd never been close like this. Close enough to speak in hushed tones, sure, but never enough to see the details in your irises, the individual lashes that brushed against your cheeks when you blinked. "Do you agree that I'm some - some mad woman to not be married? To not have a husband to do the ruling while I give him heirs?"

"Well," he started, testing the waters and giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, "I guess that depends on why you have yet to wed someone."

You were silent at that as you refused to look away, but you squoze his fingers back, gripping his hand as you pulled it closer to you.

He wanted to pull away from you, surely this close proximity would bring more talk about you to the other royals. Someone of your standing shouldn't be this close to him, holding his hand, noses almost touching.

Yet, here you were.

"I fear someone may already have my heart," You stated, glancing between his eyes. A pit formed in his chest and he had to ignore the ache as he steadied his breathing.

Of course you had your eye on someone. With as many potential suitors as you had, how could you not already have a certain person in mind? But that left the question - why hadn't you wed them yet? Surely, whoever had caught your eye would be pleased to wed you. Who wouldn't was the better question.

"Why haven't you wed them yet, your grace?" He gruffly asked, swallowing down the sudden surge of emotion in his throat. He was your personal knight - he couldn't let something like this break him down. Especially when you were not within your own palace walls. He had to remain calm and collected, at least until you retired for the evening. Then he could let the cracks spread until morning.

You tipped your head down to look at his chest as you placed your free hand over the armor there, your nails gently tapping against the metal. "That's a sensitive conversation that shouldn't be held outside of our home walls, don't you think?"

You looked back up at him, almost craning your neck with your proximity. He nodded, dazed at how your voice sounded when you said 'our home.' It wasn't the first time you'd referred to it like that, you did both live there. But there was something about the way your voice lightened when you said it. Like it was lifting a weight off your chest saying you wanted to tell him your secret. And though he may not be ready to hear who'd stolen your affections, a sense of pride filled him. You trusted him enough to tell him this secret of yours.

And even if he wasn't ready to hear it, he'd protect that secret with his life if need be. Because it'd be for you.

He nodded, muttering a word of agreement and you smiled, but it lingered longer than usual. The corners of your mouth stayed lifted as you pried your gaze from his and released his hand, turning back to the path. You took a couple steps away before looking back over your shoulder at him, your smile ever-present.

"Let us go home, shall we?" You asked.

He shoved his nerves down as far as they'd go, steeling himself in preparation for your secret, and nodded once.

"Yes, your grace." He stepped away from the pond to follow you to the waiting carriage.

He knew the time would come when you'd find a proper suitor, he couldn't expect you to stay unwed forever.

He just didn't expect it to hurt as much as it did.

952 notes View Post

star-reaper

3 weeks ago

Ruined ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.

Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.

Word count: ~4k

Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore.

masterlist.

"Quiet, Bob."

The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.

It had been a long, brutal week.

Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?

You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.

Like a fucking boy band.

You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.

"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."

Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.

Valentina didn’t stop there.

“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”

It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.

Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.

Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.

Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.

Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."

Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.

And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.

You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.

"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"

You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.

Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.

So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.

And now—

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”

“I could’ve snapped.” He laughed, breathless, voice fraying. “I nearly did.”

He didn't even make it to the bench.

By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.

You thanked God for wearing a dress.

He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.

He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.

Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.

Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.

“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”

You clapped your hand over his mouth.

“Quiet, Bob.”

He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.

You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.

Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.

Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.

“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"

You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.

“You like being under me like this?”

He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.

“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”

You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”

He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.

“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”

“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”

You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.

“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."

He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.

And just when he was seconds away from breaking—

Hiss. The door slid open.

“Oh my fucking god.”

Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.

You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.

Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”

Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.

Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”

“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.

“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”

“Yelena! GET OUT!”

“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”

Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.

“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”

Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.

“Bob—?”

His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.

“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”

Your breath hitched.

“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”

His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.

“You think I’m gonna ask again?”

You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

“Bob—”

“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”

He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.

“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”

You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.

“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”

You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.

And he loved it.

He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.

He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.

“Now tell me who’s fucking ruined.”

Tags

fic recs marvel mcu marvel fanfic bob reynolds bob reynolds x reader robert reynolds x reader bob reynolds fluff bob reynolds x you robert reynolds x you bob reynolds x y/n bob reynolds x fem!reader bob reynolds imagines bob reynolds smut

2K notes View Post

star-reaper

1 year ago

this is so sweet i just might burst

healing

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 5,445

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

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

————

November 1985

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey. Glad your test is over?”

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

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

“You have work today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Besides what?”

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

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

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

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

“You know what.”

“I want you to go.”

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

————

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

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

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

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

You and Billy.

You and Billy Hargrove.

Sharing a room.

Sharing a bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think you’ve got cooties.”

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

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

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

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

“No, I don’t think it’ll be weird.”

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

Billy whines. “Uh uh. Nope.”

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

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

“Really?”

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

“Yeah, baby.”

Baby.

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

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

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

“Mhm. Thought so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————

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

“Right hand blue.”

“You’re kidding right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something funny over there?” Steve questions.

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

His brow furrows. “Mr. Fantastic?”

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mere then.”

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

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

“Billy.”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

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

It’s just me.

“Do they hurt at all?”

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Billy.”

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

“Goodnight, baby.”

————

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep okay?” she asks.

“Mhm. You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god.”

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

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

“Or lack thereof,” Robin says.

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

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

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

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

————

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

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

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

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

“Whatcha doin’?”

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

“That sounds nice.”

“Mhm.”

“I can go back inside, if you want.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“I understand, Billy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You motherfucker!”

You get him back, and he’s laughing.

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

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

“Billy!”

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

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

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

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

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Billy Hargrove.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m in love with you, you know.”

“I know,” you respond.

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

“I’m in love with you too, Billy.”

“Damn right you are.”

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

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

“So much for that,” Billy says.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

————

“I’m regretting this, Billy.”

“Stop whining.”

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

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Get off, please.”

“Make me.”

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

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

And you’d do it again.

“Didn’t work, did it?”

“No. Shut up and take it.”

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

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

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

He’s never had this before.

Hell, you’ve never had this before.

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

You’re healing him. You.

————

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

Tags

stranger things billy hargrove x reader billy hargrove billy hargrove x you billy hargrove imagine billy hargrove comfort

5K notes View Post

star-reaper

1 year ago

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

Tags

fic recs john egan x reader bucky egan x reader mota fanfic masters of the air fanfiction john egan fic

654 notes View Post

star-reaper

1 year ago

Look, if people are right and this is the hair for bucky in thunderbolts, just know panties will drop cause this with the METAL ARM?