#it almost certainly will do that on its own; i want to be joyful right now

[salemoleander]

I don't know how it felt when Third Life started, but I like to imagine Secret Life feels a little like those first few sessions.

Not that we can ever get back to that naiveté! BUT. Idk if it's the silliness of the tasks or the generous game-ified rewards or Gem & Mumbo & Lizzie but it all just feels so new.

This is the first Life Series where they could actually defeat the Ender Dragon. Beat the game. Leaving aside any meta or lore or whatever- consider how special is it that they can win the original battle, the core goal of Minecraft, together.

This world is gentle - I know it lacks regen, but is it so terrible to be cautious? To have time and reason to go slow?

Food is abundant. Plentiful passive mobs, and a way via spawn eggs to get more. There are berries and pumpkins, and cherry and dark oak and mangrove trees, not generated but kindly placed. A mesa and a jungle and a savannah and a plains and a jungle - so many biomes to choose from.

The tasks so far are silly, kind - puns, pranks, nicknames. Building homes near each other. Poetry. Trust falls. What does it say that the worst task is simply to dig a hole?

They can gift hearts for free! And 30 hearts a person! A creeper blew up right behind Scar, and this time he lived. They are all so strong here.

With a way of getting more health, and the barrier to death so high... I'm sure the CCs have their plans, but per the world we know right now: no one has to die. There's an impossible, wonderful sense that this time could be different.

#if you're looking for some dramatic angsty postscript like 'it wont be' you wont find it here #what if we let the joy seep in. what if we didn't turn it to angst right now #it almost certainly will do that on its own; i want to be joyful right now #secret life #slsmp #secret life smp #life series #trafficblr #salem tag #salem meta

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Anniversary (2) Masterlist

part one

19 october (my heartbeat matches yours) (ao3) - natigail

Summary: First touches and moments.

It’s the same ten years later.

Well, almost.

A Conversation in Multiple Hallways (ao3) - Fictropes

Summary: You're still here then?

A Day In The Life of Married Dan And Phil (ao3) - umathurmanjustwatchedmehavesex

Summary: It's Autumn 2018 and, after having both come out soon after they tied the knot, Phil uploads a Day In The Life of them celebrating their first anniversary.

all the memories i hold dear (ao3) - Ablissa

Summary: "It's not really our anniversary, though," Dan reasons against his own will.

"It's one of our anniversaries," Phil argues.

Dan snorts. "Yeah, one of like, ten."

"Four," Phil corrects him, fondness seeping from his voice.--

Nine years after meeting Phil for the first time, Dan thinks it's alright that they'll be spending October 19th apart.

But is it really?

Alone ;) Together (ao3) - DavineNaughter

Anniversary (ao3) - dils_whisk

Summary: Dan and Phil spend their anniversary in a cabin by the fire and talk about how much they love each other.

Breakup and Makeups - dxnhowell

Summary: Phil broke up with Dan because he thinks Dan could do so much better than him. A few months afterwards, on their four year anniversary, Phil realizes what a big mistake he's made and wants Dan back. They finally talk things out when Phil discovers Dan drinking.

Fall...The Colors Leave Me Breathless (ao3) - glitterhowell

Summary: It's their seven-year anniversary and pastel Dan is nervous about letting his punk boyfriend Phil plan their anniversary date. But when Phil is able to surprise his boyfriend with the perfect date Dan didn't think it could get any better. There's no way this day could be more perfect, could it?

Happy Anniversary, Phil (ao3) - KostraKitty

Summary: It's Dan and Phil's anniversary, and Dan wants to do something special for Phil, and what is more special to Phil than a dog? Nothing.

So Dan sets out on a quest to get Phil a dog in the middle of a snow storm and things don't really go as planned.

I see sunshine (‘cause I know that you’re mine) (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Dan and Phil celebrate ten years together.

Love In All Its Purity - summerohnine

Summary: dan and phil celebrate their ninth anniversary.

nine years of love (ao3) - natigail Summary: There are a hundred ways to say I love you and a dozen of word for love. It might not even require words. Actions can speak louder than words, so every little touch, every shared glance, every joyful laugh, every tear shed and every seemingly normal moment.

It should be the most fun you’ve ever had and for two boys it had been exactly that. Nine years of love. Shared struggles and successes. They had shared ten 19th of October in each other’s company with no sight of stopping yet.

No Terms But Our Own (ao3) - JudeAraya

Summary: Phil had written the words into Dan’s skin with kisses and Dan had pressed the promises into the pages of a journal. They’d spent five years fighting for the privilege of the trip of their dreams, on no one else's terms but their own.

Five years ago, Phil surprised Dan with the trip of their dreams. A trip that had been amazing, yes. Still, they always dreamed of doing it again, when things would be different.

Dan would give Phil the world, but right now, he reckons, Japan, they way they want to do it, is a good start.

Not just any anniversary (ao3) - f1agus

Summary: It’s October 19th, 2019. Dan and Phil’s tenth anniversary.

When Phil announces he has to go up north to visit his dad, Dan most certainly doesn’t expect the day to turn out the way it did.

Or, where Phil surprises Dan for a full day :)

the moon to the tide (ao3) - twoheadlights (fizzfic)

Summary: it's their seventh anniversary and dan has plans.

The Sixteenth of April (ao3) - thesassykels66

Summary: Why does the month of April always seem so significant to Dan and Phil? Simple, it is when they celebrate their anniversary.

This Thing Called Love (ao3) - RyRyCaptain

waking up in your arms with my mind on you and me (ao3) - natigail

Summary: On October 19th 2021, Phil wakes up first. Twelve years ago he woke up way too early, nervous for their first meeting and now they are waking up in their shared bed in their forever home. Phil allows himself to be a little sappy but it's okay because Dan easily joins him.

We’ve Come So Far Together - cactiphan

Summary: 9 years after PINOF 1, Dan buys Phil a special gift to remember their journey so far.

#phanfictioncatalogue #phanfiction #phanfic #phan #dan and phil #masterlists #anniversary masterlist #anniversary

[splathousefiction]

Joyful Stick: Scarlet Maiden And The Power Of Homage

Good day my lovely Deviants. Welcome back to Joyful Stick, our video game review/editorial series. Miss the last entry? You can catch it here. Today, we’re going to be talking about Scarlet Maiden by Otterside Games-and how celebrating pedigree isn’t a bad thing. 

Metroid, Castlevania And Their Long Legacies

The original Metroid and Castlevania premiered on the Famicom in 1986 and 1987 respectively. Close to forty years have passed since then and both IPs have secured their foundation at the base of the industry. You can see traits of them in countless imitators over the last four decades. This has been so prevalent that it’s created an entire sub-genre: Metroidvanias. 

But all of you know that already. Regardless of how terminally online you are, you’ve likely played a title that borrowed heavily from both of these titles at some point. Perhaps you were even lucky enough to have gotten the opportunity to play that metroid fan game that came out before Nintendo stomped it (hey, go fuck yourself for that one, Kotaku). What’s really wild in the current era is seeing imitators of the imitations-is it still a metroidvania if it’s an incredibly similar take on an already existing metroidvania title? Can we even call it a metroidvania at that point? Or has the genre itself advanced enough from the past for us to shake such terminology?

The idea hadn’t occurred to me until I’d picked up Scarlet Maiden, a raunchy pixel platform combat game. If you’re wondering if you should buy it, I’d say that question is limited only to “do you enjoy this genre”. I most certainly do, and at a $20 price tag I’d say the game is well worth it. Pick your 8Bitdo controller of choice and have at it. As I’m innately biased, this review isn’t going to focus on that. Rather, I want to talk about a feeling I couldn’t shake as I slung spells and struck enemies down.

It plays a lot like Dead Cells. 

Like, it’s almost literally Dead Cells with tiddies.  

I’d know, as I spent nearly 80 hours in DC beating the title over and over, going through the challenge modes and unlocking everything. I still love the game and there’s a non-zero chance I’ll boot it up when I’m done writing this. 

As DC itself proudly wears its pedigree out in the open, that makes me question what Scarlet Maiden itself actually is. Is it a homage? If so, to what? If it’s only a metroidvania, then why does it borrow so liberally from an older title? I want to make it clear, I don’t think this is a bad thing by a country mile. SM is quite good, and I had a wonderful time with the tens of hours I spent playing it. 

But when does an imitation cease to be an imitation, and become its own thing? 

Diverging Paths On The Same Road

Both Dead Cells and Scarlet Maiden feature extremely similar combat, with randomized rooms filled with enemies. They both also feature progressive gear/ability unlocks via resource purchasing. Both (in game) feel kinetically similar-move fast or die. Time your jumps. Bash your head against the boss until your stats are high enough or you get the right gear to do so. Where the titles differ is through minute design choices that lead to drastically different play styles. 

Your experience in each run of Dead Cells is highly dependent upon the choices you make with gear, how you level up your three respective ability classes in play and your own IRL reflexes. The game is fast, and while not especially punishing, a few poorly timed choices can kill you quick. You can ease your progression based on which mutations you choose to focus on or unlock first. However, any health bonuses, gear or more is reset through each run. Progression is made by being forced to spend every single cell you have as you make your way through levels. This way, you’re constantly making progress regardless of how well your run goes. Each run feels unique from the last, though it can lead to frustrations at absolute dog water runs. 

Scarlet Maiden has a concurrent leveling system, meaning that you don’t lose any “sins” (this title's version of DC’s cells) regardless of how bad your playthrough is. You can choose to spend your sins in a variety of ways: an ongoing leveling tree, the blacksmith shop that gives you gear and more. You also get sins for slaying every enemy, with stat boosts that profoundly expand your sin gathering ability. If you’re paying attention and have some luck, it’s very easy to power level your Maiden in an afternoon and make the game significantly easier. 

While both games play almost identically (and are priced identically), this one design choice leads to radically different vibes during play. Dead cells feels manic and quick, with a determined amount of stakes in each run. Scarlet Maiden is much more fluffy and bouncy, with less “unfair” moments. If you die, you just bounce back. 

Aesthetically both titles are also very obviously different. Dead Cells has a high-speed violence focus, with 16 bit blood and gore frequently splashed by the bucketload on screen. Scarlet Maiden has no gore whatsoever, and instead enemies simply disappear in a puff of smoke. 

Oh, and the adult content. Dead Cells features our mutant experiment protag kicking open chests, arguing with NPCs and reading graffiti carved into rock to reveal the story of their imprisonment. Scarlet Maiden instead features our protagonist drinking from giant breasts, sucking dick, getting fucked and fisting stat-bonus granting NPCs throughout. It’s all done in a very fluffy, fun and less grotesque way than you’d find in many adult titles. I’d say it’s akin to Lucy’s Got Problems in terms of cheek.

As Dead Cells came out in 2017 and was applauded as an indy success, that brings the question of where Scarlet Maiden got its inspiration from. Was it DC, or those original progenitors of the sub-genre?

Does it ultimately matter either way? 

Yes and no, I think. 

A Homage, A Copycat

A homage by definition is “a special honor or respect shown publicly”. In media, more often than not this materializes as a dialogue line, a scene shot similarly or some such. In horror films, it’s not uncommon to see cinematography compositions that harken back to 1970s Italian cinema. In the hiphop and rap tracks I myself enjoy, I’ve now been around long enough to see new artists sample songs that were “new” when I was a youth-which themselves were sampling motown and older songs. All done with respect that borders on open admiration. Hell, sometimes the creators getting a homage are even mentioned in the credits. 

Scarlet Maiden does no such thing with Dead Cells, and I don’t think it has a responsibility to do so. Frankly, I don’t think any title is under any responsibility to do so. Which is another key difference between the two-as Dead Cells is packed full of homages to other titles. 

In DC, you can get Gordon’s crowbar from Half Life and his suit. You can get the needle used in Hollow Night. There’s a pistol and katana that look awfully like the equipment used in Katana Zero.  There’s countless others, some overt and some far more subtle. Dead Cells loudly proclaims it’s love for its progenitors, whereas Scarlet Maiden abstains with such from DC. 

Is that problematic? I think if we’re to say that, then instantly so much media would be problematic as well. And that’s fucking stupid. Countless creators, artists, singers, writers and more curtailing at the altar of ideas would inevitably lead to everything feeling like the book of Genesis: And Samus Begat Simon, who begat…

Splathouse itself, especially my storyline audios, would owe the creators of John Constantine, Mike Mignola and Kentaro Miura huge cheques. Love you boys, thank you for everything. 

Homages can be as overt and loving as we want them to be, and are a great way to share the joy certain media brought us. As stated above and elsewhere, “Jack The Magician” wouldn’t exist without Alan Moore’s run in Swamp Thing and the Hellblazer comics. I’m sure to tell folks I stole John’s whole shtick too because I want people to pick these comics up and love them as I did. The design choice Scarlet Maiden very obviously made with its homage wasn’t that, and I feel it’s a stronger (if softer) title for it. It took the principles of play DC laid down and decided to focus on fun rather than stakes. Both titles are a joy, but if I’ve had a rough afternoon-I’m way more likely to boot up SM over DC. 

So. Does that make it a homage, a copycat?

Frankly, I think it’s neither, even if it’s directly copying DC’s style. In the modern creative era, people tend to think there’s either no new ideas/stories/concepts worth telling or that everything is a remix. Personally speaking, I find this line of thinking to be a trap. It enables negative attitudes towards our creative processes and experiences as consumers of art. We’re way less likely to make something at all if we convince ourselves all the good or worthy ideas have already been taken. 

And I can’t suck giant mommy milkers in Dead Cells. 

Be it that it’s a homage or a copy cat, I think Scarlet Maiden is a nice mutation on the formula Dead Cells loudly proclaims to be a part of. It’s a rewarding title full of fun, and I personally believe it is well worth the purchase. Dead Cells itself is also an excellent game, and I think both can be enjoyed for their own (however borrowed) unique play experiences. 

-j

#splathouse #splathousefic #splathousefiction #joyful stick #review #game review #scarlet maiden #dead cells

[electrivolt]

@rockheadcd​ asked : A sweet kiss peppered against his love, once, then twice ( then a few more ), silly sweater and hat and all—a smile so warm and joyful, so excited to see what Volkner will think of his gift, a couple of identically packaged goods—charcoal and a swatch of textured paper fit to hold onto the dust, then his silly gag gift, and finally, something he's spent all month trying to dig up and clean and polish: a pristine-looking electirizer, likely more fit to entertain Electivire more than Volkner, but, he'd never really used one, as far as he knew.

Coming off the joy of Volkner's month-long secret ploy of getting him fun things ( as he made no hesitation to put on the comfy dinosaur slippers ), keeping his mouth shut about the damn mug, and thrilled to torment their spice tolerance—well, Roark had to remember not to toss everything in his hands. "Of course, I got something for you, too—I love you more, ehe."

Perhaps he should’ve known better than to expect Roark to take his ‘I don’t need anything other than having you here, really’ to heart, not when he was nothing but dedicated to loving him and showing him all the care he’s missed for years upon years. And even when he truly meant that, already happy just getting to share such a special, quiet night together and as loving as they could be, surrounded by their odd family of ‘mons and the warmth everyone in it could bring... Volkner can’t deny how light and even warmer his poor little heart feels as he sees him bring back a surprise of his own, just for him.

Ah, he’s... he’s really not used to this sort of care, to the little gifts with so much thought and care put into it and wanting nothing more than his genuine smile in return. He almost doesn’t know what to do for a moment, either, taken aback as he is before he snaps himself out of it. It’s too happy of a night to sully it with thoughts he hadn’t even started to linger on for the day yet.

( he really doesn’t know how he’s this lucky, to have his own sun shining on his life like this. )

“You have no idea how much I love you—” before getting to the newfound joy of ripping up colorful paper, he needs to take this moment, arms around his love’s neck and holding him so tightly, a kiss offered so eagerly. It all lingers for a moment more before he finally pulls back, reminding himself he should look at what, exactly, Roark put so much thought into finding for him.

And finally, gift wrapping comes off, held breath as he lightly runs a finger over textured paper, so tempted to unwrap the charcoal so perfectly paired with it and only holding himself back in an effort to avoid getting dust all over. He’s careful as he puts bound paper and charcoal aside, moving onto the next gift to unwrap— not really managing to hold back a huff and a chuckle when the silly design on the mug catches him off guard like that. “Bastard...” A mutter as good natured as it can be. Maybe he should’ve thought of it before and find a matching one for his idiot, right? And the last one already has his mind spinning with thoughts, ideas and stupidly obscure knowledge he’s held onto alike, much more careful as he puts the electirizer aside and yet every bit as excited as he was with the previous two. ( he could certainly tweak it a bit, knowing electivire doesn’t need it, exactly. maybe turn it into some sort of portable battery with its capacity to hold electricity, or something that could help his dear ‘mons when electricity was too much to hold onto, maybe both, even, or— not the right time to think about it, right, and yet. )

Well, now that he’s done with the unwrapping, he can go right back to showering his love in every bit of adoration he had in him, smile so bright his cheeks might hurt if he keeps it up, almost jumping when he goes to hug so quickly, so tightly and not about to let go any time soon. Roark picked this, now he has to live with the consequences of overwhelming love and adoration being allowed to be shown so openly. 

“You have no idea how much I love you.” How lucky is he, really? To be allowed all of this, to know it’s not a dream and it’s not going to end, the one thing that can never be taken away from him... it’s overwhelming, knowing how happy he can really be now.

He’s not going to let go, not any time soon. Roark needs to know just how much he’s wanted and needed, doesn’t he?

#〔 ask . 〕 ϟ i will not fall ; i will not fade ; i will take your breath away . #〔 ic . 〕 ϟ i will shut the world away . #q. #rockheadcd #// shhhh don't mind the chrimmy ask being over a month late ITS FINE ITS FINEEEEEE

[benson11benson]

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[arcane-apathy]

Chapter 4

Prologue | Previous | Next 

AN: The long awaited fourth chapter is finally here! Thank y’all for your patience and support. And I hope y’all will enjoy! 

Warning(s): None

  You don’t remember falling asleep or how long it took, but you certainly remember how you woke up. The first thing you registered was the feeling of someone trying to pull Mazna out of your hold. Instincts took a hold of you and you fought back. “Odmili calm down,” while you couldn’t see him you could tell it was Kurakh. The candle had gone out on its own and there was no sign of daylight outside. 

  Once you realize who it was, you immediately calm down, “don’t scare me like that.” You glance down at Mazna who was still fast asleep. 

  “I was just going to move him back to his bed, you seemed a little cramped against the side of the tent.” 

  “I was fine,” you lay back down, taking Mazna with you. “You can move him if you don’t have enough room.” 

  “I’ll be fine,” he chuckles and lays down beside you. You could faintly smell the alcohol on his breath. 

  “So that’s where you went.” 

  “What?” 

  “I can smell the ale.” 

  “I originally went to check on you, but everyone was already gathered around… It’s rude to refuse a drink. Especially when an elder offers.” 

  “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself while I worked,” you huff as you adjust your arm underneath Mazna’s head. Kurakh moves around beside you before settling onto his back. With one arm he moves Mazna so the boy is laying in between the two of you. 

  “You should sleep Odmili, you did well today.” 

  “I will… Once my heart calms down after the scare you just gave me.”  

    “You guard him like he was your own… Did he really call you mother today?” 

  “Roldza told you?” 

  “Ja,” he laughs softly, “she said you looked like you saw a ghost.” 

  “I’m not his mother, I don’t want him thinking that,” you sigh. “I’m not even the same race as him.” 

  “Well you must be doing something right,” you could basically hear the smirk on Kurakh’s face. You roll your eyes and try to relax again. Closing your eyes you choose to focus on Mazna’s breathing, hoping it would help lull you to sleep. Yet you were too hyper-aware of Kurakh’s presence. His breathing was louder, his presence was commanding, and the entire bedroll smelt like him as well. 

  Like the night before, your sleep was restless. It seems you have slept later than the day before. Kurakh and Mazna were already out of the tent, possibly to relieve themselves. Or maybe Kurakh just let you sleep in. But, you would have to get up to find out. Within a blink of an eye you are dressed and your hair is braided. Once you step out of the tent you realize it wasn’t as late as you thought. The sun was just barely peeking over the hills, and a few people were awake and moving about the camp. 

  You look around, feeling almost like a lost child. All the tents were similar in size, color, and they were set up in a nonsensical way. Well, nonsensical to you. While you waited for Kurakh and Mazna to hopefully return, you tended to your wound. Your tools were in a box resting beside a log. Seemingly set there for you to easily find. And you smile at Kurakh’s thoughtfulness. By the time you have freshly wrapped your leg, a joyful voice calls out to you, “Nian!” 

  Mazna barrels toward you, still in his little loincloth, and way too happy for this early in the morning. You couldn’t help but laugh as he clings to you right away, climbing up the log and onto your lap. Earning a wince from you as he put pressure on your bad leg. You scold him in your broken Orcish as Kurakh approaches. “I have a feeling he won’t be as sweet as lamb today.” 

  You look up at Kurakh, completely negating his barren chest, “what makes you say that?” 

  “You saw how he ran towards you,” he chuckles and ducks back into the tent. Leaving you with the squirming boy, who was dead-set on tugging on the few stray hairs that peeked out from beneath your cap. Kurakh returns with clothes and hands you a small tunic, “have fun wrestling him into that.” 

  You take the tunic with a determined smirk, “I will, thank you.” The older Orc rolls his eyes as he pulls his own shirt over his head, one of woven threads instead of buckskin. You quickly look away as he moves to change his pants. Focusing on the little rascal in your lap. With a sweet tone and a smile, you were able to coax the boy into the tunic. Quicker than Kurakh expected, even you were surprised with the outcome. 

  “I will take you to Roldza’s, she can take Mazna while you check on your patient,” Kurakh adjusts his belt as he talks. “After that, I would like your help with the council. I feel you have some information that isn’t on our map.” 

  “I’m not from around here, but I can try,” you sigh and set the boy on the ground so you could stand. The breeze began to pick up and you sighed even heavier, “there will be rain by nightfall. And I have a feeling the first frost will be in a few weeks. Yet you want to go north.” You couldn’t help but chuckle, “you’re going to need thicker shirts soon.” 

  The older Orc rolls his eyes as he picks up your supplies and motions you to follow him, “come on, it’ll be a busy day.” Mazna holds onto your skirt as you walk through the aisles of tents. Roldza and Vela were already outside, preparing dough for the bread. Kurakh greets them in Orcish, seemingly telling them his plan. He glances at you before handing you your bag of supplies, "I'll see you in a few hours." 

  "Alright," you watch him leave out of the corner of your eye. Mazna pulling on your skirt to get you closer to the fire. With a chuckle you follow his lead and watch as he sits beside Roldza. 

  She smiles up at you, “you have a patient to see. A boy right?” 

  “Yes,” you glance at Vela while she cleans off her hands and goes into the tent.

  Roldza chuckles, “Vela hasn’t shut up about it.” She drops the flattened dough into the oil, “she’s excited.” 

  “She wants to learn midwifery.” 

  “I figured. She’s never really enjoyed the handcrafts.” The two of you look up as Vela steps out of the tent with a clean apron. Roldza smirks and motions for Mazna to come to her, “you two have fun.” Vela smiles widely and takes you by the hand as you weave through the tents. 

  “So what are we checking for today,” Vela glances at you while you pass through a small crowd of children. 

  “I need to check his heartbeat, his breathing, his temperature, see how he's eating, and respond to our poking and prodding,” you smile at her, “and I’ll show you how to do it all.” 

  “How often should we check on him?” 

  “Depends on how today goes,” you sigh as you stop outside of the familiar tent. The grandmother knelt beside the fire stirring a small pot of what looked like beans in a sauce. Vela smiles and greets the grandmother and you do the same, “dov moran.” 

  “Dov moran, have you girls eaten yet,” the older orc asks in a motherly tone. 

  “We will once we’ve looked them over, I need to put my mind at ease before I can think about food,” you smile weakly. The older orc nods then motions for you to go inside. You follow behind Vela, a hopeful smile on your face. Enna was awake and propped up by some pillows, her babe asleep on her chest. Vela makes brief small talk with Enna’s mother whilst you kneel beside Enna on the ground. 

  Luckily Enna’s face was still the same color it was the night before, she was alert, and her eyes looked normal. With your broken Orcish, you ask how she’s feeling and you receive the usual complaint of soreness. Vela kneels beside you as you pull things from your bag. Starting with the wooden horn and tiny sand-timer, you teach her how to listen to the heart and his breathing and how many there should be. And Vela follows along closely, soaking up everything like a sponge. 

  “The main concern with early babies is their weight and keeping them warm. Especially since winter is approaching,” you tell Vela as you give the young boy a final look over. Vela also translates this to Enna and her mother. “Other than the fact that he’s early, he’s healthy. But his health may rapidly decline too. Because of that, I would like to come back tomorrow. Early babies are always finicky.” 

  You could feel a breeze on your back as the tent flap is opened, Enna’s grandmother entering the tent with a plate of scrambled eggs and a sausage of some kind. Handing everyone a skillet bread, you being the last to receive. “Eat,” the old Orcish woman commands as she hands you a piece of bread. Not wanting to get on her bad side, you put your tools down and nod. 

  Vela uses a wooden scoop to put some eggs on your bread, following it up with some sausage. “The easiest way to eat it is to fold it around the food inside the Freronbrod,” she pinches the bread and holds it sideways. You do your best to follow along, mostly worried about any of the food falling onto the dirt floor. 

  “How are you feeling khilarn,” the grandmother watches as you eat. 

  “I am well, minus the leg injury,” you glance at your bad leg. 

  “Warg I presume?” 

  “Yes,” you answer between bites. 

  “They tend to leave pretty nasty wounds, even the pups. It will be sore for the rest of the winter I’m afraid.” 

  “I had a feeling,” you finish your food and watch the grandmother curiously. “I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced myself,” you give her your name with a smile. 

  “I’m Ula.”

  “May I ask how you learned the common tongue?” 

  The shine in Ula’s eyes briefly fades, “I was stolen away from my horde when I was a young woman, and made a slave in Qepta. Luckily I only worked in fields.” 

  “Oh… I am so sorry to hear that. I nearly forgot that not all kingdoms have banished slavery.” 

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, young one, you haven’t committed the sin.” 

  “Still, it truly is such an awful thing to hear.” 

  “Luckily, my story has a happy ending,” she chuckles as she starts to tidy up once everyone has finished eating. “I was like you once, an Odmi. This horde was led by Kurakh’s grandfather at the time. He raided the town and saved me, treating me like a long lost daughter.” 

  “I suppose in the right circumstances being an Odmi is beneficial.” Ula doesn’t respond, she probably caught the waver in your voice. She simply smiles in a motherly fashion and excuses herself to clean. Soon afterwards you and Vela also excuse yourselves, promising to visit tomorrow. Luckily the sun has fully risen, and the two of you are showered with warm sunlight as Vela leads you to the council’s tent. 

  She gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before taking your equipment, “I’ll see you later.” 

  “Right,” with a sigh you approach the tent warily. A few of the council members notice your arrival and glance at you curiously. Much like yesterday they are gathered around a map. Debating over a strategy of some kind. A small log is set aside for you behind Kurakh at the head of the makeshift table. You walk around the group, trying not to cause a scene. But Kurakh has other plans. 

  “Odmi, just in time. Come here,” he motions you to his side. Again you couldn’t help but feel tiny beside him. His mossy finger pointing to the map, “we found this in your Lieutenant’s tent. A map of this current area… But we don’t understand these Vorren words.” 

  “Esodnaia Osvalt, Southernly State,” you point to the grey area of the map. “This is the Kingdom of Vilk. Which you crossed through to get here.” Then you point to the other colored sections of the map, “and these are the neighboring states. Evor has twenty states, this only shows the four that are the most south-eastern.” 

  “And you said you wouldn’t be much help.” 

  You roll your eyes, “where do you want to go?” 

  “All we know is north, and we want to keep away from forts and large cities.” 

  “Alright,” you stare at the map raking your brain for ideas. The calligraphy seemingly taunts you. For some reason the state of Vorroustaia was calling to you, “we should just go directly north. I think most of this land is just grassland. Plus the further we keep from the capital and major cities, the less resistance from the King’s Army.” 

  You watch as Kurakh translates your idea to the council, the majority of them seem indifferent. “We will go with your plan. At least to start.” Kurakh smiles and gently rests his hand on the small of your back. Heat quickly rushes to your face, and much to your dismay the council could see it. You keep your eyes down and step away from him as they chuckle. 

  Thankfully, the council meeting swiftly came to an end. Everyone leaves to do their assigned tasks. Kurakh walks you back to Roldza’s tent, “a couple men and I will be going to check our traps. Hopefully we’ll get more food and fur for the winter.” 

  “Good luck,” you watch as he walks away. 

  “So… How was the council meeting,” Roldza pokes her head out of the tent, motioning you inside. 

  “It was fine,” you step into the warmth. Smiling at the sight of Mazna and Roldza’s youngest napping on one of the bedrolls.  “How was your day so far?” 

  Roldza motions to the jars in front of her, “I’ve been boiling these jars, now I have to wash these berries… Gryzde is the Orkisch word for them.” 

  “They’re called currant’s in the common tongue, but in Vorren they’re called meruk.” 

  “Interesting,” she looks at them then points to behind you. “Can you hand me a couple bowls from behind you?” 

  You twist at the waist to grab some of the wooden bowls, “are you planning to make jam with them, or just canning them as is?” 

  “Just canning,” she begins to separate some of the already boiled water into separate bowls. Using one to clean the berries, and the other staying off to the side. 

  “Any reason you aren’t doing this outside?” 

  “The tent will smell like berries for a couple days.” 

  You laugh and kneel beside her, “sounds like a good idea to me.” Whilst trying not to be in her way, you attempt to help Roldza as best as you can. Washing the berries and putting them in bowls. Once all the berries were clean, you left the tent to dump out the dirty water. Your injured leg was begging you to stop moving already. You take a few steps away from the tent before dumping out the water. 

  The sun was high above you, keeping you warm once out of the shadows. The air was crisp, a gentle breeze pushing in grey clouds like you’d expected. And you could hear people talking and children playing amongst the tent around you. Despite everything, this was the closest thing you’ve had to inner peace. The sounds and smells of the capital city were long gone. You no longer had the older Maids breathing down your neck and scrutinizing your entire being. Nor were you following a battalion to their deaths. 

  “Oi, khilarn,” a gruff feminine voice shocks you from your daze. An Orcish woman from the council approaches you. Her skin is a mix of yellow and green and her clothes are more akin to armor. “Bi kaat os doz?”

  You blink and gawk at her, “Ikh… Ikh ar schol… Ond doz?” 

  “Schol,” she smirks and looks you up and down. “Are you settling in okay?” 

  “I’ve been in worse places if that’s what you’re asking.” 

  She laughs and claps a hand onto your shoulder, “it’s not. But I’m glad to hear the glowing review. I’m Galta, daughter of Ghun Olk.” You give your name in return, still staring at her in blatant confusion. “If you are free tonight, I would like to invite you to drink with my friends and I.” 

  “I don’t really drink,” you glance back at Roldza’s tent nervously. Praying to whichever deity would listen that Roldza would come to fetch you. 

  “Scared you can’t handle Orkisch ale?” 

  “Maids of Eia are encouraged not to drink, as we never knew when we’ll be called upon.” 

  “Oh... well… At least join us for dinner,” she smiles hopefully. Roldza calls your name from the tent, stepping out with a concerned look on her face. “Think about it, I’ll stop by later.” 

  “Right,” you watch as she walks away. 

  Roldza approaches you with a frown, “what did she say? Do I have to fight her?” 

  “No… She invited me to dinner with her friends…” 

  “Oh… What’d you say?” 

  “I said I didn’t know. I’m mostly concerned if Kurakh will be mad since I didn’t ask for his permission.” 

  Roldza chuckles and walks back to the tent, “I say you should just go. Have fun, drink a little, make friends. You’re not a prisoner.” 

  “Right… I’m a prize.”

#m orc x f reader #tpow series #orc x reader #my work #fantasy #the prize of war #exophilia

[ssson-of-sparda]

Fathers Do Cry (DMC Vergil one shot)

Summary: Vergil remembers his last Father's Day with Sparda and doesn't really realise how similar to him he has become.

Tags: Father's Day special / DADGIL! / Vergil acting like a dad to Nero

Author’s note: I woke up this morning suddenly inspired. Doesn't happen very often so enjoy ;) ps: I just love Dadgil!

***

His big blue eyes staring without blinking, the child was observing his father sitting by the fireplace in the parlour. Full of admiration, he was detailing all the features of his serious face, all the details of his confident posture and all the different luxurious fabrics that made his purple finery and as he did, he repeated to himself, wished, prayed, that someday, one day, he would grow up to be just like him.          “Aren’t you going to speak, Vergil?” The father’s powerful voice asked as he finally acknowledged the boy’s presence with a small amused smile, wondering what brilliant thoughts were occupying his eldest son’s sharp mind this time.            “I made this for you, father.” With a solemnity that didn’t suit a five-years-old but that somehow fitted Vergil’s young yet wise spirit and his will to be perfect son in the eyes of Sparda, the boy handed a paper sheet to his father.         “ And what would that be?” The man said as he took his son’s gift. “It’s father’s day so … I made you a poem… or tried to.” The adorable embarrassment tensing the child’s traits in funny grimaces made the father's smile wider but Vergil, suddenly too preoccupied with the blue paint stuck under his fingernails, didn’t notice it as he didn’t notice the paternal pride and the love shining in his eyes.               “I thought your mother wanted you and your brother to make a gift together this year.” “ You know Dante” Vergil sighed. “He has no artistic talent whatsoever. He wanted to make you a wooden sword to play with us.”    “ That’s actually a very good idea.”  Vergil frowned; suddenly worried that Sparda would not like his gift and preferred Dante’s – if he had made one of course. “Except when the sword looks like two twigs glued together. You should have seen this, father. It looked ri.di.cu.lous.” Sparda laughed at his son’s attitude, finding amusement in this sibling rivalry. “Why don’t you read me your poem then?”              “ I learnt it by heart actually. The paper is for you to remember this day by … and also because I wanted to illustrate it. Look.” Vergil approached his father, seized the poem from his big hands and climbed on his lap to show him the delicate aquarelle he had painted around the lines. “Impressive. Did your mother help you with this?” Vergil shook his head. “No, I did it on my own. I used a book I saw in that old man’s house I often go to as a reference.”       “ The old academic that lives down the hill? I thought you found him boring.” Vergil shook his head again, furiously this time and with a serious frown. “That’s Dante. Me, I really like him. He teaches me a lot of things. And he has lots of books. It’s incredible.”

Sparda ruffled his son’s silver hair whose hairdo was always made in order to somehow mimic his, thinking what a promising young boy Vergil was. Maybe more promising than Dante to be honest – though he knew he shouldn’t think that.   But there was something that Vergil had that Dante lacked. Perhaps rationality beyond his age … or some kind of maturity … wisdom maybe? He couldn’t really pinpoint what it was exactly. All he knew is that it was something unique and special, just like his son, something that made Sparda certain that one day his eldest would grow up to be a great man, a man greater than him, a man worthy of the Yamato and capable of handling its burdening power.

“Can I recite my poem now?” Sparda smiled at the sparkle in Vergil’s eyes. “Sure.” The boy quickly took back his previous position in front his father, cleared his throat, put his hands behind his back and stuck out his chest.

Sparda listened to every word, fascinated and amazed by his little one’s talent and profoundly moved by all the love, all the meticulousness and the time he put in each line and in each word. “Oh Vergil. The world is not yet ready for someone like you.” The father said as he let a tear roll down his cheek. “Why are you crying, father?” Vergil worried. “Because fathers cry, my son.”

That day was the last time Vergil truly celebrated Father’s day for a few weeks later he had no father, no one to make poems to, no one to admire by the fireplace. Just a memory that he feared would sooner or later fade but that he would cling to dearly for as long as he could.

“Why don’t we bring flowers to Daddy’s statue in the park today?” Eva asked when Vergil was six, when Vergil was seven, when Vergil was eight only to be welcome by a heavy silence that was no longer hiding brilliant thoughts but a painful sadness. But each time he did as Eva suggested, maybe more for her than for him, maybe because he still loved and admired Sparda even if he had left him, maybe because he thought that his father might see him and smile from wherever he was now, the same way he had smiled when he had read him his poem on his last father’s day.

And that’s certainly why, more than three decades later, he was back in this park, on this very special day with a bouquet of purple peonies he had bought on his way here and a memory that never faded. A memory he could still recite.

"Whether the sun shines or the sky cries,                 Whether the day breaks or the night wakes,       My father always as a rampart stands Protecting my house with his bare hands.

He is strong, he is brave                 And the day he always saves.     A knight in cockroach armor     To scare my terror away."

Vergil scoffed at the lines, at the way they rolled off his tongue, finding them funny and childish and not worthy of a Blake or a Fielding at all unlike what he thought when he wrote them as a child. The over-confidence of youth probably.

“Did you just come up with that?” Vergil turned around to see Nero walking towards him with a smirk. A surprise but not a bad one. “Cause the rhyming sucks a little. I expected more of you.”                “ And I suppose you’re an expert in poetry now?”         “ I may read have read one of your books.” He said as he tapped the pocket of his marine blue coat hiding Vergil's most sacred book with pride. “You still have it I see.”     “Hey! It’s a real page turner! Can’t get my nose out of it.” Vergil had a crooked smile, understanding perfectly what his son meant.

Son? Even a year after this reveal he still couldn’t believe this boy before him, the one he had lived such a terrifying yet incredible adventure with, was his own flesh and blood.

A sigh almost escaped Vergil’s lips. How did he make such a fine young man? Someone so selfless, so generous, so loving when he was nothing like that.              “ What are you doing here, Nero?” He asked, trying not to think more about this.      “ Well it’s father’s day, no? So … I made you something… or tried to.” The embarrassed grimace Nero suddenly made made Vergil’s smile grew larger but Nero, too worried to keep the gift covered with the pieces of newspapers he had taped together, didn’t see it as he didn’t see the paternal pride and the love shining in his father’s blue eyes. The same paternal pride Sparda had displayed when Vergil was a little child with a small paper in his hands.  “Thank you Nero.” The man said as he gently took the present from his son's hands, wondering what it was even though the long shape didn’t leave much place for imagination.

He cautiously unwrapped the thing, already feeling a happiness he hadn’t felt in years warming his heart. And when he saw a katana-like wooden sword that purposely looked like Yamato he couldn’t help but smile and let a tiny drop of water blur his blue eyes. “It was Dante’s idea. Though he might have suggested gluing two sticks together.” Nero said as he scratched his head. “It looks amazing.” Vergil’s honesty was like a knife in Nero’s chest but in a good way. It was as if all the stress and all the stupid fear he had felt while making this toy sword had been stabbed away. He felt relieved, joyful even that his always so stern father was genuinely grateful and seemed to appreciate his gift. “That way, you won’t have to tear my arm apart again cause look, you have two now.” Nero tried to joke but his words just erased the smile on Vergil’s face.

“There is not a single day I don't regret what I did to you.” This was Vergil’s way to say he was sorry. Nero was certain of it. He didn’t need to know his father that well to know it. After all, he was somewhat the same. “Hey, it’s in the past. Plus it grew back, so no harm done.” He winked, trying to ease the atmosphere with a bad pun worthy of Dante even though there was a time he would have ripped Vergil’s chest open for what he had done. And a part of him knew he would never forget and maybe never fully forgive what happened.               But right now he was just happy to have a family, to have a father and to finally be able to celebrate a day he has so long hated.  “ This world doesn’t deserve you, son.” Vergil solemnly declared. He had never called Nero that way and that name felt strange yet beautiful to both of them. It made the son and the father smile in ways they never thought they would smile at each other. “ Damn, are you crying old man? I thought devils never cry.” Nero suddenly harrumphed when he finally noticed the water growing in his father's eyes.                   “ Well, fathers do cry." Vergil declared as he allowed a tear of joy and pride to fall along his pale cheek. The first in a very very long time but one he will never regret or brush away. "Father do cry.” He repeated with a glance at the statue of his father behind him.

#vergil #devil may cry #devil may cry one shot #dmc one shot #vergil one shot #nero #sparda #fanfiction #dadgil

[viperbarnes]

The Long Last Summer

[B. Barnes] Oneshot

40s Post-War AU

Summary: With Steve off in America again, Bucky finds himself doing his own version of a USO tour through Italy, boosting morale and friendship, or so they tell him. However, a new stationing in the tiny town of Montecarra gives him more reason to want to stay, when he becomes quickly whisked away by wild, carefree and exuberant you.

Warnings: language, smut, mentions of the war, awful awful Italian probably. The reader has a name, but it's still written as a reader insert.

Note: The reader/character in this fic is a black woman. This fic was originally uploaded elsewhere, so if you're a part of the small audience who read it originally please don't panic, it isn't stolen lol. The story is almost entirely spoken in Italian, but doing italics for every conversation was annoying, so just assume that unless otherwise stated! Thank you for reading!

Words: 19.5k [This is very long.... Sorry...]

The hot Italian sun beats down on the town below, the occasional breeze carried overland from the nearby ocean to the west might have been a blessing if that too weren’t humid and warm. Bucky Barnes thinks it should be a sin for it to be so hot so early in the morning, but he’s long past complaining about it. Leaning against his car door, stopped on a hill overlooking the town of Montecarra, Bucky takes another drag of his cigarette before stomping it out. At least he hadn’t woken up in a filthy, sweltering trench, surrounded by hot bodies after another restless night of gunfire filled dreams. At least he was only required to wear his uniform during official ‘work’ hours.

Giving the town, his newest home, one last look, Bucky gets back in the car and makes his way down.

Being a core member of The Howling Commandos these past years, Bucky had earned himself a certain amount of celebrity, both in America and abroad. Especially in Italy. Given that Steve had returned to the States already, and Bucky had expressed some minor interest in staying in Europe a while longer, Colonel Phillips had happily assigned him as a ‘morale liaison’ while the US and other allies sorted out the peace treaties and demilitarisation of Europe.

It made as much sense to Bucky then as it did now. He had come to realise that ‘morale liaison’ was just jargon for ‘dancing, handshaking, smiling, posing monkey’, seeing as most of his time the past two years had been spent shaking hands while smiling and posing for various photos. Usually with politicians. Bucky hated politicians.

Luckily, his newest post, Montecarra, was far more what Bucky had thought he’d be doing when Phillips had given him his orders; helping people rebuild and reclaim their lives in a post-fascist Italy. As he drives through the small town, Bucky thinks briefly that the bulk of it seemed to be almost entirely untouched by the war, the classic Italian architecture and warm coloured buildings homey and welcoming, the cobbled stone streets and walkways looking every part the idyllic Tuscan town, but then he sees it.

Toward the edges of town, Bucky’s eyes catch on a shattered stone building, utterly destroyed. It’s a small ways from the town itself, a little field between it and the nearest houses, and he can’t help but already feel grateful for the fact it looked to be the only place that had been hit by the violence, though he doesn’t deny the unseen scars that no doubt linger on the people themselves.

He quickly looks away and continues on to his residence.

There was no army base or fortifications in Montecarra, the nearest being in Florence, but The people had kindly offered up a small, newly unowned cottage for the military to house any visiting soldiers in during their stay. When he finally gets to be shown around by the nearest neighbour, a friendly older woman, he’s glad that for the time being, he has it to himself.

He gets himself settled, partially unpacks his bags before getting bored and making his way out to the blooming garden, camera in hand. It had been a gift from Steve, sent for his birthday the previous year when the two had not been able to reunite, and although Bucky had much preferred putting pencil to paper before he’d owned his own camera, he’d found in recent months, as the cold receded and the sun came out, he’d picked up a knack for photography.

The fact that this model was an ‘instant’ model, making it so that after each photo he took, a little slip of paper would spit out and slowly develop the image, certainly aided his newfound love for the hobby. When he had been a kid, his Ma would take the family to have their pictures taken once a year, and the results always took days or weeks.

Lifting the camera to his eye, Bucky peeks through and aims it at a tall bushel of bougainvillea, the bright red against the butter-coloured walls of his cottage making him wish the photos weren’t just black and white.

He snaps a few more floral shots, wondering absently if he’ll be able to buy more photo paper in town. With the sun still high in the sky, he decides that he may as well take a short walk, if not to introduce himself to some of the locals, then to answer his question.

Honestly, the unendingly friendly reception he’d received everywhere he went never ceased to surprise him. Two years ago Italy had been the enemy or the soldiers and government at least. For the most part, the people caught in the crossfire had been weary and scared, but helpful where they could be to Allied soldiers. Still, the warmth they seemed to hold him, and other allied soldiers with was always a little startling at first.

By the time he makes it to the centre of town, he’d been kissed on his cheeks more times than he could count, but interestingly, the people of Montecarra weren’t as clingy as he’d found some other towns and cities… After greeting him, they’d happily left him alone, though with numerous and repeated offers to have him for dinner.

Once unable to stand doing nothing at all, and always on the go, the young man Bucky had once been, had evolved into a quieter, more solitary version of himself. He still liked to have fun, mind you, he’d learnt to take enjoyment and pleasure where he could in the army, but his sniper’s life had taught him contentedness with his own company. Bucky was fine being alone, without chatter or noise to distract him. He’d come to prefer it, actually.

Bucky finds that Montecarra’s central space was a large set of four courtyards, separated by various important municipal buildings and shops, and at the centre point, an old communal well that had been made into a fountain. Without thinking, Bucky lifts his camera to snap a shot of the fountain. He loved New York more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to return home, but damn if he hadn’t fallen hard for European architecture.

He’s still waving the little piece of photo paper back and forth to help it develop when loud laughter and the familiar noise of children playing reaches his ears. It startles him slightly, Montecarra wasn’t exactly sleepy, but it was quiet, and the residence all seemed to be of an older sort, he hadn’t seen many children yet, though a look at his watch tells him that might have been due to school.

A small gaggle of children of various ages come skipping into view across from the fountain, chatting loudly and seemingly unaware of the previous peace that had reigned in the town square. Unlike in New York, however, Bucky notices not a single patron of the nearby outdoor restaurant throws them dirty looks or hisses at them to quiet down, if anything, the people nearby pause to watch for a few seconds, not with disdain written on their faces, but soft, gentle smiles, before they return to their business.

A voice calling out from the back of the group, noticeable for its maturity in comparison to the children’s voices, catches Bucky’s attention and he lets his gaze skip over the scene until it lands on you, and suddenly, he’s breathless.

Bucky Barnes had seen a lot of beautiful women in his time, and had been lucky enough to know a number of them too, but you, you are something else entirely.

It’s your smile he notices first, plush rosy brown lips pulled wide in a joyful grin, so magnetising he finds himself unable to look away. Your hair is long, curly and dark, brushed into waves that the humidity and breeze seemed set on ruining, and with one hand you secure your wide brim sun hat as you chase the kids. Your white blouse is laced around the open collar and both it and the bright yellow of your skirt stand out against your syrupy brown skin, smooth and a little shiny from the sun.

“Here! Roberto, Norma, come sit here a moment! Look at the fountain!” You beckon the children, two strays in particular, over toward the fountain, and much like Bucky, the kids seem magnetised to you as well. You float right up to the water, sitting on the edge as the children all gather around, still chatting and playing loudly, though a little more orderly now.

Bucky watches you swipe a hand through the cool water, smiling and speaking animatedly with one of the children. He wonders if you were perhaps their teacher, but he’s snapped away from his thoughts a moment later.

“That man has a camera! Look!”

Bucky blinks, tearing his eyes from you, even as the children, and you, all now turn your attention to him in varying shades of wonderment. He’s still a small distance away, but it doesn’t matter as not even a second later, he’s being swamped by the pack of energetic youngsters.

“Are you a photographer?!”

“Can I see it?!”

“Will you take my picture!?”

The last request sets off a frenzy, the rest of the children all joining in to ask for their picture taken, and honestly, Bucky doesn’t even think he has enough paper for that.

“Hey! Mascalzoni! Leave the poor man alone!” You appear then, hands on your hips, not even two meters away and Bucky thinks he could faint.

“Oh, they’re—” He cuts himself off, switching to Italian.

“They’re fine, really… I just don’t think I have the photo paper for it…” He explains, trying his best to look you in the eye, but not quite making it. You cock your head in sympathy, and clap once, getting the children’s attention once more.

“Come on, stop it. Can’t you see you’ve scared him?!” You say playfully, though Bucky wants to correct that it isn’t them he’s scared of.

“How are we supposed to get more tourists to Montecarra if you’re all scaring them away, huh?!” You continue, crossing your arms and the kids seem to relent somewhat, whining a little as they back up from Bucky. You give him another, apologetic smile.

“Come along, you all better get home before your mothers’ tan your hides!” You say, making a shooing motion that makes Bucky second-guess his teacher theory. Before any of them can begin to move though, he takes half a step forward, holding up his camera.

“Wait, I can— I can take a photo of you all together…” He says, and watches as even your face lights up, though as the children all begin to excitedly gather in front of the fountain, you step away, to his side.

“You don’t want to be in it?” He asks, throwing you a sideways glance and yep, you’re still just as pretty as before. You smile and shake your head.

“No. Not this time.” he doesn’t know what you mean by that, but focuses back on the children, raising the camera and snapping a shot of the children, smiling brightly.

Chaos ensues once again when the paper pops out of the bottom, further exciting the group as Bucky attempts to hold the picture out of their reach while it develops, unable to stop himself from chuckling at how spirited they were. It had been a long time since he’d seen any kid so carefree. Perhaps that was why the townspeople were so unphased by their noise earlier.

After the picture is passed around for all to see, you clear your throat and jerk your head away again.

“Go on, clear out now.” Far more happily the children bid each other goodbye, a few moving in pairs or trios as they split off in separate directions.

Bucky is all too aware that you’re still standing near him, and he focuses on cleaning his camera lens with his sleeve.

“Thank you.” You say kindly, with a slight bow of your head, and he finds himself shrugging and shaking his head.

“It’s alright, really.” he pauses, and then;

“Are you their teacher?” He doesn’t expect the surprised laugh you let out, shaking your own head vigorously.

“Hell no. I don’t have the patience for that! We were just walking the same way.” Bucky blinks, not expecting your language, though he finds it endearing, a little more grounding. He laughs.

“I see.”

“You’re the soldier, yes? From America?” The subject change catches him out for a moment, but he’s nodding a moment later.

“Sergeant James Barnes, ma’am.” He almost salutes, doesn’t and then thinks better of it, giving you one anyway. You cock your head at him, an amused smile pulling at your lips.

“I thought soldiers wore uniforms?” You fold your hands in front of you, and Bucky blinks, down at his casual civilian clothes, and then back at you.

“Oh, I, well, I do, but only when I’m working, these days…” You laugh good-naturedly at his awkward delivery.

“I was only teasing. I’ve heard from Rome that soldiers spend just as much time out of their uniforms as in them.” You say it easily, with a playful chuckle, but the risque connotations don’t go over his head, his eyebrows lifting high in his surprise.

Were you… flirting…? Or was this just how you were?

“Well, Sergeant Barnes, it was lovely to meet you.” You’re stepping back, giving him another smile (were you always smiling? He wants to know, now), and a little wave before you begin to turn. Bucky flounders at your fast retreat and panics.

“Uh, wait!” You look back, and he swallows.

“What’s… what’s your name?” You chuckle and push your hair behind your shoulder.

“Cristina.” You tell him and he repeats it, trying to roll the ‘r’ like you do, which makes you laugh again.

“People usually just call me Nina.” You offer a moment later and Bucky nods, before giving you his own, more commonly used nickname.

“Bucky?” You repeat, almost unsure, but when he nods, mouth dry at hearing his name on your lips, you smile and nod.

“Bucky. I will see you around, Bucky.” And with that, he watches dumbly, awestruck in his place as you float out of the plaza.

—-

The warm breeze carries through the open windows of your house, sending the scents from the kitchen below wafting around the rooms. You’d already finished your work for the day, and the chores your mother assigned you, and with a slight pep in your step, you finish tying the scarf around your hair and grab your book.

“Mama? I’m going to read!” You call out, pausing for a moment to listen for her reply. You hear a faint humming above the radio and quickly take your leave, skipping down the front steps of your home and out of the walled front courtyard.

Montecarra is hot and warm, like it had been every other day this week, but you don’t mind. The streets you pass through on the way to your nook are quiet, with only the occasional Nonna in her garden, or returning from the markets. There had been more people here once, a long time ago, and in your childhood days you remember visitors, passing through and admiring your home on their way to other places. You missed that deeply, but push it from your mind, trying not to sour your day at the thought of your already sleepy town becoming sleepier.

You reach your normal place quickly, little plaza toward the outskirts of town, many of the houses here empty now. One of the homes, a double storied one like your own, has a tall garden wall that sits in the shade of the tall tree behind it. Midway through the wall, high enough to take some effort to climb, sit a series of three empty archways, glassless windows that give a view of the overgrown garden within, and from the other side of the little square beyond.

Nobody came to this part of town, not anymore, and in recent years, you’d found it the perfect place to sit unbothered. Tucking your book under your arm, you hitch your skirt up a little, and use one of the roots that climbs and decorates the wall with green ivy as a foothold. The archway isn’t high, but you certainly couldn’t get to it without a little help.

Once situated, you lean back against the pillar, bringing your feet up in front of you, and rest your book against your thighs and knees. You lose yourself quickly in the words, devouring the stories of far away places, detectives and mystery and murder. When the Nazi’s had been here, you hadn’t been allowed to freely enjoy such things. You’d been hidden away, scared everyday would be your last, but it had never come. They had left, and you had been safe again once more.

It was why you enjoyed sitting outside, in the sun and warm, basking in a world that was purely yours again.

Well, not just yours.

A quiet, but pointed cough makes you jump slightly, and you whip your head to find the source, shutting your book on instinct before your eyes find him, and you smile.

“Good Afternoon, Sergeant Barnes!” You greet, and the man returns your smile, lifting his hand briefly. You had known he was coming of course, your whole town did. He was helping the men rebuild the old schoolhouse, though he seemed to have finished that task for the day, as you had finished yours.

He was a handsome man, with dark hair and blue eyes, his pale skin lightly tanned on his face and arms from days in the Italian sun. He was young, though older than you, likely nearing his late twenties if you were correct. You hadn’t known who he was during the war, but afterwards, you’d had plenty of newspaper fodder to read. You think most of it must have been trash though, because the man the magazines and gossip columns had labelled as a charming, suave ladies man could not be the same one that stood before you now.

“Bucky. Bucky is fine, Senora Cristina.” He replies, his eyes dropping a little as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Well then you must call me Nina.” You reply, keeping up your smile for when he looks back at you. When he realises you haven’t looked away from him, he quickly averts his gaze again, but clears his throat and looks around the empty plaza, waving a hand.

“Quiet spot?” He asks, and you turn from where your back is pressed against the brick, swinging your legs over the side of the wall to face him properly. You nod.

“Yes. The people who lived in this part left. We don’t know if they’ll come back or…” You trail off, pursing your lips briefly, but shake your head. No. No time to dwell.

“It’s a good place to come to be alone.”

“Oh, I can— I can leave if you’d lik—” Bucky’s face falls into anxiety stricken concern as he gestures with his thumb toward the little road you think he must have come from, but you cut him off quickly, laughing.

“I was not attempting to chase you away!” You tell him, and he drops his hand back to his side. For a few seconds he just looks at you, like he’s unsure of what to say, and so you fill the silence the best you can.

“How do you like Montecarra?” Bucky nods quickly, his body language immediately relaxing somewhat. You wonder if you make him nervous because he’s unsure how to speak to women, or if it might be something else.

“It’s beautiful. I haven’t been able to stop looking, you know? We don’t have towns like this where I’m from.” You smile at his clear enthusiasm, and cock your head. You’d never been to America, you’d never even really been more than a few miles from your home, so you can’t imagine what towns must look like there.

“The people are friendly, I mean, everyone is friendly everywhere, but the people here are… they don’t seem to want to be around me twenty-four-seven.” He adds, and then clamps his mouth shut, as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to. You think maybe he hasn’t been around friends in a while. You shrug, and chortle.

“Oh, that’s just how we are. My Papa used to say that in the cities, nobody can leave each other alone because they don’t make real connections… but here and other small towns, we’re all we have, and after a while, you just get sick of each other.”

Bucky laughs, loudly and heartily, and you think it is a lovely sound. He says something in English, you think you hear ‘christ’, but he sobers, still smiling.

“I’d say that’s about right.”

“Though, you should be wary of signora Cavalli… she’s like a venus flytrap, you know?” You say seriously, but with a conspiratorial edge so that he knows you are only mostly joking. Bucky cocks his head in confusion, but chuckles.

“A what?!”

“A venus flytrap! You know! It’s a plant that looks all bright and colourful, but when bugs land on it it snaps shut!” You clap your hands together in demonstration.

“And then it eats them.”

“Are you… are you telling me signora Cavalli is going to eat me?” Bucky asks, eyebrows high and you take a moment to dramatically look him over.

“No. I don’t think you are her type. But she will start a conversation that will not end until either you or her dies, and trust me, she’s really old.” Bucky laughs again, hand on his belly this time, his head thrown back again, and you can’t help but break ‘character’ to laugh with him.

“Right. Avoid signora Cavalli. Gotcha.” He says as he calms, and again, he seems to have relaxed even more, the little pull that you had noticed between his brow yesterday, and earlier, even when he wasn’t frowning, had all but disappeared.

“Sounds like I need your guidance here. Clearly.” He continues, and you can’t help but feel excited by the prospect. You nod vigorously, and hop down from your ledge.

“Oh, definitely. I have lived here my whole life, I know all there is to know!” You tuck your book back under your arm and step nearer.

“I can show you around! There is more to Montecarra than there looks!” You pause and shrug.

“Well, a little more, at least.” Bucky appears torn for a moment, his face scrunching back into a polite concern as he holds his hands up.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, signora, I mean, Nina…” You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, signore, but there isn’t exactly anybody else my age around here… really you’d be doing me the favour…” He opens his mouth, but you quickly beckon him in a direction before he can argue, and you hear a faint sigh, and a few seconds later he’s matching your easy pace.

“I did notice that, actually…” He confirms, and you feel his gaze on the side of your face. His hands are back in his pockets, and he walks a respectable distance next to you.

“Well, there weren’t all that many to begin with but all the boys went off to fight, and the girls either got married and moved away, or left to study somewhere else.” You try to keep your voice light and airy, try not to betray your jealousy or sadness.

You had wanted to move to Paris and study, or London, anywhere, but the shadows of war had already begun, and it had been too uncertain. Looking back, you were reluctantly glad you had not been elsewhere. Your mother had needed you too much.

You come to another small courtyard, with a large tree at its center. It was one of the oldest in the town, and this part of the village had been built around it, as was obvious from the uneven and cracked stone ground, where the roots had grown large and disruptive.

You sling a hand around the trunk, slowly circling it in a careful swing, and Bucky oddly does the same, moving opposite you, so you are always on different sides. Oftentimes you were called childish or immature by others in Montecarra, though they never meant you harm by it. You were young at heart, and always would be. You know it was not proper for young women your age to be so restless, but you couldn’t sit still. Even just walking normally was a little boring after a while. You think it’s nice that this American man doesn’t ask you to stop or to stand still.

“You didn’t though?” Bucky asks, and then hurries to clarify.

“Get married or move away, I mean.” You chortle and lean a little further forward to see his face better as you both continually circle the tree.

“I was not good enough in school,” You lie.

“And no man would have me.” You laugh as you say it, not really meaning it. When there had been boys around Montecarra, you’d had no shortage of prospects, though how many of them would have actually married you was another question entirely.

Bucky scoffs, making an odd noise in his throat, and he fixes you with a look of disbelief.

“Well I know that can’t be right…” You smile, but look away at his kind words, before another thought hits you, and you stop moving, holding onto either side of the tree as you lean around it slightly.

“Montecarra must be exceptionally boring for you.”

Bucky stops moving too, and instead leans his side against the trunk, arms crossing over his chest as he looks down at you casually, eyebrow raised in question.

“To be in such a small town, with no women who aren’t married. Compared to Paris or Rome, I mean.”

You gasp suddenly then, and quickly switch sides, making Bucky have to turn too, and you can’t suppress your cheeky grin.

“Unless of course it’s married women who you’re after. No need to worry about commitment there.” You wiggle your eyebrows and Bucky’s face turns into a molten mess of amusement and bashfulness, sprinkled with pink cheeks.

He uncrosses his arms awkwardly and clears his throat uncomfortably, and you chortle, shaking your head. There was certainly part of him you could see being charming and suave, but for the most part, Sergeant James Barnes just seemed sweet. Eventually he just laughs too, also shaking his head, and he looks off for a moment, before he carefully turns to mirror your hold on the tree, leaning just slightly around it to look at you.

He still wears a coy look of meekness when he shrugs.

“You’re a woman who isn’t married, aren’t you?” He says softly, carefully, as if he’s not sure how you will respond, and does not wish to offend.

Offence is the last reaction in your mind though, instead you feel as if the world stops for a moment, and all that exists is you, this man, and the tree between you. Despite the carefulness of his words, his expression is a little harder, his gaze locked on yours more intense and you have to force yourself to look away, pulling back from the tree just to catch your breath and your rapidly beating heart.

Perhaps Sergeant James Barnes was sweet, but Bucky Barnes was a little more savoury than that. Suddenly, some of the things you’d read make more sense, and you find yourself reconsidering your interactions. Had he specifically sought you out? Or had he just been wandering and it was a happy coincidence. You lean toward the latter but perhaps he had hoped to see you again after your brief meeting yesterday?

You wipe these thoughts from your mind as Bucky too steps away from the tree, and fix him with an innocent smile and a shrug of your shoulder as you begin stepping backwards, ready to move along.

“I am.” You say simply, unsure of what else you even could say, but the moment seems to pass, and Bucky finally tears his eyes from you, watching his step as he makes to follow you again, down another narrow street.

You make light small talk with him as you move into busier parts of town, still a little shaken from his flirting (if that was what it was). He doesn’t seem to mind, and you realise you don’t need to fill the silence all of the time. He seems content to just look and watch, but when you do speak, to tell him something, or point out a particular shop, he listens carefully.

When you make it to one of the central courtyards of Montecarra, near the fountain where you had met him yesterday, you see that the afternoon sellers have set up at the market stalls where you’d been only this morning, helping sell. Jobs and money were hard to come by in your town, everything was so small and insular, and in the aftermath of the war, people had cared less about money to pay for goods and services, but rather taking care of each other in any way they could.

You were luckier than most towns, you’d been spared the massive damage of other places, but with resources still low, and many people still getting back on their feet, feeding each other had become a community job. Bakers would gladly accept trade for their bread, and doing chores or work for others had become a reliable way to not only give back but to earn too. The shops that had managed to remain open were supportive where they could be, and it made your heart swell several sizes to know that the war had not driven your people apart.

Bucky seems to take in the sights and smells of the markets with a dreamily like gaze, his eyes roaming over the leftover morning breads, some meats and vegetables that had not been bought or traded earlier in the week and where now for sale far cheaper.

Your stomach growls, reminding you that you have not yet eaten since your breakfast, and you groan. Usually you’d have set off home for lunch, or brought something with you, before returning to your nook, but being with Bucky had distracted you.

He looks down at you in response to your groan and you scrunch your nose.

“I would suggest we eat, but I left my purse at home.” You explain. Bucky blinks, and looks over at the food, then back at you.

“If you’re hungry, I can, I have my—” You tune him out accidentally as your mind conjures up a thought, and stop suddenly, reaching out and grabbing Bucky’s arm in excitement. He stops speaking and stares down at you.

“I have a better idea…!” You say, grinning widely, and he cocks his head, looking slightly hesitant.

You release his arm only to grab the rolled sleeve of his shirt, pulling him along after you down a sidetreet.

“What— Where are we going…?” He asks, and then continues.

“And why do I feel like it’s going to be trouble?” You laugh loudly, and throw him a look over your shoulder, releasing his sleeve at last when you’ve led him through a maze of tiny alleys and narrow streets and out to the edge of town, near the main road he’d driven in on.

“Trust me.” You say, drawing out the words long and sing-songy.

“Give me reason to…” He mutters, but when you look over at him again, you can see he’s only playing the part of exasperated, his lips pulled up in the corners, and his eyes amused.

He follows you as you lead him up a long road, well away from town and towards where the fields and fields of orchards and vineyards begin. When you veer off the side of the road, toward one of the wooden fences, he stops.

“What are you doing?” He asks, a little more nervous than before, and you turn to face him fully.

“We’re going into the orchard to pick some fruit.” He fixes you with a squinted stare.

“Something tells me that we’re not supposed to do that…” You roll your eyes.

“Nobody will know. Besides, we’ll only take a few.” You bat your eyelashes the best you can manage and watch his resolve crumble. When he sighs, hanging his head while shaking it, you know you’ve got him, so you smile widely and quickly return to making your way up the fence.

Bucky at first seems concerned with you climb, moving quickly over to attempt to lend you a hand, but you hardly need it, lifting your skirt and easily scaling the posts before you land on the other side. Bucky stares at you for a moment longer, before planting his hands on the top piece of wood, and in one large jump, vaults the thing entirely.

You laugh at the sight, and cock your head.

“They teach you that in the army?” You tease, leading him away from where you might be spotted by the road, and into the thick rows of trees.

“Brooklyn, actually.” He tells you, and you spy him repeatedly looking over his shoulder and around, as if suspecting some kind of ambush. You pause, nearly causing him to walk into you, and put your hand on his arm again.

“Nobody is out here. It gets too hot in the afternoons, so they do all their daily harvesting in the mornings.” Bucky stares down at you, the little crease between his brows returning, but he nods at your words anyway.

Turning away from him, you once more gather up part of your skirt, lifting it well above a decent length, to use as a basket of sorts as you start inspecting some of the goods on ‘offer’.

“The peaches are especially good this time of year.” You say over your shoulder, reaching out to gently squeeze a few hanging from the nearest tree.

“I— What…?” Bucky asks, and when you look back at him, you see the vague pinkness back in his cheeks and refrain from rolling your eyes. Instead, you plaster on an innocent smile and hold up one of the fruits you’d plucked from the branch.

“The peaches. They’re very ripe right now. Montecarra always has the juiciest peaches. You can’t eat them without getting your fingers and mouth all sticky.” You look away then, placing the peach into your skirt and fight yourself to keep from laughing. Bucky remains quiet behind you, until you hear him let out a slightly shaky breath.

“Jesus fucking christ…” He mumbles in English, and you wipe the grin from your face before he can see it, as he finally steps closer to join you.

You end up with a nice collection of peaches, apples and some figs. You don’t take much, just a few, and by the time you’re walking the road back into town, your grumbling stomach is sated. You spent a few hours walking along the rows of trees, just talking and eating.

Before you properly enter Montecarra, Bucky tosses your peach pits, and you watch them fly through the air and disappear into some of the empty fields beyond. He looks down at you with a rather cute, proud and expectant smile, and you nod, clapping just slightly.

“Perhaps they will grow and we will have our own orchard.” You tell him, and he sniffs in amusement.

“Or we’ll have to explain where we got the seeds from in the first place.”

“Or that.” You laugh, nudging his side.

You notice he’d stopped keeping quite as large a distance between you when you walked, though you don’t know if it was conscious or not. The late afternoon sun bathes Montecarra in orange and red and shadows, and by the time you’ve walked across town to where you live, the sunset is well and truly in motion.

Sensing your time has come to an end, Bucky slows slightly, stopping when you turn back to him, and point to your house.

“I live here.” You tell him, and he shoves his hands in his pockets with a nod.

“My mama will expect me to help with dinner.” You explain further, though you aren’t sure why. You didn’t need a reason to part with him, it was early evening now and you’d spent the better half of five hours walking and talking and stealing fruit together.

You see Bucky’s eyes drift behind you, past the open archway of the wall that held your home behind it, and then back to you.

“Thanks for showing me around today. You didn’t have to.” He says and you smile, but shrug.

“Of course.”

You hold his gaze for a moment longer before he nods, pulling a hand from his pocket to give you a parting wave.

“Goodnight.” He says softly, and turns, beginning to make his way back.

You step forward without thinking too much and call out, making him pause and look back at you.

“I— I work in the mornings, but you can always find me at the same place, where I was reading today. From about midday on. I’m always there… if you ever want to see me again.” You try to play it off cooler than you feel, shrugging a bit and giving him a nonchalant grin, but he only watches you.

Just as you start to feel discomfort creep in her shifts, dipping his chin slightly and cocking his head.

“I would like to see you again.” He says at last, and it’s just like earlier, around the tree. You feel a thick tension form between you, and even though he’s several meters away from you now, you feel like he may as well have been directly in front of you.

All you can manage is a nervous chuckle, dropping your eyes to the floor and anxiously tucking some hair behind your ear.

“Okay.” You say, and he must take that as your approval, because he smiles softly, and gives you one last parting nod before he walks away.

You watch him go for longer than you’d like to admit, right up until he disappears and you hear your mama call you from the front door.

—-

You see Bucky most days. After you had finished with your daily workload, you would return as normal to your little archway, only pretending to read until Bucky arrived. Sometimes he would bring his own book, and sit beside you in one of the opposite arches, but most days you spent walking aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing.

He would tell you about New York city, describing the streets and the buildings and the people in such detail you could see it in your mind. He’d show you pictures of places he’d been, other cities and towns in Italy and France and you’d been unable to keep from fawning dramatically over each.

You’d been warned by a few of the older local ladies, that American soldiers were notorious for the dalliances with girls, they’d have them and leave them, moving on to the next place as if it were nothing. But Bucky is different, you think. You weren’t so naive to think a man set on simply chasing what he wanted would change for just you, but Bucky never showed intention to chase. Not really.

He was kind, and sweet, and he never spoke to impress you like you’d seen with some boys before. He listened to you, asked for your opinions on subjects you spoke about and never assumed that you weren’t informed. You had revealed your love for reading to him, and he’d not complained once when you’d ranted for far too long about the plot of your newest book.

He never even tried to hold your hand, which was beginning to trouble you. You had given him plenty of opportunity, walking accidentally too close, and brushing your hand by his just slightly. He’d always apologised or ignored it, and you were becoming frustrated. It was not as if his flirting had stopped, when the opportunity arose he’d coyly spout sweet things that made your stomach churn something awful.

You look up from the page you’d been staring at for the past ten minutes without really seeing it, and blink. Perhaps you were wrong and he was just this way all of the time… but then you remember the moments of intense eye contact when he’d look at you and it felt like nothing else in the world existed at all.

No. no, you decide that perhaps you will have to give him a little push.

“Has d’Artagnan won the heart of Lady Constance yet? Or is love dead?” The voice, his voice, startles you so much you squeak, whipping around to find where Bucky has situated himself against the same wall your archway sits in, leaning on one shoulder with his arms crossed over his chest.

Today he hadn’t changed from his morning’s work, and you have to simply give yourself a moment to take in his uniform. It wasn’t the dress greens you’d seen on men in the newspapers, instead he wears a greeny-brown colour, the material slightly thicker in appearance, rougher almost. In lieu of the long dress coat, he wears a jacket that ends just over where you imagine his belt might be, cinching in his form rather nicely. His shirt bears the same colour as his suit, but his tie is a familiar khaki. Pins and medals and ribbons adorn his chest and you want to inspect each one up close, but you refrain.

“Didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart.” He flashes a smile, letting you know he’d noticed your long, admiring stare. Sunglasses cover his own eyes, refusing you access to their cool colour, and you hope he takes them off. Your mouth feels dry but you force yourself to shift to face him, hanging your legs over the side of the wall once more.

“Startled is not scared.” You correct, and watch as he pushes off from the wall casually, making his way to where you sit. He’s tall enough that should he so wish, he could climb into your archway no problem, but he doesn’t, simply resting his folded arms on the ledge next to your legs, looking up at you. At this angle, you can see behind his glasses, to where his eyes fixate on your face.

“You didn’t answer my question?” He probes and you have to think back, unsure of what he’d even asked you.

“Has d’Artagnan won over Lady Constance yet?” He reminds you, reaching out to pluck your copy of The Three Musketeers from your lap and study the cover.

“No, I was going to read more last night but the power went out again and I don’t trust myself not to fall asleep with a candle burning.” You sigh, pushing some hair from your eyes. Bucky places the book gently back down and hums.

“Did you come straight from work?” You ask, switching the subject, and as if he doesn’t notice his clothing, he peeks down at himself briefly, before he cocks his head and gifts you another grin.

“What, can’t a guy wear his uniform around a gal to impress her?” He counters, clearly joking. You scoff anyway and lightly shove his arm.

“I think I’m sick of military uniforms…” You had meant it as a continuation of his joke, but you mean the words far too much to avoid the melancholy that seeps in.

You force yourself to look away, and take a few deep breaths.

Bucky had gotten around to asking you the obvious question of how you, with your brown skin and ‘ethnic’ features, had not suffered during the war. You told him the truth; that your neighbours had hidden you and your mother in attics and basements for nearly five years.

He’d been quiet and pensive on your answer, before telling you he understood why you spent so much time in the ridiculously hot sun. He’d made you laugh, something that you hadn’t ever thought you could do when speaking about your time during the war.

A hand gently, feather-light, curls over your own in your lap, and it takes everything in you not to jump. When you look back at him, his features are sad and serious and he gives your fingers a squeeze.

“Me too, darlin’.”

You want to say something, to maybe turn your hand over and feel his palm against yours, but before you can he removes it from yours, pushing back off the wall.

“I had an idea earlier, when we were clearing the rubble away.” He extends his arm to you, waiting patiently for you to make the short jump down from your perch. Linking your arm with his, he turns you to begin walking, but reaches out and plucks your book from you, tucking it into his jacket.

“An idea? I’m not helping with the mess…” You tease, and he gives you a sideways look.

“No. Riccardo said if I were truly suffering so much in the heat, I should go to the beach.” You perk immediately, gasping softly. You hadn’t been to the beach in so long.

“The beach!” You repeat, and Bucky grins, pride showing clearly through at his effort to delight you.

“I was thinking we could grab my camera, and head on down for the afternoon. I don’t think I have anything to swim in but even just dipping my toes…” You’re already nodding frantically, pulling away from his arm as you clap and do a little jump. You really couldn’t help it, you hadn’t been down to the water in many years.

“Yes! Though, did he tell you how long a walk it was? We should be careful of it getting too dark, my mama has already started—”

“—We can just drive.” Bucky shrugs, and you pause, blinking. Yes, you knew he had a car the army lent him, you’d seen it once or twice even but…

“I’ve…” You trail off and stop speaking entirely, shaking your head, and trying to plaster back on your previous excitement, but Bucky had already seen the slight fall to your face, and he frowns.

“What? What’s wrong?” He steps forward, toward you a little, his hand absently out as if to take your arm, though he drops it a moment later.

“It’s nothing. It’s silly.” You attempt to brush him off but he only moves closer still, right up to you now, and this time, the tension isn’t the same as it had been before.

His head bows down toward you, his frame nearly cocooning yours, if anybody were to be standing behind him, they likely would not be able to see you. His hand does touch your arm this time, comforting, concerned and all of it makes your heart flutter like a million happy butterflies.

“I… It’s just that… I’ve never been in a car before.” You admit, and it really is a silly thing to make such a fuss over. Bucky must breathe a sigh of relief that your dramatics hadn’t been about something more serious, but you don’t see his expression or body language change at all for a few seconds.

“... Ever…?” When he does speak, there’s no amusement in his voice, no awe at how backwards and small your growing up had been that you’d never been in a car. He just… asks.

You shrug.

“We don’t need them here…” His face does relax a little, and he must realise how much he’s been crowding you because he clears his throat and shuffles back slightly, letting his hand leave your arm.

“Well… I think you’ll like it. It’s fast.” He says, before frowning.

“Not— not too fast.” He adds, and you have to smile.

“Well… Why don’t I go put my book away, I’ll find some bread and fixings and you can go change, and I will meet you at your cottage?” You suggest. You didn’t want to go all the way down to the beach without some sort of food, even if he said the trip would be fast in his car. It would also give you a chance to change from your day dress into something that you wouldn’t mind getting a little wet or sandy.

Bucky nods.

“Yeah. Okay. You know where it is?” You roll your eyes.

“Of course.” He hangs his head a little, and lifts his hands in defeat.

“Small town, grew up here. Got it.” You laugh. He’d mentioned once how even though he’d spent his whole life in Brooklyn, knew the streets and the major locations like the back of his hand, there were still places he’d never know where to even start looking for.

You part ways then, and quickly hurry home, the excitement thrumming through your veins once again. Not only were you going to get to go to the beach, but you were going to ride in a car!

You toss your book onto your bed without a second thought, quickly undressing and slipping on a lighter, older dress. It’s faded pale blue told it’s age, but the fabric was thinner, meaning you would have no problem if it got wet. You decide not to bother with stockings, removing both them and your garter in favour of feeling the sand with your bare feet instead, and slip your shoes back on.

Before you leave your bedroom, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and pause. Turning your face from side to side, you inspect your features carefully. You never bothered with makeup, it was expensive and you’d only end up sweating it off, but your eyes do linger on your lips for a moment.

Creeping upstairs, you sneak into your mother’s bedroom. She was out for coffee at one of your neighbours, still, you feel nervousness take hold when you find the small golden tube in her drawer. Taking a deep breath, you uncap the lipstick and lean forwards for a better view, before carefully swiping the deep red colour across your lower lip. You follow suit with the upper, fixing it here and there, and swiping to try and neaten it up, but when you stand back to inspect yourself, you groan in frustration.

You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, and your painted lips and bareface didn’t communicate that at all. Grabbing a tissue, you quickly work to remove the makeup, rubbing at your lips until the bulk of the colour is off. However, when you stop to check again, you find the red has somewhat stained your skin. It only really adds a subtle flushed red over your usually brown lips, but it's still noticeable, and you panic, grabbing another tissue and trying again to no avail.

Time ticks by and you check your watch, not wanting to make Bucky wait too long, and so you pocket the stained tissues and take a last look in the mirror. Your shoddy clean up job would have to do. At least the stains were on your lips and not around them.

In the kitchen you gather up a small selection of items in a basket, just some bread and butter and homemade jam, and tuck an old blanket over the top to secure it all, and so that you could sit on it later. Checking everything one last time, you slide the basket to the crook of your arm and close up your house behind you.

You have to stop yourself from skipping as you make your way through the streets, smiling and greeting those who pass you politely and not like a mad woman. By the time you make it to Bucky’s little cottage, you can already see him leaning back against the car, waiting. He straightens when he sees you, smiling as you slow down, feeling almost hesitant about approaching the car.

“Here, lemme take this…” You let him grab the basket from you and watch him open one of the back doors, placing it on the floor, behind a seat. When he shuts the door again with a click, he turns to look at you in a both expectant and patient manner.

“Shall we?” He gestures to the other side of the car, and you let him lead you around it, swallowing as he pulls open the front side door for you.

“There you go. You know, you’re lucky this is your first car ride. This is a nice car, apparently.” You let Bucky take your hand to help you in, and for the few seconds after he’s shut your door behind you, and you see him jog around to the driver’s seat, you feel an immense awkwardness settle over you.

When he’s climbed in beside you, he gestures to something above your head.

“Here, that’s your seat belt. I know a lotta people don’t bother with them, but… better safe than sorry, right?” You nod, and reach out to grab the little buckle, not realising that the sun had been baking the metal since it had come up.

You rip your fingers away from it with a hiss, cradling them to your chest. Bucky jerks and is immediately leaning over to help you.

“Shit! Sorry, I— I forgot to tell you to be careful of the— here, look, you gotta grab the plastic part…” Your slightly burnt fingers are all but forgotten when Bucky leans right over you, directly into your space as he pulls at the belt, drawing it down and across your body, to your hip.

You watch him click the buckle together and blink up at him when he leans back, face still pulled in a wince.

“You okay?”

“Yes… I just wasn’t expecting it… it didn’t really hurt that much…” He looks like he wants to say something more, his eyes darting down to where you lower your hand back to your lap, and your face, but he eventually settles with a nod.

“Okay. Okay.” He repeats, twisting to face frontwards in his seat again as he begins readying the car. You watch him fiddle with the keys, jumping slightly when the engine roars to life all around you, but you only chuckle at the look Bucky sends you. He lifts one hand from the wheel, to hold onto a tall gear stick in the center console, shifting it a few times before you feel the car begin to move.

Despite your nerves, you can’t help but feel the excitement in your bones, and as Bucky starts to slowly drive along the outer roads of the town, toward the western most side, you can’t stop yourself from staring out the window.

It wasn’t as if you’d never seen any of these places before, but it felt different now. You feel Bucky’s eyes flick over to you every so often, a low chuckle you can barely hear above the car reaching you, but you’re too enthralled to do more than return his smile briefly.

You settle down a bit as you hit the main road. It's still a very new experience to be moving so quickly down a road you’d only ever been along at a walk. Bucky seems content in the quiet, but about halfway through the trip, he changes his hand on the steering wheel, to reach down for something on the side of his door. You watch him fumble for a moment, before he behinds winding a little lever, and you turn your gaze to where the window now rolls down, filling the car with fresh air and the sound of light wind.

“You’ve got one too,” He briefly takes his eyes from the road to point your own window lever out to you, and excitedly, you rush to unwind it. You laugh then, like a child, and lean forward to get a better view, to feel the wind blow over your face. It doesn’t last long though, the second you feel your hair get thrown about, you yip, ducking away with another laugh, but attempting to smooth back your hair again.

Bucky grins over at you, and he shuffles, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, resting his elbow on the window frame casually. With his spare hand, he rests it on his thigh, fingers tapping.

“Lotta women wear a scarf, to keep their hair from getting wrecked…” He tells you, and you make a note for if you ever ride in the car again.

“You were right.” You tell him, finally sitting back in your seat and relaxing. Bucky cocks his head, briefly glancing at you, but mostly he keeps his eyes forward.

“Hmn?”

“I do like this.”

You arrive at the beach in no time at all, the lone western road leading right down to the water. Bucky brings the car to a stop away from the road, on a patch of grass that separates the rest of the land from the sand dunes. On your right, some ways away, the land lifts, creating a rocking cliffside that encloses this section of beach neatly. You knew from your childhood that there were some caves accessible, but you’d always been told to stay well away.

Bucky grabs the basket from the backseat, and you wait for him to catch up with you before you begin treading down onto the sand. The sand is hot and pale, and the smell of sea water calls you, but as much as you’d love to throw yourself toward it, you direct Bucky to a small cropping of rocks and boulders that rested near the dunes, far enough back that the incoming tide wouldn’t reach them, but near enough to the water to be sure your things would be kept safe.

Bucky follows your lead as you kick your shoes off, climbing to the top of the largest boulder easily, it's jagged surface perfect for climbing, as long as you didn’t step on a spike. The boulder stands almost up to Bucky’s chest, and was quite large from a top side view. You beckon him to give you your basket and he watches as you quickly lay out the blanket. When he can see you settling, he joins you, scaling the rock quickly, and taking a seat beside you, where you’ve now begun to pull the bread and spreads from the basket.

“This is a nice spot.” He says scanning the horizon critically. You see his gaze turn up towards the nearby cliffs, scrutinizing them thoroughly with slightly squinted eyes. His face is so intense, you can’t help but look too, wondering what it was he was seeing, but when you turn back to him, he snaps out of it, plastering an easy smile on his face.

You open your mouth to question what he’d been looking at when he grabs the jame, and turns it over in his hands.

“Homemade?” He asks, clearly excited by the prospect, and even though you still want to know what he’d just been thinking about, you let it go, recognising a subject change when you saw one.

“Yes. My mama is very good at cooking. She cooks a lot for other people.” You tell him, buttering a thick slice of bread before handing it to him.

“Do you?” He puts the jam down as he takes the bread and a butter knife from you, beginning to spread some of the sweet, jellied fruit. You scrunch your nose.

“I don’t cook a lot. Mama says I should do more.” You roll your eyes and Bucky snorts.

“Why?”

“So that when I get married my husband won’t be displayed… or something.” You bring one of your legs to a bent position, like you were crossing your legs but only chose to do one, and shift your center of balance to be more comfortable.

The blanket was a nice touch, but it didn’t make the rock you sat on any more homey.

“I don’t understand… why women have to do so much to keep a man. If they love you, shouldn’t they not care about how well you cook or how clean your house is?” You glance at him, genuinely asking. Bucky was, as you well knew, a man, he may have insight you did not. He frowns, mulling over his thoughts as he chews his mouthful.

“I think some guys want a housekeeper more than a partner. I don’t think a lot of mother’s help that, either.” It’s your turn to frown and you cock your head, gesturing he go on. He adjusts a little, and looks off as he speaks, only glancing back at you a few times as he explains.

“It’s a cycle, right? A lady gets married, she looks after her husband, they have kids, a boy and a girl,” He pauses, takes a small bite, chews, swallows and continues.

“Now, as the girl gets older, mother starts to prepare her for when she’ll get married, so she takes on some of the household chores. The son however, he gets looked after right up until he leaves the nest. His food is cooked for him, his room is cleaned, his clothes washed…” You start understanding what he means, and nod slowly.

“By the time he’s serious about looking for a girl, he thinks they should be how his ma and pa were. I’m sure there’s love and affection, but in his mind, if she’s not doing those same things he grew up with, then how much can she really love him?” He ends with a shrug, looking at you, and you have to admit you’re genuinely surprised by his honest point of view.

But he sits up a little straighter then, and points to himself with the bread still in his hand.

“My mother would never let me get away with that.” He tells you solemnly, and you chortle at his deeply serious, over the top expression.

“Oh?”

“No ma’am. When I was sixteen she showed me how to use the machines at the laundromat, and if my room wasn’t spick and span at the end of the week I’d get it.” You laugh at the thought of a woman with Bucky’s same eyes making him remake his bed.

“And cooking?” You press, and Bucky shrugs again.

“I grew up watching her cook, helping her in the kitchen… I ain’t sayin’g I’m good. But I wouldn’t starve.” You laugh again, his stories uplifting on your general view of how things were ‘Supposed To Be’.

“Anyway, the point is, the only thing that makes a good husband or wife is that you care about one another. Everything else is negotiable.” You grin, and nod, look out at the water as he words sink in, before you sharply side eye him.

“Everything except fidelity. I’d cut off my man’s—” You cut yourself off before you can say too much, but Bucky has already begun howling with laughter, leaning all the way back to rest on his elbows, he places a hand to his chest as he guffaws gleefully.

When he calms down, still snickering quietly he nods several times to himself and gives you a look.

“I don’t doubt you for a second, sweetheart.” Your chest flutters again at not just the pet name, he’d taken to using various ones, but the softness in his voice when he says it. It makes you nervous, it makes your stomach feel like the rolling waves of the ocean before you are happening simultaneously in there too.

“Right, well. Let's cool off, huh?”

Bucky rolls his pant legs up to just above his knees before he treads into the shallows, and you lift your skirt just a little as you join him. You wallow about in the water for some time, talking about nothing in particular. At one point, he realises he’d left his camera in the car, and races back up to get it, returning with a piece of photo paper already developing in his fingers.

“Took one from the dunes. It’s a nice view.” He explains as you lean over to peer at the little print. You can make out your figure, distant in the photo.

Bucky takes several more pictures, of the cliffs, of the long expanse of shoreline on the other side… You let him be for a while, moving back up to the rock and the blanket, perching yourself on the edge as you just take in the cool sea breeze and watch Bucky move about, deeply focused.

It was sweet really, though you don’t know how many of the shots look the same.

The warm sun and your general relaxed mood lull you to lie back, fixating your gaze on the blue skies and clouds above. Your skin grows warm and a little moist under such direct sunlight, but it feels nice. You aren’t sure how long you lie there for, you even doze off for a little bit, but some time later, you hear Bucky approaching.

“Can I take your picture?” He asks as you sit up, shielding your eyes for a moment as you do.

“Me?”

“Yeah.” You want to protest that he shouldn’t waste his photo paper on you, but he’s already stepping back and bringing the camera up to check if he’s too close or far.

“Wait, let me move.” You tell him, shifting to sit side on, with your feet on the rock and your knees bent up, like you would sit in your reading nook. Bucky waits for you like you ask, adjusting a little notch on his camera before he lifts it back to his eye, peering through. You expect him to take the photo right away but instead you see his lips part and his tongue swipe out to wet them as he swallows and draws the device away again.

“Uh, your— your skirt sweetheart, it's…” He trails off and gestures at his own thigh, prompting you to glance down at yourself.

Oh.

With your legs up like this, and perhaps with the help of a little sea breeze, your dress had shifted far up the length of your leg, far more than what was proper or should be photographed, and yet, your mind begins to whir.

You cock your head innocently, and hook your finger under the hem, drawing it back even further, until almost the whole side of your leg was on display. As you do, you pop your shoulder forward and rest your chin on it, grinning widely, invitingly.

Bucky just stares for several moments, and you see him swallow again. He seems to fumble with bringing the camera back to his face, and you see his mouth in what you’re certain is English cussing. It only makes your grin that much wider.

He takes the picture, lowering the camera immediately to catch the photo it spits out, though, he keeps glancing back up at you. You only flutter your eyelashes as best you can and make sure to fix your skirt somewhat. You sit forward again, and rest your hands either side of your legs, leaning toward where Bucky still stands.

“May I see?” You ask, and he jerks, starting toward you right away.

“Y--yeah. Of course…” You note with a quiet snicker how he stands at least two feet away from you when he holds out the photograph, and you take it from him, inspecting it.

“This is a good one.” You tell him.

“Yep. Yeah. It is.” He’s aware you’re teasing him now, and you give him a smile over the top of the picture.

“You won’t throw it away?”

“Why… why the hell would I throw it away?” You shrug and hold it out to give back.

“I don’t know…”

Bucky reaches out for it, but just before he can take it from you, you pull it back.

“On second thoughts, I don’t know if you can be trusted with this.” His face resembles a rain cloud, his frown confused and deep.

“What?”

“I think it might end up in the bottom of a box somewhere… I should keep it.” Your lip quirks, and he can see the cogs turning as he realises you’re only playing. He rolls his eyes and goes to grab it from you again, but you pull it away again.

Before he can corner you where you sit, you jump off the rock, ducking to the side as he lunges, making you squeal.

“Come on, sweetheart, let me have it…” You keep moving backwards, even as you turn to face him, the photo clutched to your chest. Bucky has turned to pursue you, though he’s only walking, hands on his hips.

“You’ll have to catch me!” You take off running, unable to keep from laughing as you do, Bucky’s own chortling reaching you as he gives chase.

You duck and weave out of his reach, and even though he’s far bigger and fitter than you, you were smaller, and the drag of the sand didn’t affect you as much. He almost gets you twice, his fingers grazing your dress, and when he does finally catch you, it’s with his arms around your middle, seizing you mid stride and pulling you back.

The momentum sends you both tumbling to the sand, your back hitting it lightly. Bucky falls over you, though he catches himself before he can crush you proper. All you can do is laugh, breathless from the chase and from the fall, and most certainly from the fact Bucky now lays atop you.

He’s laughing too, his face close and his breathe warm. He shifts to lift one hand and pluck the photo from your fingers, still held to your chest, trapped their by his own body. He’s still smiling when he makes a show of placing the photo in his top pocket, and buttoning it close, and then he drops his hand, resting it back in the sand by your head.

“I caught you.” He says simply, and all you can do is nod dumbly. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you suddenly remember the lipstick debacle. You’re about to make an excuse, or explain what had happened, when he leans in, dropping his lips to your own softly. You don’t mean to, but you gasp quietly, heat pooling in your face when you feel Bucky smile, and hear his light chuckle.

He doesn’t stop though, and you gladly return the kiss at last, lifting your chin so he could reach you easier or have more of you, you don’t know. Bucky shifts over you, his knee digging into the sand as he lifts some of his weight off of you, but before you can complain, he’s holding your face, tilting your head and deepening the kiss.

When you part, reluctantly, you’re all too aware of how heavy you’re breathing, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Bucky’s eyes drop to watch for a moment, and you feel goosebumps crawl over your skin, but he looks away, moving to get off of you.

“Uhm… that okay?” He asks, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly. You’re still just lying in the sand, watching him and trying to catch your breath.

He stands, and leans down to offer you a hand that you accept. You let him pull you to your feet, and by that time you’ve gotten at least a semblance of your sanity back. He’s looking at you cautiously, concerned maybe, but you intend to rectify that.

He hardly has time to catch you as you jump for him, legs wrapped around his middle, your arms around his neck, Bucky lets out a loud, hearty laugh as he makes to secure his hold on you. You lean in and kiss him again, heated at first, but then softer, until you’re only peppering little pecks to his lips.

“I’m gonna go with that being okay, then.” He confirms to himself. You giggle, like a schoolgirl with a crush, and realise he’d been walking the whole time he’d been carrying you. He sets you down atop the rock, hands gliding under where he’d been holding your legs, before quickly removing them, like he didn’t want to overstep.

“You had better not lose that picture.” You warn, making him chuckle, and pat his pocket.

“Oh, trust me darlin’. It’s not going anywhere.”

The sun had already begun to set, and so you make quick work of packing up the small amount of belongings you brought. As you walk back to the car, Bucky carries the basket in one arm, and with the other, he reaches out to take your hand, firmly and securely, interlocking your fingers, and you feel your whole being ascend.

He doesn’t let go of your hand in the car either, reaching out to hold it there too, your intertwined hands resting on your thigh. It’s all too short however, and far too soon he’s parking the vehicle and helping you out.

“I’ll walk you back.” He tells you and you frown.

“What? No, you’re already home, I can—”

“—I’ll walk you back.” He says again, firmer, but with a playfulness that stops you from arguing further.

You wait for him to get your basket from the backseat, and when he does join you around at the rear of the car, his face lights up in realisation.

“Oh! Wait. Hold this for a sec…” He gently thrusts the basket into your hands and you blink, watching him jog into the cottage.

He reappears a few minutes later, carrying something long and cylindrical in his hand, and as he approaches you again, he flips it, catching it smoothly.

“Flashlight. For… for if your power goes out again…” He drops it in your basket before he takes it from you again, and you’re so genuinely touched by the gesture you’re frozen for a few seconds.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky frowns, cocking his head, but you snap out of it, leaning in to wrap your arms around his neck, only a hug this time. His free arms wraps around you instantly, and you aren’t sure you’ll ever get over how nice it feels to be held.

“Thank you. That’s very kind…” You say when you pull back. He just smiles at you, before offering you his arm, and walking you home.

—-

He takes you on a picnic.

It’s such a quaint idea that when he mentions it to you one afternoon, after kissing you goodbye on your doorstep, you can’t help but feel your eyes light up like two cartoonish hearts.

Bucky had assured you he would source the meal and perhaps some wine, but he’d need your basket once more, and the next day you find yourself lounging lazily under the shade of a tree, in the empty fields outside of town.

He’d brought bread, fruit and a bottle of red wine that you’d be very excited by right up until you’d had your first taste.

Bucky burst out in laughter at your expression, nose scrunched and brow furrowed, and he gracefully takes your glass from your hand.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it's an acquired taste…” He chortles, and you gladly let him pour what's left of your drink into his own, but you notice he doesn’t really touch it throughout lunch.

You talk for hours, clearing up the blanket so you can lie down next to one another and gaze at the cloudy blue sky. You ask Bucky to tell you once more about New York City, and as he speaks you gaze at him, gesturing wildly with his hands and smiling back at you every so often.

He was so pretty, for a boy, his eyes so blue, hair dark and lovely and smooth looking. Even his stubbly chin and cheeks, where you could clearly see he’d shaved just this morning look nice, and without really thinking, you reach out and brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw.

Bucky stops speaking, turning his head slightly to regard you softly, but you don’t stop. From the way he spoke about the war and missing his home, you think maybe it has been a while since he’d felt such gentle touches.

“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?” His smirk is barely a smirk, it's far too soft for that, but there’s still a hint of cheekiness in his gaze that draws you in. Laughing quietly, you rise to your elbow, leaning into his side where he’d previously been lying a respectable distance from you and press your lips to his jaw, then his cheek, and at last his lips.

Bucky kisses you back immediately, like he always did, lips moving softly against your own, carefully cupping the side of your face and pulling you down against him even further. Your heart races when he sits up without breaking apart from you, pushing you back so your positions are reversed. Out here you were practically alone, and even if somebody did come driving down the main road, with the tall grass nobody would be able to see you.

You wrap your hands up behind his head, tugging him down more, until he’s leaning against you fully, his forearms encasing either side of your head, a knee slipping between your own as your tongue slips between his lips. Your nearly come apart thena nd there when he moans, muffled by your kiss, but erotic all the same, and he seems to move more feverishly, kissing your quicker, bearing down against you harder.

You resist the urge to wrap a leg around him, but instead let your fingers scratch gently at the back of his neck, feeling yourself sink further and further into bliss with each tiny stroke of his tongue against yours, and each press of his clearly hardening length between your thighs.

You almost unhook your hands from his neck to lift your dress when he pulls back. At first he simply lays his forehead against your own, his eyes shut tight, and you watch him with rising disappointment and heavy breathing as he gently shifts his weight off of you, and dips his lips to kiss the tip of your nose, and then chastley at your lips.

“I uh… this probably isn’t a good idea…” You deflate, but push it aside. If he did not wish to go further, you wouldn’t pressure him. Still, the gentle ache between your thighs resists, begging for friction, for satisfaction. Bucky looks down at you, lips kissed raw and pupils dilated and it takes everything in you not to go for his pants then and there. He smooths down what he can of your hair, tucking some wilder pieces behind your ear before he kisses your nose again, and lays back down beside you.

On the walk back, the both of you are oddly silent, and although it isn’t uncomfortable, you still don’t like the awkwardness. You always felt like you could be truthful with Bucky, and you didn’t want to change that now, so tugging on his hand a little you slow your pace.

“I would have had sex with you, you know?” You squint at him and he blinks rapidly, face blushing quickly as he checks around to make sure there was nobody else present.

“Wha— I wasn’t—”

“—I’m not a virgin. I know what I’m doing.” You further assert, and he only continues to cough awkwardly, trying to reign in his clear embarrassment.

“Men aren’t the only ones who like sex. You always think us women are so eager to wait and ‘save ourselves’.” You roll your eyes then, and walk past him.

You don’t look back, but soon enough he’s hurrying to fall in beside you once more, taking your hand again even as he swallows.

“I never said you were, I just… I guess I’m not used to ladies talkin’ about it so… well, at all…” You side-eye him wryly and shrug.

“Look around, Bucky. In a town this small, there isn’t much else to do except each other. But all the boys have left now…” You shrug again, and this time Bucky laughs, letting out a slow puff of air.

“I guess.” He wears a look on his face like he wants to say something else, but he stays quiet. You slow down as you approach your home, and you’re about to ask when he stops just short of the steps leading into your front courtyard, and takes both your hands.

“I guess I wouldn’t want to take advantage. I’d want you to be sure.”

You purse your lips and roll your eyes again.

“I’m not a naive little girl.”

He laughs again and draws you near, quickly checking about to make sure no neighbour would spy the kiss he presses to your lips.

“And I’m not a boy.” The words send a thrill up your spine, and now more than ever you wish he hadn’t pulled away earlier. You swallow as he looks down at you, eyes intense and fiery and this time it’s your turn to swallow.

“I— I know…” You manage, and for a moment you can’t stop staring at one another.

Eventually, Bucky squeezes your hands and nods his head toward your home.

“You’d better—”

“—Oh! Yes… Goodnight…”

Bucky watches you as you make your way to your door and tips his hat when you look back at him before you close it.

“Goodnight.”

—-

Bucky can’t sleep.

It's late, he really should have been asleep hours ago, but he can’t stop thinking about you and what you’d said. As much as he curses himself for not seeking out the moment when he’d had you under him in the field, he’s also glad. You deserved more than a quick rut on a picnic blanket, and yet his mind wanders to Parisian nights, except all the women in his memories are replaced with you.

Would you be loud? Quiet? Would you say his name, drawn out and breathy? He decides he wants to find out.

It takes him no time at all to walk to your house, and when he’s climbed the side wall of the enclosed courtyard into the back garden, he sneaks on around to the open window on the first floor.

Surprisingly, you were either far from asleep yourself, or you had been suspecting his visit. You sit up in bed right away, but smile and hold a finger to your lips as you creep across to the window. Bucky leans against it comfortably, holding your hand when you half climb through to sit on the sill, legs dangling out beside him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, though your demeanour seems to be far more girlish, far more pleased-but-scandalised than you had been earlier, talking so frankly about sex. Bucky gives you his best smile and shrugs.

“Wanted to see you. What’re you doing awake?” He nods to your bed, the book and torch clearly lying amidst your sheets.

“I was reading.”

“I can go if you’d—”

“—No!” You whisper, socking him lightly in the shoulder, as if it were a ridiculous thought to even suggest he leave. In the moonlight he thinks you look lovelier than ever, and he scoots closer, until he’s resting his arms across your thighs and gazing up at you softly.

“We have to talk quietly though, my mother’s room is above mine and her window is also open…” You point, and Bucky looks, see’s the curtains billowing slightly out, and he nods.

“I’d let you in, but I think you might dissolve into a blush.” You tease him, and Bucky immediately perks, eyes lighting up at the challenge. He pulls his arms off of your lap and cocks his head.

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” He asks slowly, letting a hand gently curve up your calf. Your nightdress covers you from the knee up, but he ignores it, reaching underneath to massage softly at your thigh.

You don’t take your eyes off of him, even when he lowers his gaze to carefully push your knees apart. If anything you seem to lean back on your palms, watching him intently. Bucky meets your eye again when he snakes his hand further, forgoing your leg entirely to press the pads of his fingers against your core, eliciting a sharp inhale from the both of you.

“You don’t wear underwear to bed?” He can’t help but ask, pants suddenly restrictively tight and you breathe out slowly, clearly trying to remain quiet as he lets his fingers simply glide through you slick.

“Only when I’m expecting company.” You tell him, and he chortles, stepping closer and pressing his lips to yours.

Your head angles back for him, letting him set the pace of the kiss and gently, Bucky presses one finger inside. You almost gasp, but he kisses you harder, pulling back again just slightly, so your lips brush when he speaks.

“Gotta be quiet, remember?” You nod vigorously, eyes not even opening to meet his, and Bucky leans back further, content to watch your head lull back and mouth part in the softest breathiest moans he’s ever heard as he slowly pumps his one finger in and out of you.

He’s laser focused on the task at hand, even despite his rock hard cock, and soon he’s adding another finger, slowly letting them sink deep into your velvety wet heat, his pride stoked when you further part your legs for him. He uses his free hand to push your nightdress up around your hips, and he nearly groans at the sight. Licking his lips he sets his eyes back on you, leaning in to nip and kiss at your neck, finally letting his thumb press down against your clit, massaging in circles as slow as his strokes, and he feels your muscles flutter.

A third finger joins the others and this time you seem to reactively grip his wrist, your other hand flying to slap over your mouth as your brow furrows deeply. Bucky knows he’s breathing hard, and after adjusting himself briefly in his pants, he pulls at the thin straps of your nightdress, getting it only half down one shoulder, but it’s enough.

He wraps his lips around your exposed nipple, swirling his tongue and nipping experimentally, feeling your hand wrap around the back of his head in approval. He stares up at you, desperately wanting to see your face when he finally pulls you apart and he’s rewarded only a few minutes later, his fingers fucking you far quicker, his thumb working faster.

When you finish, your cunt squeezes his digits relentlessly in waves of pleasure, and you make strained, soft little mewls as you attempt to remain quiet. Your hips shift and twitch and he doesn’t draw away from your breast until you’re blinking back down at him, gently pulling his hand away from your clit with bashful little laughs.

“At least… at least I won’t have to change any bedsheets…” You pant, and Bucky chuckles, leaning forward to kiss your lips properly, feeling your naked chest heave against his when he does. Your eyes seem dazed, and your face warm, but when he pulls away again you swallow and gesture to his own clearly bulging pants.

“I can—”

“—Not tonight…” And he means it.

“I just wanted… I just wanted to see you.” He says, and your gaze shifts from purely lustful to something softer, and you smile, dipping your eyes away for a second.

Bucky takes the moment to enjoy his view, your dress pulled up to your hips, your pussy still clearly on display, and your sleeves hanging well down to your elbows, breasts bare, nipples hardened and exquisite. He fights the urge to reach out and start all over again, maybe get his mouth on you this time…

“S’alright?” He rests his head in his palm and you chortle quietly, nodding.

“Yes. Yes, better than… than anything with other boys before…” He gets the feeling you aren’t just saying that to stroke his ego, the blissed out look on your face and the oddly bashful demeanour you’ve taken on requiring him to believe that he really had just properly blown your mind. He grins triumphantly, and leans in again, kissing your lower lip.

“I told you I wasn’t a boy.” He kisses you full again, loving the feel of your hand reaching up to hold the back of his head to you.

“I know.” You say when he forces himself back. You watch him as he carefully pulls up the sleeves of your shirt, covering you up again, and then fixes the skirt too, until you’re mostly modest.

“You should get some sleep, sweetheart.” He tells you, and you hum, reluctantly climbing back through your window and standing on the other side. He kisses the back of your hand, but when he goes to pull away, you don’t release your hold on him, tugging him back slightly, and he blinks at you curiously.

Your eyes have taken on that same lustful expression from before and you cock your head.

“Will you think of me?” You ask, and at first, it doesn’t quite click.

“When you wrap your hand around your cock when you get home, will you think of me?” Bucky nearly chokes, nearly climbs right through your window and ends all the tension there and then, but he manages to hold strong, realising you were still somewhat teasing him.

“Darlin’ I will think of nothing but you, soaking wet and waiting for me…” He squeezes your fingers slightly, noting the approval in your eyes even before you nod.

“Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“It has been, yes.” You finally let him go, watching as he clambers quietly back over your side wall.

And Bucky does think of you when he gets home, he strokes himself to the thought of your mouth and your cunt, and your tits bouncing in his face while he has you on his lap. It’s honestly the filthiest his mind has been since Paris nights drowned in alcohol and women he didn’t bother to get the names of. He knows your name though, sighs it again and again as he thinks of you.

He falls asleep hard and wakes up in the morning the same way, unable to stop thinking about you.

—-

In the days following Bucky’s midnight visit, you feel a giddy sort of happiness thrum constantly through your veins. Even now, as you sit up in your archway, trying to focus your mind on the letter you write to your distant aunt (you think you’ve met her all of once, but she’d written to you and your mother regarding your health and wellbeing in the aftermath of the war, so you felt obliged to reply). You find yourself able to write only several lines before you’d look up, searching, hoping perhaps Bucky would show, but even you know it’s too early… he’d still be working.

Part of you debates going to watch, the idea of seeing him labouring away in the hot sun, hopefully with his shirt removed, leaving him in only a singlet top… your stomach stirs at the thought, but you shake your head, and concentrate harder on your letter.

You manage to succeed too, losing yourself in describing Montecarra to your relative who’d never once left England, as she’d explained. It isn’t until some time later that movement catches at the corner of your eye, and you barely refrain from looking up as Bucky finally ambles into the courtyard. He must sense your buys-ness, because he doesn’t greet you as he nears, he just stops for a moment, before he continues forward.

At first you think he may approach you to wait, but instead he swiftly climbs into the open archway behind you. You take the time to pause in your own actions to peek at what he’s doing, only to find him sitting in mirror of you, his back to the same pillar yours is. After he settles he twists back and nudges your arm.

“Got any spare paper, darlin’?”

You try to pretend you hadn’t been watching him, but his grin says you’ve been caught out. Gathering a few pages from under your small stack, you hand them back to him, his fingers over your far too suspect for you to think it is anything other than purposeful. Still, you can’t help but smile, even as you settle back to finish off your letter, hearing him uncap a pen.

You find yourself referring back to your aunt’s letter to answer and reply to all of her questions and queries, and once again you almost forgot Bucky is there, until tugging on your sleeve draws you out of your reverie. You turn to look, expecting to be greeted with his lovely face, but instead, all you see is his hand, holding a page folded into a little rectangle.

Your chest flutters at the thought he’d been sitting writing something for you, and so your letter is quickly abandoned in favour of taking the little note. Bucky seems to remain as if he were oblivious to his own actions, humming quietly to himself as you unfold the paper and gaze down at the words.

‘Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?’

Again, your heart stutters, and you can’t hide your smile as you put pen to paper, drawing up your response. You refold it and hand it back the same way he’d offered it to you; tugging on his sleeve and holding it out. The page is plucked from your fingers quickly, and you try to distract yourself by turning back to your true task, only to be pulled from this once more when his hand reaches back, searching. You watch for a moment before he wiggles his fingers expectantly and you snicker, adjusting your hold on your paper, so that you can place your hand in his own.

You sit there like that for the rest of the afternoon, Bucky humming happily, your hands interlocked at an almost awkward angle, and you try your hardest to finish writing your damned letter.

He picks you up from your home later that evening, finds you waiting for him out the front. You hadn’t dressed up in a long time, and so when his gait slows and his eyes roam over you as he approaches, you can’t help but feel self-conscious.

You’d worn a simple red dress, but it was the nicest one you owned, the only one appropriate for dinner out. This time you’d committed to the lipstick, painted your lips red and done your best not to talk yourself out of it. You’d left your hair down, let it fall in loosely styled waves, and all together you felt part-movie star, part-fool.

Bucky whistles lowly, just quietly as he nears, and you have to scoff and roll your eyes, hiding your embarrassment as he draws you in, hugging you just quickly before he pulls back, hands on your waist still, to inspect you closer.

“You look beautiful.” He tells you, voice soft and sweet and you know he isn’t pontificating, or trying to woo you.

“Thank you.” You reach out to smooth over his collar and finally force yourself to meet his eye.

“You look lovely, too.”

You feel lost in a slight high as you walk to the only real restaurant in town, in the main square. In the early evening the streets are quiet, only the occasional passerby, but the cafe remains open, seeing to a few quiet patrons, plus yourselves out on the terrace.

Bucky helps you with your chair and takes your order for you, pours you your drink… it's so normal and yet you’d never really experienced an evening like it. When your food is long gone, he scoots his chair around to sit closer to you and holds your hand softly in his while you talk aimlessly. You aren’t at all worried about being seen or judged, in fact the few moments in which you catch a passing couple take a look at you, you see kind eyes and sweet smiles, only making you feel dizzier.

“You enjoyed your meals, I see?” The owner, an older man named Matteo who you’d known to live in Montecarra for as long as you can remember, stops by to clear up your plates, and you nod enthusiastically.

“Wonderful, we’ll have to come back.” Bucky says, squeezing your fingers as Matteo smiles widely and agrees.

“Maybe next time I will have figured out how to work this named record player, then you will have music as well!” You and Bucky both seem to perk as Matteo throws a thumb over his shoulder, and Bucky straightens in his chair slightly.

“I can give it a look, if you’d like?” He offers, eyes already glued to the record player sitting atop the counter only a few meters away. The older man gives him a shrug and a gesture that clearly reads as ‘go for it’, as he finishes collecting the plates and patters back off to the kitchen.

You watch Bucky move over to the counter, fiddling with the player, though you can’t really see what he does. You know he’s fixed it however, when he throws a grin back at you, and plucks a record from beside the machine, pulling it from it’s sleeve and carefully placing it down on the turntable.

Music immediately begins wafting through the air, an upbeat tune you think you’d heard on the radio before, and Bucky comes speeding back over to you, hands held out even as he pulls you from your seat.

“Dance with me?” He asks, though he’s already wrapping his arm around your waist, and you move yours to his shoulder and hand respectively. There isn’t much room between the tables on the sidewalk, and although the song is happy, it’s not a rousing jazz tune, so you find yourselves simply swaying in each others embrace as the French lyrics begin to join the band.

You end up close, so close you forget anything else exists around you, Bucky’s forehead pressed against your own, your chests similarly compressed, as if neither of you could exist apart.

You have to laugh, thoroughly intrigued and enthralled when he begins softly singing the words to the song. It’s so different to hear him speak in a language that wasn’t Italian or English and it makes your chest ache for a reason you don’t know.

“I wish I could speak French.” You say quietly, Bucky’s lips quirk up but you shake your head.

“You must be so amused by how quaint I am… never been in a car, never left my town… never learnt any languages…” You don’t mean to sound so melancholy, but it hits you then, the ache in your heart stems from just how wonderful Bucky is, and how plain you are in comparison. But he’s frowning as you finish, shaking his head and adjusting his grip on you, wrapping you up even further.

“Never. I think you’re worldy in other ways…”

Your purse your lips, but as he opens his mouth to continue you cut him off, changing the subject.

“Can you tell me about New York again?”

Bucky’s expression falters, then lifts into a sweet smile, and you know his mind has wafted away to distant city streets.

“Of course…” He talks for ages about all the shops and stores available, about all the tiny apartment buildings and the decor, and his home block in Brooklyn. He tells you about the parks and the weather, and a place called Coney Island.

“... I think you’d like it.” He finishes, and you hum, having closed your eyes now, head to his shoulder as you attempt to imagine all that he describes. You feel him open his mouth to say something, to continue, but he doesn’t, hesitating and then remaining quiet, though he holds you firmer again, and you relish in the warmth of it.

Eventually, you have to let Matteo close up, and you bid the old man thank you and goodbye as you walk away hand-in-hand. Before you can get too far however, you stop, tugging on Bucky’s hand so you have his attention, the warm Montecarran breeze blowing your hair about.

“My mama doesn’t expect me home until morning.” You tell him, seeing instantly how his eyes change.

“Why’s that?” He manages to ask, stepping close again and you smile, shrugging.

“I told her I was watching some children in town overnight.”

Bucky hums at your reply, frowns as if in thought.

“Sounds as if you may need somewhere to stay, in that case.”

Bucky takes you back to his cottage, all quiet laughs and lingering touches as he leads you inside, placing his coat and keys down on the table, but any pretence is lost as soon as you kiss him. Clothes scatter around the small space, a gingerbread trail leading to his bedroom where he lays you down and peels the last of your underwear off.

Oddly, you feel less nervous about him seeing you naked than you had in your dress, maybe because he’d already seen you mostly this way, or maybe because at least naked it was real and you couldn’t pretend or hide, it was more honest.

You itch to touch him, but you don’t get the chance right away, his kisses leaving your lips quickly to travel down and soon you’re gasping, hands clutched tightly in his hair as he buries his face between your thighs, hands holding your legs apart as his tongue and lips work quickly over you, bringing you over the edge faster than you even thought possible. By the time he’s kissing you again, your mind is a haze of filth and desire and you guide him into you quickly.

Bucky is an excellent lover, his pace and angle perfect, his weight above you welcome as he thrusts into your warmth, desperate and wanting. He isn’t boring either, doesn’t end the night quickly, instead nearing his pleasure and stopping each time, drawing it out. He instructs you in various positions, making your belly spark with his knowledge of the female body, nearly sending you into a fritz when he takes you from behind, leaves you scrambling to hold on to something as you cry out into his sheets, his cock relentless as he fucks you through your orgasm, finally finishing with you, his hands curled around to pinch at your nipples, making your cunt bear down on him even more as you fall into a sweaty, moaning and panting heap.

He fetches you water, helps you fix back your hair in your still slightly dazed state, and pulls you near again, skin to skin as you drift off to sleep, lips pressed to one another even as your mind begins to wander.

In the morning you wake him with your mouth around his length, swallow him back as much as you can as he’s drawn from slumber by the pleasure, his hand reaching down to messily clutch at your hair. You watch him come apart for you, eyes fixed on his tilted head, creased brow and open mouth as he jerks into the back of your throat, hot warmth spilling forth that you swallow with ease.

He swears and curses as he rubs his eyes and you crawl up to lay beside him once again, finding his eyes looking at you as if to make sure you were real.

“Good morning, Sargeant.” You tease, only to have him cuss more, his chest heavily quickly up and down. You chitter and brush the slightly damp hair back from his head, a kiss to his cheek as you withdraw from the bed.

“Where’re you goin’?” He asks, blinking himself properly awake and you throw him a glance as you hunt for all your belongings.

“I have to go home, my mother does expect me at some point…” You explain, and he rubs a hand over his face once more, seeming to deflate a little.

“Right. Of course.”

You’re fully dressed when he manages to pull himself to sit on the edge of the bed, still naked, still just as fine as the evening previous. He looks up at you as you step nearer, braiding back your hair before you place both hands on his shoulders.

“Thank you.” You say simply, leaning down to peck his lips chastley. He hums against you, kissing you back and quickly you’re no longer pecking his lips, your hands roaming down over his shoulders appreciatively, his hands reach up the back of your skirt, pulling your underwear to the side and—

You gasp, giggling as you pull out of his reach, shaking your head and wagging a finger at him like a naughty child.

“No! No, I have to go home!” You tell him, even as he sighs, falling back to lie on the bed again. You can clearly see his hardening length and you fight yourself to just climb atop him once more.

“I will see you later!” You say pointedly, tossing a shirt onto his lap, to hide him from you, and you see him grin, chortling even as his hand travels lower, removing the shirt and wrapping around— you turn your back, flustered and tempted, but you leave his little cottage, determined to get home before your mama woke, so you could wash and change.

—-

Somewhere in the back of Bucky’s mind, he knew it wouldn’t last forever, but the end comes sooner than he’d expected.

He stares at the small pile of pages in front of him, their words all making sense in his brain, he understands what they all say, what they’re telling him, but at the same time, he comprehends absolutely nothing after the words ‘The United States Armed Forces herby discharges you with honourable service records…’

He was going home. They were sending him home.

At last he’d be able to hug his mother, see his sister, Steve, all the other fellas… he’d get to go home and really start his life post-war. He’d been waiting on this letter for months, a year even, more perhaps. At one time, it had been all he’d wanted. And yet, all that fills him now is a sense of dread, muddled with a bit of guilt, because he knows he really does miss his family, but…

When he sees you later that afternoon, sitting up in your nook like always, he can hardly bring himself to return your smile, sparkling and bright as always, for him. You pick up on his mood immediately, even if you poke fun. He knows he can’t delay, they expected him on his flight home from Rome tomorrow. The army loved their damn punctuality.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, face falling a little when he only half-heartedly chuckles at your joke, his eyes downturned, afraid to meet your own. He swallows, and shoves his hands in his pockets, squints into the distance.

“They’re sending me home.”

A beat passes.

When he finally looks back at you, he catches the tail end of devastation leaving your features, replaced instead with a hopeful, sincere grin.

You grab his hand, pulling them from his trousers.

“Bucky! That’s wonderful news!” You say excitedly, but he can only purse his lips.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that! You don’t want to spend your whole life here, do you!?” You snort a little as you knock him in the shoulder, and he smiles thinly.

No, he didn’t want to live the rest of his life in Tuscany, but he’d been getting used to having a little slice of it around lately.

Your over-excitement fades, and you lean in to him cupping his cheek.

“You’ll get to see your mother, and your city… I know you miss them all…” He can’t help but frown at a spot on your dress, avoiding your eyes like a pouting child.

“I’ll miss you, too, though.” He mumbles, and you smile, scrunch your nose and shake your head.

“In no time at all this will all be a happy memory.”

Bucky wants to protest, lifts his gaze to argue with you, but the sharp, almost panicked look you give him as you shake your head again stops him.

“No, Bucky… Don’t. Please don’t make this sad… you’ve made me…” Your voice is cut off as you sniff, the shininess to your eyes spilling over just slightly, even though you smile softly.

“You’ve made me very happy, for quite some time. Let us leave with that.” You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face away and Bucky sighs, pulling you closer too, and resting his head atop your own.

He glares, frowns aimlessly at a nearby wall, barely even seeing it, focusing all his energy on swaying gently with you.

“Alright.” He says, voice a little rough. You sniff into the collar of his shirt, and he smooths his hands down over your back.

“Alright.”

—-

“We rented out your room to a shoemaker. You’re gonna have to sleep on the couch until we can convince him to leave.” Becca says flatly, half her words muffled as she’s drawn into Bucky’s chest. He holds her there tightly for several seconds before pulling back.

“Oh yeah?” He rubs at his chin.

“Don’t think the shoemaker will sleep heads to toes with me?” He wonders, and Becca scrunches her nose, laughing at the image.

Winnie Barnes shakes her head and lightly taps her daughter.

“Becca don’t cause trouble. Bucky, we left everything exactly the way it was.” His mother tells him, before hugging him for the sixth time since he’d landed. He just grins, and hugs her back each time. He’d missed her. So much.

They eat dinner together, Steve and Peggy come too, and afterward, the blond makes Bucky pull out his camera. After quickly pulling some choice images out of the pile, he lets Becca and his mother rifle through, telling them about each photo as he remembers it, the act rather therapeutic. He really had been gone for so long.

“Oh… who's this?!” Becca coos, half reading, half awed, and Bucky absently leans over to get a look.

His heart stops for a moment when he lays eyes on you, your smile wide and full of glee, the wind blowing your hair wildly about, your hand lifted to hold your hat on your head. Maybe he takes too long staring, maybe it’s just something about a sisters’ intuition, but Becca whistles, then gasps as she plucks another photo from the pile now tipped on the floor.

“Here she is again! And here too!” Even his mother gives him a sideways glance, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bashful.

He clasps his hands under his knees where he sits on the carpet and hums.

“Nina. I met her in a little town called Montecarra.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She is.” he confirms, as Becca continues to find photos with your face peppered throughout. He should be embarrassed about the amount of pictures he took of you, even ones where you aren’t doing anything but reading, but he really doesn’t.

“She your girlfriend?”

“Becca!” Winnie scolds, glaring at her daughter, but Bucky only laughs.

“I wasn’t lucky enough for that.” He shrugs, and his mother fusses.

“James Barnes, any woman worth her salt—”

“It’s not like that Ma… it’s just…” He trails off. He doesn’t want to say something to suggest he didn’t want to be here with them, because he desperately did. But he missed you.

“Well… I came home.” He shrugs, and his mother’s eyes fill with understanding. She purses her lips but frowns thinly, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

Becca frowns too, but she recovers quickly, pulling out a new photo and asking him about the features in it.

She pulls out the ones of your face, but she doesn’t mention them again.

Bucky settles in. He truly comes home. He stops feeling like he’s living out of a suitcase. He finds a job, granted it isn’t hard, with the SSR setting up an office in the city, he barely had to ask for a job. On Fridays he went dancing with Becca, acting more like a chaperone than a participant, and on Sunday’s he went to church with his mother, holding her hand through the service and making nice with the old ladies after.

He settles in. He’s home.

And then, there’s a knock on the door.

It’s well after any kind of appropriate hours for visitors, but not late enough into the night that anybody was in bed. Winnie sits by the radio in the living room, listening to her stories while Becca scrawls out a letter. Bucky had been reading when the knock came, and he waves a hand towards the women when he stands.

“I’ll get it.”

“Who on earth calls at this time?” He hears his mother wonder aloud as he makes his way down the hall to the front door.

Swinging it open, Bucky feels ready to send off whoever it is, but he stops dead in his tracks. All sense leaves him, aside from sight. He’s only able to stare slack-mouthed as you blink back up at him.

He’s never seen you in so many layers before. It was winter in New York, but Montecarra seemed to be perpetually hot, so the most he’d seen you in was a light jacket… standing before him now, on his front steps, you have a coat, a scarf, gloves, a hat and he thinks those might even be earmuffs around your neck.

“I… Hello…” You begin, your voice heavily accented when you speak English, and even though Bucky shakes himself out of his stupor, he’s still dumbfounded.

“Hi…”

“I… I’m new to the city, and I thought perhaps you will… show me around?” You seem to be thinking hard about your words, speaking slowly to articulate them. You scrunch your nose when you finish, clearly unhappy with the outcome.

Bucky can’t even bring himself to respond. He’s down the two steps separating you in seconds, hands cupping both your cheeks as he kisses you, again and again, in quick succession until you’re laughing against his lips.

“What— how— what are you doing here?!” He stops and starts, but eventually gets some version of his thoughts out. He speaks to you in Italian, not wanting you to feel limited, and you shrug, gloved fingers splayed across his chest.

“My Aunt… the one from England… she offered for me to join her in America, for better opportunities…” You trail off, and Bucky decides you could tell him any reason and he’d have been satisfied.

“I’ve been learning English.” You say, and he nods, thumb stroking over your cheek. He can’t stop looking at you, he can’t believe you’re here.

“I can see that.” He replies, in English, and watches as you slowly understand.

“Buck? Who's at the door— oh! I- I’m sorry, I—” Winnie, with Becca just behind her, stops in her tracks at the door, cheeks tinged red at catching such an intimate moment, but Bucky can’t bring himself to pull away. He see’s Becca’s eyes flash with recognition, her face lighting up.

He forces himself to pull back slightly, guiding you forward.

“Mama, Becca, this is Nina… from Montecarra.”

——

“I thought you said you’d worked in all the kinks!?” You whine, only slightly impatiently, though Bucky can understand why.

“Worked out all the kinks, baby. ‘Out’.” You roll your eyes and mutter in Italian.

“I’m going to work you out in a moment…” You say louder, and Bucky relents, holding up his hands as he finishes fiddling at last.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming! Get ready!” He tells you, quickly rushing around from one side of the camera he’d set up on a pile of books, the little wired control he holds in his hand flashing red.

“Come bambino, please smile for Mr Camera!” You bounce the tiny baby boy on your lap, earning a bout of giggles, just as Bucky slides in next to you on the stairs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, and placing his free hand on his son’s back.

“Ready?”

“Five minutes ago…”

“Say ‘Montecarra’!”

He presses the button, and the camera flashes.

Thank You Very Much For Reading!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes/you #bucky barnes au #40s!bucky barnes x reader #Story: The Long Last Summer #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic

[midnightmoonkiss]

Before The Full Moon.

Werewolf! Izuku Midoriya X Fem! Reader

Summary: The night before a full moon always offered an abundance of fun, especially when you call your man ‘Alpha.’

WARNINGS!: Biting, oral (female receiving), horny asf Izuku, sex, sub!reader & dom!Izuku

Category: Smut

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Werewolf! Izuku is here! First out of three Halloween Au’s!  I’m a bit rusty with my writing skills.. heh..

Just To Clarify: 

Despite Reader calling Izuku ‘alpha,’ this is not ABO

Izuku always has his tail and wolf ears, he just hides them when in public or around reader earlier in the relationship

This takes place in the country in a forest town

Werewolves can shapeshift whenever, they just has no control over it on a full moon night

All characters are aged up

Reader and Izuku are living together but not married or engaged

Perm. Tag List

@coupsieddori​ @desia2​ @strwbrry-lia​: 

Having a werewolf as a boyfriend wasn’t nearly as bad as you originally thought it would be.

Granted, you were lucky enough to fall madly in love with a kind one, and not a bloodthirsty beast.

You had been dating the buff man covered in freckles and scars with an addiction to sweaters for a year and a half before actually finding out his little secret, having witnessed him morph into a ginormous wolf with thick, green and black fur under the blinding light of the full moon.

You had been frozen in fear, tripping over your own two feet as you stumbled back when his head snapped towards you.

The floor creaked with every step he took, the sheer weight of the wolf being enough to make a loud thump that only added to the terror and nausea bubbling up in your stomach. You had almost accepted your death once he towered over you, only to promptly flop down beside you, whining like a puppy as he placed his large head on your legs, eyes practically begging for you to not freak the fuck out.

He made himself as small, cute, and less threatening as possible.

Yeah.

It was a wild night.

Later, he introduced you to the world of werewolves, how they fit seamlessly into society.

“You can always tell someone is a werewolf based on if they smell like a wet dog in the rain, though!” He chirped happily, emerald eyes squeezing shut as he gave you that radiant smile that showed off his sharper than average canines that you had never noticed before despite locking lips on a regular basis.

It had been a year since then, and getting used to your boyfriend shapeshifting was no easy task. Hell, you still weren’t used to coming home to a huge ass dog in your living room on nights with the moon full, despite being fully aware of what was going to happen to him that evening.

He certainly wasn’t what you expected when the word ‘werewolf’ came to mind.

Wolf-like humans covered in fur are what you and most people pictured, standing up on two legs with a snout of a dog and a bushy tail, not… essentially a dire wolf.

Apparently, werewolves could turn whenever they pleased but had no control over themselves on the night of a full moon. Most weren’t vicious, but the few that were stirred up fear in the small communities with their legends rooted deep in the ground.

He even had a pack, friends he led who were as loyal as can be to him, just as he was.

Living in a small town surrounded by forests, trees with trunks thrice your size, he had shown you what it was like to be a werewolf, letting you cling to his fur for dear life as he ran through the greenery, dirt kicking up behind his large paws as his tongue lolled out, clearly joyful to hear you screech and hold on tighter whenever he jumped. The shit.

But werewolves.. were extremely territorial. It wasn’t often you’d hear about a wolf giving up territory without a bloody fight, and so it certainly wasn’t uncommon for your sweet Izuku to come home to you covered in bruises and scratches.

You’d always take care of him, wash his wounds and wrap them if necessary before smothering him in love that always made the tail he typically hid in loose shorts or pants when in public wag.

He was your big puppy, and you were, as embarrassing and thrilling as it was to admit, his mate.

Since he was technically an alpha, a title he wore proudly since he had fought to earn it, you’d occasionally refer to him as that, just to watch as his freckled cheeks light up, darkened eyes side-eyeing you as you giggled like a school girl.

His friends always teased him when you’d call him that in front of them, to which he shook his head at, only for him to absolutely wreck your insides once you got home, growling for you to call him it again.

It got under his skin in a good way, made it burn and sent shivers down his spine.

He loved it.

He loved being an alpha, being your alpha, and he was never going to let that go.

But there was.. one thing you found out pretty quickly about werewolves the night before a full moon.. Before you found out his secret, you would always wonder why he avoided you the days before, but now you understood why.

If only you had found out sooner, you could have helped him with his problem.

“(Y/N)..” He growled possessively against your sensitive neck, sending shivers down your spine as your legs tightened around his slim waist.

You were pressed against the wall in your shared apartments darkened hallway, the hunk of a man you were honored to call your own had you pressed snuggly against him.

“Izuku..” You whined, his hot, growing erection grinding against your clothed crotch. He nipped at your skin, making you gasp and tilt your head, giving him more room to lick, nibble, and suck, marking you as his own with each hickey, large or small. Each bite was sweetly kissed, his chest vibrating with glee with each little noise you made.

His jade eyes sparkled with lust as he gazed at you, making your belly burn and twist with excitement, panties growing even more wet.

His large hands went down to your ass, squeezing at the plump flesh just to draw a gasp from you.

Making sure you were secure against him, he pulled away from the wall, drawing a small shriek from you.

He chuckled, and if you weren’t as horny and desperate as you were to get the daylights fucked out of you, you would’ve scolded him.

His lips then smashed against your own, tongue invading your wet cavern and smiling when he heard your muffled moan. Lips met again and again in a hungry haze as he walked to your shared bedroom, your hips continuously grinding down on his cock making it hard to focus.

All he wanted to do was to bury himself deep in your tight, warm walls, make you his again and again and again so that all who were nearby could hear your cries of his name. You were his.

Reaching the large bed, you were promptly shoved onto the soft mattress, legs loosely hanging off his hips as he pulled away from you.

His hands instantly went to his shirt, practically tearing it off of himself before doing the same with your own.

He was delighted to see you with no bra, your nipples already so delightfully perky and cute.

You were in your pajamas, after all. 

Your face was flushed, eyebrows pulled together, tugging him forward by the waistband of his gym shorts.

Diving down, he captured your lips in another heated kiss, shoving your own shorts down so he could grind himself against your core again. He could practically feel your wetness soaking his front, it was exhilarating to know he could turn you into putty so easily.

His tail tickled at your feet as it wagged, his ears standing up on top of his bushy head, listening to every ragged breath you let out and the light creak of the bed with every movement.

Pulling away, he nibbled at your lower lip, kissing down your chin, over your jawline, licking and nipping at the large marks he’d already left.

He could feel your heart hammering in your chest as he kissed down to your exposed left breast, its sound like a love song singing his name.

Rough, calloused fingers trailed up your body, scarred palms smoothing against your warm skin as he shamelessly felt up what was his.

Moving down, you whined at the lack of friction, only to whimper as his lips encased one of your nipples, tongue circling the flesh and teeth grazing over and pulling it. Your back arched off the bed, one hand fisting the pure white sheets below you as the other tangled itself in his green curls.

His thumb played with your other bud, pinching and rolling it, kneading at your soft flesh whilst sucking on the other one.

“Hah..! I-Izu..! Mm..” You enjoyed the rough treatment he gave you, finding pleasure in the smallest amount of pain as his sharpened canines touched your skin.

He pulled away with an audible pop, letting the cool night air hit your wet nipple, moving to give your other bud equal treatment with his addicting mouth.

He always was a boob man, their plushness and bounce always catching his attention. But yours.. my God he was devoted to yours. Sweet to the taste, so cute and such a beautiful canvas for him to paint a picture on, he couldn’t help but suck marks all over them, his own sanity slipping through his fingers as the night went on. 

He could smell and feel how wet you were, smell how much you wanted him.

It thrilled him to the very bone, made it hard for him to give attention to his favorite girls.

Giving one final lick to your nipple, he finally moved down your burning body, sitting back on his knees on the floor, hooking his large, muscular arms dotted with freckles under your thighs just to yank you down to the end of the bed.

Your soaked panties were right in front of his face, legs dangling off his broad shoulders.

Kissing at your thigh, he pressed his nose against your clothed core, inhaling your scent deeply, making his tail wag and you cry out in embarrassment.

You were so cute, hiding behind your hands.

He adored it.

Impatiently, he ripped the flimsy material from your body, giving you no tome to protest as he dove straight into his sopping meal.

“H-hAH.!!” You cried, fingers pulling at his green curls as he eagerly began to lap at your pussy like a starving dog.

Your juices dripped down his chin and neck, but he couldnt give less of a fuck. You were delicious.

His pupils were blown wide, drinking in the sight of your arched back and parted mouth.

His tongue expertly licked at all your special spots, giving a broad lick over your pink labia, avoiding your clit just to have you buck desperately at his face. 

Izuku Midoriya was a simple man. 

When his mate cries out for more, sobbing his name, he gives them more.

Your hips bucked off the bed once the flat of his tongue ran over your twitching nub.

Finding it hard to please you with your hips going wild, he held them down to the bed, eagerly eating your cunt out, holding you to his face so you couldn’t move away.

The crickets chirping just outside the window above your bedframe were drowned out by the wet sounds echoing in the room from his sloppiness, you were too focused on the pleasure to even care.

“O-oh!! I-Izu!! Mm! Haa..aAAH!!”

His mouth felt like pure numbing magic, sucking on your clit like he did your tit felt like heaven. He moaned against your wet flesh, sending your head flying back into the mattress, belly tightening with that familiar burn. 

You were close. So damn close.

And he knew it.

He knew you so well.

“I’m..!! Izuku, I-I’m so..!” Your legs were shaking like crazy, squeezing the bushy warm head between them as he made you feel like you were high on drugs with his mouth alone.

A particular rough lick at your clit sent you over the edge, screaming his name as your eyes fells shut, convulsing like you were possessed against his mouth. 

He held you even closer to him, slurping up the mess you had made, sticking his tongue into your fluttering walls to lick you clean, savoring your addicting taste that drove him absolutely insane.

But he wasnt done.

Pulling away, strings of your cum mixed with his saliva stuck to his face for a moment before breaking. He watched as your clit twitched and throbbed, much like the neglected cock in his boxers.

Pulling one hand away from your hip, he slid two digits down your cunt, collecting left over juice to slicken them up before pressing at your entrance that seemed to begged for him already.

“P-please…” You weeped, finally looking down between your twitching legs just to be met with such a sexy sight.

His face was covered with your mess, pupils blown wide with a feral gleam to his usually warm eyes, it made your cunt squeeze around thin air.

Despite being the sweetest man you knew, he sure fucking knew how to drive you mad.

Typically, he would tease you, make you beg and beg for him to give you what you want, but his mind was far to foggy to truly even try.

He just wanted to break you in the sweetest way possible.

And so, he plunged his fingers inside you, groaning at how you sucked them in, barely giving you a second to adjust before he began thrusting them in and out of your pussy, dragging more and more moans from your throat as his thick fingers filled you up.

Curling them, he pressed against that spongey spot inside of you, “NGHHAH!! AaaAAhH!! Th-There! HaAh..!” His fingers clicked wet against your squishy walls, mouth coming back down to lick around your clit before flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

Your body felt like it was charged by electricity, zaps running down your thighs and up to your belly, shooting shocks at your perky nipples and down your back.

You couldn't help but grind against him, crying out for more and more, to which he was always eager to give.

Until..

He couldnt take it anymore.

His sanity finally snapped, and with an animalistic snarl nothing short of carnal that had you keening, he pulled his fingers from you, shoving you further up the bed, yanking his shorts and boxers down. You had a single second to soak in the image of his large member slapping against his toned abdomen and oozing with precum before you were flipped over, ass high in the air and face pressed down into the soft pillows.

“Mine.”He growled out, mounting you and plunging his thick cock deep into your squeezing walls. Eyes rolling back into your head, a scream of ecstasy and pain tore from your throat, legs instinctively spreading as he fucked into your little cunt. 

He leaned down, pressing his warm chest against your back, nuzzling his chiseled yet rounded face into the crook of your neck as he thrusted in and out of your tight hole that constantly pulled him back in.

Saliva dribbled down your chin, jaw slack as you cried out into the night, “Alpha..!”

His hips stutter, fingernails digging into your flesh, sure to leave blemishes in the shape of crescent moons as the title registered in his delirious mind.

His tongue flopped out of his mouth, smiling and panting as his chest rumbled with desire as he pulled you impossibly closer, thrusting faster than you could even handle, tail wagging like a bullet behind him.

“Ha-aAAhH!!”

Slick poured down your thighs, the loud slapping of skin against skin and animalistic growls echoing around the room, bouncing off the walls and intensifying the sensation of your brain being turned to mush with how good you felt, how good he always made you feel.

“‘MmMMH! S-sO!! H-aaH!! NNHH!! So g-good!! Alpha!! Y-you fah… feel!! Mm!!”

It was hard to get a coherent sentence out as his thick cock filled you up again and again, rubbing and fucking at all your sensitive spots with expert precision, kissing at your cervix each time he bottomed out inside your dripping cunt.

“Mine.” Izuku breathed out roughly, spare hand burying itself between your legs spread wide for him, just so he could rub your puffy, twitching clit in a circle that drove you closer and closer to the edge.

“Nn-! N-no! W-ait! It’s t-oo..!! Much!! Aa-aAaaAh!!

You quickly reached another mind blowing orgasm, head flinging back as stars exploded in your vision, his teeth digging into your throat making you nose dive off the edge of pure ecstasy.

Your pussy fluttered around his aching dick, squeezing him like a molten hot vice as you came on his cock, stomach feeling full as you squirted onto his tense thighs.

He didnt stop fucking in and out of you as you came undone, only adding to the extreme, overwhelming pleasure you felt, pins and needles dancing across your shocked skin making your head lob to the side as fat tears rolled down your flushed and sweating cheeks.

Suddenly, you were flipped onto your back, dick pulling from you momentarily with a wet pop, your thighs trembling like a newborn doe around him were shoved down to the bed, fully exposing your pretty pink, wet cunt before shoving himself back inside your warm heat.

“IZUKU—!”

You screamed his name, your own nails digging into the toned muscles of his back, scratching to ground yourself as his hips snapped into yours so roughly the bed banged concerningly loud against the wall.

The bed was squeaking so loudly you feared for a second it would break from the sheer force he was giving each time he slammed into your over-sensitive pussy.

“No!” He snarled into your ear, glaring at your blissed out face, “who am I?” His threatening tone made you shake like a leaf, only turning you on even more.

His nose was crinkled up as he growled at you, ears pressed to the back of his head,

“Y-you’re Iz- HAAAH!!! AAAH!! oOOH MY- F-FUCK!” His hips moved impossibly faster, stirring up your insides like day old soup on a burner.

It made your toes curl as incoherent babbles fled from your mouth, “ALPHA!”

He always loved it, being called Alpha.

“That’s right.!” He grunted, pulling back, he forced you to stare into his eyes blown wide with lust and gleaming in the silvery, angelic light of the moon pouring in from the open window,

“I’m your alpha.”

#izuku midoriya x reader #kinktober #izuku x reader #deku x reader #midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x you #izuku x you #deku x you #bnha #mha #n/sfw #bnha x reader #mha x reader #werewolf izuku x reader #werewolf! izuku midoriya #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #my hero academia x reader #bnha izuku x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #x reader

[feelinglikecleopatra]

I do have a request: Can you do a Kanej shot where Kaz picks Inej bridal-style? Please, please!

I have not read anything like this for the two (the usual hand- holding is kinda too obvious by now) and ik how picking up bridal-style is a bit too much contact for them but let's assume they get better with touching and contact over the years- and 'Kaz picking Inej bridal-style' will be peak fluff if you don't decide otherwise!

Please Write this! :) (it had be totally fine if you don't want to)

hmmmm okay, interesting... i mean, arguably he holds her bridal style in soc after she's stabbed by oomen but i'm assuming you mean something fluffier lol

this is a bit of a challenge (creatively) cause inej being inej doesn't really need anyone carrying her, like, ever and, to boot, a disabled boy who uses a cane is not the best candidate for the job. buuuut i did have one little idea that i thought could be cute so, here you go!

let me know what you think!

~

inej can't stop looking at them.

its a very rare thing for her to own something pretty just for the sake of it, something meant to be kept in a box and only worn on special occasions.

the soft leather and supple soles mean the pumps are amazingly comfortable despite the two-inch heal. they're dyed the colour of ripe plums, a deep purple, which nina insisted suits inej's colouring perfectly.

and, even better, they’re perfect for tonight.

in the midst of kaz and her busy schedules, including her tendency to run off on the wraith every few months, they’ve made a habit of going to the van eck's for dinner whenever she's shoreside.

for tonight's dinner, inej is wearing her favourite cream blouse tucked into charcoal pants that taper at the ankle and, of course, her new shoes. the whole ensemble makes her feel very dolled up. though in her childhood, walking the high wire, and not to mention her time at the menagerie, the outfits she wore were many times more extravagant.

it's not like her friends expect finery. kaz certainly doesn't. but inej doesn't regret the choice when, in the darkness of his rooms, he lets his eyes slide over her and tugs on her belt loops gently.

"i like the shoes," he says lowly, settling his hands on the flare of her hips.

"is that all?"

his gaze drops to where she left the top buttons of her shirt undone, revealing the slope of her chest. humming, he slips one hand under her collar and cups her neck.

"i think so—can't think of anything else." with a thumb he tips her chin up to him. the disparity in their heights is not so great with the extra couple of inches so he need only bend down a little to brush his lips to hers. "you look beautiful," he says against her mouth before pulling away.

"hush, kaz, you'll make me blush," inej says it lightly but her tone is belied by the way her breath quickens as he smiles.

"that's the goal, my darling inej."

"we're going to be late."

"let them wait. it's only jesper and wylan."

laughing, she pulls out of his grip. "you know how wylan gets. i will not have it said that i caused him distress, come on!"

in the end, they arrive just in time.

dinner is a simple affair but delicious all the same. and besides, inej thinks, the company is worth all the lobster and caviar and bizarre delicacies in the world.

all night, inej watches her friends laugh and flirt and tease, unapologetically joyful in each others company and it makes her heart ache to think how far they've come from their years spent living at the mercy of desperation and pain.

of all the things jesper and wylan serve with dinner, inej likes the champagne best. it fizzes and skitters over her tongue, a delicate dance that makes her head feel light and fuzzy in the best possible way.

when the dessert is brought out, inej nudges her foot against kaz's under the table, tapping the toe of his polished shoe with the toe of hers. other than a subtle quirk of his eyebrow he doesn't acknowledge the contact.

there's a challenge if ever she saw one.

with one leg crossed over the other, she manages to slide her foot up the side of his calf, which garners her a twitch at the corner of his mouth. resting her foot against his good knee gets him to drop his hand under the table and reach for her ankle.

she's tipsy, drunk almost, but the feeling of his warm hand wrapped around her ankle has all her already disarranged thoughts dissembling entirely.

the warmth of his palm seeps into her skin and his thumb tracks back and forth in a slow movement inej knows is unconscious.

it gives her a moment to watch her man, to take in the way his throat works as he swallows a sip of champagne, his long fingers wrapped around his fork, the candlelight playing in his coffee-black eyes.

she finds herself quite entranced by him, endlessly counting the parts of him she loves and misses when she’s away.

some obnoxious, slurring voice in her head is telling her to list them aloud, to the group, now. the voice is sure he wouldn’t mind. inej knows better.

though she cannot be held accountable for her actions in such a state of inebriation, she resists, content to be distracted by the feel of his hand on her ankle.

by the time they’re standing on the threshold of the van eck mansion again, her promising wylan she'll be back before she ships out and kaz enduring jesper teasing him about something she'll have to get details about later, inej is swaying slightly with the background buzz of one too many drinks.

keeping one hand on his cane, kaz offers inej his arm. when she grins up at him and takes his proffered arm, his answering smile means he's very nearly laughing at her.

"don't!" she pouts.

"what?" he's all innocence.

"don't laugh at me!"

of course, kaz laughs anyway.

the way home seems long to inej. an interminable, meandering amble through the city.

beneath an iridescent spray of stars, ketterdam’s colourful facades feel wholly different. their light and music dance in the inky canals, giving life to another world beneath the waves.

arm in arm, kaz matches his pace to inej’s—almost clumsy as it is. and although the air is warm she can’t help but lean into him, the firm line of his body a precious support.

too soon, they’re back in the barrel, facing the slat. but there, in front of their door, is a large puddle, one might even go so far as to call it a minor flood.

kaz, being the sober one of the two, notices it first. when inej goes on blithely, apparently unaware, he catches her by the hand.

“awww, you wanna hold my hand?” inej coos, nose wrinkling in delight.

“no—i mean, yes, of course—but look.” kaz points at the puddle with his cane, not hiding his amusement. blinking slowly, inej looks at the slat and at the puddle and at kaz. “your new shoes,” he adds, helpfully.

“my new shoes!” inej brings a hand to her mouth, gasping. “they can’t get wet. i—i’ll have to take my usual route.”

it takes kaz a second to catch up as inej heads toward the back of the building, with the clear intention of scaling the outside.

“inej, i’m not going to let you climb a building right now.”

“oh please, you can’t stop me.”

he takes her hand again and all inej can do is blink down at the contact. “what if i asked very nicely?”

“hmmm…” leaning into him slightly, her ascent forgotten, inej says, “alright, go on.”

“please,” he whispers, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. “we’ll find some other way in, one that doesn’t give me heart palpitations.”

inej frowns at the front door, stymied in a way she normally never is. “but how? kaz, i can’t ruin my new shoes!”

one moment, she's pouting up at kaz, trying to make some kind of order out of the syrup of her thoughts, and the next, she’s in his arms.

without hesitation, kaz has scooped her up—one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. what he’s done with his cane, inej can’t tell and she’s too lightheaded to try and figure it out.

“kaz!” a giggle escapes her and inej presses her face into his chest, trying to slow the beating of her heart. “put me down! you shouldn’t carry me!”

“why not? you’re light as a feather.”

then, kaz walks through the puddle (his own nice shoes be damned) and knocks on the door.

inej doesn’t see the look on pim’s face, she’s too busy studying the underside of kaz’s chin, indulging in the feel of his body against her, the feel of his hands on her back and legs.

“she’s fine,” kaz answers an unasked question as pim beckons them inside.

“actually, i’m quite drunk,” inej adds, primly.

the smile kaz gifts her is slow and unerringly fond. “yes, you are.”

~

a/n: well, there we are. can’t believe i managed to sneak in a little footsie (saw this @anonniemousefics' post recently and just had to).

#kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x inej #bridal style #soc #fluff #my writing #requests #just2bubbly #drunk!inej #has that ever been done #who knows #now it has

[thetravelingmaster]

Short Story: A Voice in my Head

For months now, I’ve had this voice in my head... At first it was barely a whisper. Something I confused with my own inner voice, but now I know it wasn’t. It started off so innocently.... Small whispers that felt like my own sub-consciousness giving me little boosts of self-esteem. Most of the time, I didn't even hear the words, but the pleasurable push was still felt. For example, ​I would dress myself in a tight little number to go out at the bar and look myself over. Then, the more I would admire myself, the more I would feel microscopic spikes of pleasure... And a sort of whisper in the back of my mind... Complimenting me... What started as sporadic praises eventually evolved to gentle nudging. Soft words that seemed to stick in my thoughts even if I didn't consciously hear them as they echoed in my mind. 

Pretty soon, every time I sat in front of my mirror and started to apply my make up, I would feel it as it offered different combinations shades instead of the ones I was about to use. I didn't always bother to listen or consider the strange and annoying ideas I felt pop in my head, but when I did... I felt this spark of deep joy...

Without really realizing it, that amazing feeling nudged me to listened to the foreign words more and more. When I finally woke up one morning with the conviction that something WAS happening to me, I started to fear that I was possibly going mad! That the whispers I was hearing were some type of mental illness. But I soon disregarded that fear when I realized that voice was only there to help. It was just guiding me. Praising me... Before I truly realized it, the voice was whispering every day. Especially in the mornings when I got ready or in the evenings when I took care of myself. In fact, I suddenly realized one morning, as I listened to the whispers compliment me on my outfit, that I was starting to rely on the voice to know exactly how I should dress. Especially since the voice always seemed to know what was best. And that each time it praised me for following it’s suggestions, I would feel the now familiar joyful high bubble up from deep within me. Of course, I wasn’t a total dummy... I noticed that the voice constantly nudged me towards sexier outfits and skimpier underwear, but I was a good looking girl so why shouldn’t I be proud to show it off? I work hard to maintain my looks so I figured I had to right to enjoy it right? Maybe it was wrong of me to indulge and start relying on the voice and MAYBE I might have been able to change what was happening to me. But at the time, it just felt so easy and good to listen to it’s words and follow it’s lead. More and more I would hear the voice as it continued to guide and praise me during the day. Before I knew it, I was even letting the voice guide my diet and exercise routines! Why wouldn’t I when listening to the voice gave me such a peaceful and docile feeling of happiness? Besides... Each suggestion only served to boost my health and moral. After months, the voice progressively took over my habits until I would actively wait to hear it’s guidance before taking any decision related to my looks or meals. Even if the voice wasn’t my own, I felt like it had become part of me none the less. I’ve never been healthier or sexier in my entire life! If anything, I was extremely grateful to the strange and wonderful voice for keeping me so focused. And so euphorically happy! Every day the voice urged me on and guided me to be prettier and sexier. I found myself almost addicted to the docile joy I felt when ever I agreed or listened to the voice’s increasing demands. So much so that I never even thought to question it when it started to whisper sexual things when I lay down in my bed at night. The calm joy would buzz in my mind as the voice described erotic scenes while I drifted off to sleep. ​I wasn’t always able to fully grasp the scene it was painting for me, but I felt like I could feel it... Experience it... I would wake up in morning having a deep conviction that I had erotic dreams. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for my nights to get a little hotter than they usually were. The voice gently nudged me to touch myself as I listened to it’s erotic voice and like everything it suggested I do, I didn’t fight it and obliged. Which felt even more amazing than when I listened to it’s wardrobe or diet requests. My dreams became clearer and every morning, I would wake up with the most delicious of arousals as it spread to cover my entire body like some warm afternoon sun. And the more I indulged, the longer that feeling lasted as I went about my day... After a few weeks of this, I found myself spending every waking moment in a sort of deliciously docile haze of arousal has the voice in my head spoke to me more and more. Eventually, I started to realize that the voice never suggested that I let my nightly masturbation session find their release. So of course, I ended up edging instead of chasing my pleasure to its rewarding conclusion. Did it play into my euphoric feeling and constant arousal? Most certainly... But the voice didn’t tell me to indulge and make myself cum so I didn’t. In fact, it praised me when ever I got close and stopped myself before the pleasure became too intense. Which only made me happier because I craved the voice’s praise and the euphoria it brought. Somewhere along the line, I had completely fallen for the voice in my head. It’s constant guidance and praise had transformed my life and I felt incredibly grateful that it had. By listening to the voice, I had gained a killer body and spent my entire day on a cloud of constant sensual arousal. I had never been healthier or as beautiful. I felt incredible good about myself and the incredible sex appealed it all generated just served to prove that I had done the right thing by listening to the voice in my head. I had fallen in love with that voice and I didn’t even know who it was. But that was about to change... This morning, the voice finally asked a question. After months of praise and guidance, it actually asked me a question. It never had before... Even when I would find myself talking to it and asking if it liked the outfit I had chosen. Or even before that when I still worried that I was mad and I would ask it point blank who it was and why it was speaking to me. It had always ignored my questions and simply guided and praised... Until today. “Do you wish to meet me?” it asked seductively. I was taken aback by the sudden change. The voice had never been so clear in my mind and I paused to appreciate just how intense is truly was. But I didn't savor it for long. The voice had asked a question and it always felt good to be nice and docile for the voice. It wanted an answer and I wasn't going to deny it. Of course, I said yes. So I listened and obeyed as it called out to me. Guiding me through the city as I made my way to the source of the wonderful voice in my head. Who ever it was... They had guided and nurtured me for months. Slowly chipping out the bad and refining the good so that I became the best and sexiest version of myself. They had been with me every step of the way to praise and help me become what I am today. And it had all felt exquisitely amazing... So naturally, I was determined to explore what ever they had in store for me. I knew I had already submitted to the voice because it had shined a light on the docile euphoria that was struggling to bloom inside me. I knew that the arousal I felt had nothing to do with the physical nature of sexual intercourse because it went so much deeper. I knew that my happiness and joy had everything to do with the owner of the voice in my head because in comparison, I had never been truly as happy as I was now. And as I listened to the voice and slowly undressed before the door it had lead me to, I knew that I had been craving to give myself to the owner of that incredible voice for the last few weeks... Because deep down, I wanted to give myself over to the exquisite freedom of never having to decide anything for myself again...

#short story

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

How Longingly I Look Upon You

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Valentine’s Day is a holiday you love, for it’s celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentine’s Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought he’d do. 

Notes: This took me way too long to finish thanks to work, but I hope it was worth the nearly 2 month wait! 

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Mando’a Translations:

Ba’vodu - Aunt/uncle Cyar’ika - darling/sweetheart (with Paz, i’m using this informally in a way you’d call your friends babe or love as a term of endearment but non-romantic) Ne shab’rud’ni - don’t fuck with me Cyare - beloved, loved Mesh’la - beautiful Cabur’ika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Din’s term of endearment for reader after ‘Never Mess With a School Teacher’ because she is a true guardian of her kids. Mandokarla - having the ‘right stuff’ basically being truly mandalorian in spirit.

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

Valentine’s day was a holiday you actually quite enjoyed. It was a day to celebrate love, whether Eros, romantic love, Agape, unconditional love, Philia, affectionate love, or even Philautia, self-love. For you it had always been a day to celebrate the people in your life and while certainly you’d never had a suitor or a courtship during Valentine’s day, that hadn’t mattered so much. You filled your life with love for your family, even if they were now gone, love for your friends, and love for your students. It mattered very little in the end, Valentine’s day was a day for love in all its forms and for you, it was a joy. A joy to teach your students about the day, about the significance, to watch them create cards for their families, and see the red faces and giggling laughter when one of your students braved the walk across the classroom to hand a gift to another. Rather than dwell on what was missing, you chose to focus on all the joy that the day brought. 

Today was no different, you had gone into your school house the day before. Spent your Sunday afternoon hanging red and pink bunting, crafty paper hearts and cupids. You wanted every holiday for your children to be worthwhile, to feel like a special day and part of that was decoration. The school house looked like a Valentine’s dream and the lessons for the day were to centre around the same theme. You would cover the history of Valentine’s day and St Valentine, work on mathematical problems in a Valentine’s context, create Valentine’s cards and write stories about great romances and read some of the best love poems that great poets had produced. 

You had even gone with a colour scheme of red and pink for your outfit that day, despite your mother often saying you shouldn’t mix the two. Your dress was neatly ironed, almost gaudy in its Valentine’s nature, but fun. Your mother would have no doubt said that the lace and frills, the large puff sleeves, were all a bit much. Much too gaudy for you, a simple school teacher to wear. You wore it anyway because that was how you wanted it. Gaudy, happy, joyful, and overly extravagant for a day teaching. It was flattering, following your silhouette and grazing the ground gently. You had placed little delicate pink flower pins in your hair, surrounding your high updo. You had even rouged your cheeks, something which you rarely did anymore, usually much too busy. 

You’re at the schoolhouse door smoothing down your skirts when you see the first of your childrens making their way down the main street. Lunch pails are flying behind them, skirts and ribbons whistling in the wind as they run. You greet each of your children with a bright smile and a ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’, like clockwork, as part of their routine they hang their coats, scarves and hats on the coat hooks by the door and settle into their seats, pulling out slates, books, pencils and chalk. They begin to chat amongst themselves as they wait for you and the lesson to begin. You had them well trained and so allowed them the time to chat knowing they’d listen up the moment you called for it. 

Little Grogu is the last to arrive, running on little legs beside Din who always walks him to school in the morning before beginning his day as Sheriff. The little boy wraps his arms around your legs in greeting before wandering in with a wave to his father. While he can speak and you’ve witnessed it more and more, he is generally mute, preferring to use other forms of communication. You’ve noticed this little quirk of his, but don’t mind. If he would rather not speak that’s fine, so long as he’s progressing in his school work then you have little to worry about. 

“Happy Valentine’s day, Din.” You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, a little nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s Day, oddly enough. All these months of knowing him and he still makes you nervous, not in a bad way. It had gotten worse since that kiss in the school house, the nerves of wanting him but not being sure if that kiss had truly meant more to him causing you to become shy when near him. You feel completely and utterly safe with Din, yet at the same time feel that bubble of excitement and nerves in your stomach, that roiling sensation you’ve not felt since you were a child with a crush. You wanted him to see you as more than just Grogu’s teacher but as a woman, an unmarried woman, a woman he could potentially see himself with. A future wife. While he’d expressed interest in courting you that day, nothing had happened since whether he’d changed his mind or the busyness of life had taken over, you weren't sure. You had never thought much on the prospect of marriage, despite your mother’s many warnings, you had simply not cared all that much. You had decided to live your life on your terms, as much as possible, but Din...Din was a man you could see yourself marrying. 

It had grown over the months of knowing him from an objective enjoyment of his features, an acceptance that he was an incredibly handsome man and kind as well, into what you could only describe as longing. The beginnings of something greater, something akin to love. Din was everything you could ever want in a prospective husband, prospective father of your future children. He was handsome, so much so that you were ashamed of the thoughts that on occasion, usually in the quiet of the night, ran through your mind. He was kind and caring, a surprisingly gentle man despite his broad shoulders, large hands, and more violent profession. Ex-bounty hunters weren’t known for their softness and yet that was the only way to describe how he treated you and the children. He was gentle in voice, never raising it around you, never shouting or yelling, he chose his words carefully. He was soft in the way that he allowed the children to sit in his lap as he told stories or helped them down from trees when they got stuck. He was kind in that he was always caring for you, whether making sure you were given adult company during the school day or ensuring you ate after a long day without stopping. He was protective, but not overbearing. Kind and soft, but not weak. He would make a wonderful husband, that is something you were utterly sure of and you knew that you were not the only unmarried woman in town who’d turned their gaze to him. 

So it made you nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s day because on a day of love, he was someone you wanted to celebrate and yet found yourself too nervous to do so. It wasn’t becoming, it wasn’t ladylike to take that first step, that first plunge into the unknown world that was love. Despite that spontaneous and daring kiss you found yourself thinking of your mother and shying away from making another attempt. Your mother, God rest her soul, had always made it a notable detail, a finer point in the plan of your life. You would be approached by a man, not the other way around, and you would ultimately make the decision as to whether you wished to be courted by him with the intent to marry or whether you did not. Despite breaking tradition in the way you taught your children, this was something you didn’t have the courage for. Not again. While Din had expressed interest in you all those months back, the time between had seen nothing but his usual friendly behaviour. It made you conscious of your behaviour and the risk of getting hurt. If Din had an interest in you as a potential spouse, a riddur as he told you once, then he would have to make the next move. 

Now standing before you with one hand behind his back and the other holding his hat by his stomach he looked infinitely more nervous than you expected for simply dropping off Grogu to school. There was a hint of red to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his deep brown eyes darted around, from the floor to your own, before looking over your shoulder. You hadn’t truly seen him like this, this nervousness was unusual for him and you could have sworn he’d combed his hair with some pomade, an attempt to neaten the unruly dark curls that you thought were quite dashing on him. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Y/N,” You frown at the formality, confused as to why he isn’t calling you cabur’ika like he usually does. The formality of calling you miss had dissolved almost the moment you met him and it was strange coming from his lips after so much familiarity between you. He has only ever called you miss when talking to the children about you.

For Din, he has never felt quite as nervous as in this moment. Perhaps it’s the time that’s elapsed that does it. When he kissed you he meant it, he meant his intent to court you, but his job had become busier over the months after...and in truth, he had doubts about his worth. He was unsure if he was truly enough for you. He felt ungentlemanly, improper, too rough. For months he’d been struggling with whether or not he was good enough for you, he knew you wanted to be courted by him, but was it the right thing for you? After months of soul searching, a healthy dose of want and longing every time he saw you with the children or whenever you smiled at him, he’d decided that it was your choice to make. He wanted to be with you and maybe he wasn’t damn good enough, maybe he wasn’t the man that should get to be with you, but if you wanted him then he wasn’t strong enough or selfless enough to or cold enough to do anything but love you. 

“I...I have something for you, it ain’t much but I…well…” The flush to his cheeks grows deeper, a bright beaming red that screams against his bronzed skin. From behind his back he pulls his arm, hand outstretched towards you. He knows there’s a subtle shake to his arm, nerves at bearing his heart open, however, subtly, racing through his blood. More adrenaline than he’s felt anywhere but in a gunfight.

There, clutched tight between the fingers of his left hand is a beautifully bound book, green leather cover and gilded words, tucked between the pages you can see an envelope just peeking out at the top. You gently take it from his hands with your left, the meaning of that burned into your memory from lessons with your mother. To give and receive a gift with the left hand is to recognise and accept an active interest in oneself. The weight of it has your heart pounding in your chest, almost violently so against your ribs. You read the cover, ‘The Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitman’, the tears gather in your eyes before you have any time or thought to stop them. There’s a blind panic that fills Din’s chest, like the blaring of a ship’s foghorn in his mind, at the sight of tears collecting in your eyes. There’s a moment of genuine fear, that he’s somehow messed up, that he’s caused you to become upset. 

Walt Whitman was the poet you used to read with your father every evening after he finished a long day of work, his works are some of your favourite, some of the most important to you, but you’ve never been one to spend money on yourself. You often spend your wage, what little of it you have, on items for the school, books for the children, a globe, an anatomical skeleton. You have a small copy of his works, old and worn, some pages missing. This book means more to you than you think Din knows. Afterall, Walt Whiteman is a well known poet and books are one of the few perfectly acceptable gifts to give to a woman that you are not married or engaged to. It was presumptuous to assume that the gift had any added meaning behind it. Foolish your late mother might have even said in her damning indictment of romance. 

“How did you know?” You clutch the book tight to your chest, heart aching with happiness and longing, that this man had given this to you, on Valentine’s of all days. It brings burning heat to your cheeks, a stutter to your heart, a dryness to your mouth. This is a step that you had dreamed, hoped of, that move towards something more. This was confirmation that he meant it all those months back, that he intended to court you and hadn’t had a change of heart. 

“You...he’s the poet you mention the most when you’re teaching the little ones, cabur’ika” You realise what this is, what this all means. He isn’t just a kind sheriff or your friend, he’s an unmarried eligible man showing you that he’s paid attention to you, that he’s interested. There’s a shift, a shift from the easy friendship to a new undercurrent of tension at the unspoken understanding between the two of you, at the prospect of courtship that he’s extending towards you. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s not marriage, but it’s an offer to begin on the road towards that. It is confirmation that the kiss you’d shared hadn’t been a mistake, a whim, something fleeting and insubstantial.

It makes your heart flutter in your chest at the prospect that Din Djarin is putting his foot forward, extending a possibility, an opportunity, a potential future. That out of all the unmarried women in town Din was actively showing interest in you. He could have picked any number of beautiful, intelligent, eligible women to show interest in, to potentially court, but he’d chosen you. The weight is added at the prospect that he’s not just offering you a marriage, but a family, because little Grogu is part of his world, part of his life and you would never want anything less. 

“Thank you, Din...I...Thank you.” You feel a little lost for words, they’re stuck in your throat, knowing that there are so many things you wish to say but so many things you can’t say.

“I should leave you to your teaching, Miss Y/N. I…” There’s a pause as he thinks over the words in his mind, and stops himself. Din is a fool for you, that he is certain, but the last thing he wants at that moment is to make a larger fool out of himself. So he places his hat back atop his head and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

You watch as he says a sweet goodbye to Grogu, kneeling briefly on the ground to touch his forehead to the boy’s before reminding him to ‘be good’ for you.

The envelope is a temptation, sticking out from the top of the book, it calls for you to open it in that instant. But, you don’t, smiling at Din as he walks down the street towards the sheriff’s office, you turn back to head inside, Grogu walking with you to his seat, ready for you to teach the class. Despite the nagging desire to see what letter, what words lie in that envelope, you place the book atop of your desk and begin your day of teaching. You attempt to put the letter to the back of your mind, to keep the thoughts of being courted by Din at bay so that you can effectively teach, but you know you are distracted. 

The children are just as unfocused as you, the day goes both fast and slow with dramatics abound. Jonah receives at least 5 love letters, Grogu catches a frog for little Mary-Beth and your entire class takes time to gift you with a drawing by themselves of you and the entire class. 

Despite a whole class to distract you, you find it hard to teach, your eyes drifting back to your desk. That unassuming little envelope poking out from beneath the pages of a little poetry book that means more to your soul than you can possibly put into any sort of words. You find yourself thinking ahead, of the future, of Din. If he did indeed wish to court you, to go down that path of potential and intended marriage, then he was truly to be part of your future, he and Grogu. 

There was no doubt in your mind that you’d accept such a proposition, that you wanted him in your future. Din was your friend, something that had taken very little time in truth. From the moment you’d met him and his son, he’d managed easily to worm his way into your affections without even a thought to do so. He was kind, competent, caring. He was good with children. Respected you, your intelligence and your authority in your classroom. While he happily joined you to tell stories to the children he would always defer to you and respect your right to dictate what happened inside your school house. He helped when you needed it, but never jumped so eagerly to help that he took over when you did not need it. While he was certainly quiet, had a temper hidden beneath it all and a danger to him that you’d seen on the few occasions he felt the town or it’s occupants were in danger, he had never made you feel anything but safe and secure. He had proven himself competent the moment he stepped into town, arranging your school house to be built and demanding the respect of every inhabitant. He had done more for you in the months you’d known him than anyone else had done in years. 

He, in truth, captured your attention unlike any other person you’d ever met. You had always had an abstract desire for love, marriage, a family. But, no one had ever caught your attention, no man had ever been thought of as a potential father to your children or life companion. Din from the start had you take notice, you couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that he wanted to potentially marry you of all people. 

He had his fair share of admirers, in a small town like your own, he was the man that stood out the most and one of the most handsome. He had a lot of eyes on him at all times and you assumed that he knew it, some were less subtle and ladylike than others. You knew he’d received a few propositions, something your mother would have been horrified at, but he’d yet to accept a single offer. To receive one from him, meant that out of all the people lined up outside the sheriff’s office begging for his attention, he’d chosen you. Something which excited you. 

It’s on your lunch break, the children running around outside, that you finally have time to pull the envelope from its resting place between pages of inked words and sit with it. When you retrieved it from between pages of poetry, you had found yourself faced with little dried and pressed flowers between the pages of Walt Whitman’s works. A little additional that made a smile crawl across your lips. You’re sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, one eye on them, the other on the unassuming letter in your hands. Grogu has come to join you, toddling up the steps on little legs before plonking himself down next to you, leaning his chubby cheek into your arm. 

“Shall we see what your buir has written, mm?” You ask the little boy, he grins up at you at the mention of his father, he’s missing a couple of his baby teeth right at the front and the gap adds to the sheer adorable nature of the boy. You don’t know how much he knows, but Grogu has always seemed to know more than he let on, to understand the world around him better than most. There was always an intelligence behind those big eyes that made you think he knew more than either you or Din. 

The envelope is unassuming, just a cream coloured piece of paper, neat cursive writing along the front spelling out your name. You’ve never seen Din’s handwriting before and it speaks of someone who received a decent education, hours of being drilled on the correct way to hold a dip pen, how to form each letter. There’s a hesitation to the writing that speaks of someone who hasn’t had reason to write in a while, a little judder to the letters. You trace a fingertip over your name, how it looks in his hand, black ink stark against cream paper. It looks pretty when he’s writing it, you think. 

You turn over the envelope and slide a finger underneath the lip of it, careful to open it and not tear the paper in your haste. You glance up briefly at the sound of a yell, seeing that Jerome is fine and just laughing with the others, red in the face from receiving a kiss to the cheek, you turn your gaze to the folded letter that you pull from it’s confines. 

It takes everything within you to keep your composure as you read the letter. There is a girlish part of you that wishes to giddily squeal, throw the page into the air and run around in circles to express the sudden burst of energy that fills you. Instead, you sit there calmly, fingers and hands shaking as your eyes dart across the page following each line, hungry for the next. 

Dearest cabur’ika, Y/N, 

In truth I do not know how to write this letter to you, but it felt less forward and presumptuous to put my thoughts onto paper than to speak them to you clearly and in the open where the town gossip would get involved. I do not want you to feel forced to return my affections or embarrassed by them. While we’ve shared a kiss and i’ve expressed my intent towards you in the past, it has always been private, quiet and anything but bold. It has always left room for doubt, uncertainty and movement. You deserve surety. 

I have never been nor will I ever be a poet or a writer. I am a former bounty hunter, a sheriff, a mandalorian. I was raised to fight, to defend, not to write poetry or put down my thoughts and feelings into prose. I apologise if this letter is less than you dreamed of. If it fails to live up to lofty expectations or childhood dreams. 

I wish to make it plain and clear to you that I find you to be beautiful. Not just in form, or face, but in soul. You are a protector, a guardian, a caregiver and teacher. From the moment I met you you treated myself and my son with a kindness that I doubt I will ever forget. You have enchanted me in body, soul and mind. When I kissed you in the schoolhouse it was not on a whim, nor was it a false promise. I had and have every intent to court you, to one day marry you. I apologise that I have been distant or allowed room for doubt to grow.

I am eager to see but a glimpse of you in the day, to make you smile or offer you some respite. I am eager to hear your voice even as you talk about topics I have no interest in. I am eager to be in your presence, to see the kindness with which you treat each of your children and the sweetness of your smile, the fierceness of your nature when called upon to protect your class. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘you do not know how longingly I look upon you’.You are mandokarla, built with the soul of a warrior, the kindness of a mother, and the mind of a teacher. Perhaps my words are too strong or forward, perhaps you do not share my feelings, but I wish to lay my intentions at your feet. I do not wish to presume you return these feelings, perhaps that kiss was a moment of weakness, perhaps your feelings have changed. But I cannot in good conscience go on as we have. 

I wish to step out with you, I wish to court you for the town to see, to one day marry you. If you ever allowed me such an opportunity I think I might be the luckiest of men, to have you join me in equal partnership as my riddur. To wake each morning to your smile, to raise our children and Grogu with you. To help you at your weakest and stand and watch you at your strongest. I long to build a life with you. 

I ask, will you allow me the great honour of courting you?

If you do not feel the same then I shall end my pursuit, I shall respect your feelings or lack thereof and we shall be friends, as we have been. But, please, consider my words. I would be blessed if you ever saw me worthy of you, you would not just be an excellent riddur, but a loving buir to Grogu. If I did not feel seriously about you I would not make this offer. But, the choice is yours and I shall respect it no matter what your decisions may be. 

Yours with love and affection, 

Din Djarin

The shake to your breath comes from a good dose of shock and giddiness that collide together inside of your chest like two wagons that haven’t been watching where they were going. It’s not a proposal, but it is a proposal at the same time. There is a giddiness that fills you knowing that Din wishes to step out with you, that he wishes to show the town his intention to one day marry you, that he has affection past that of friendship for you. It’s the giddiness that comes from returned affections, shared interest, you no longer feel as if you are the only one gazing at the other, that your feelings are unrequited. It feels as if all that worry, all that doubt had been for naught, simply a foolish girlish thing to do. How had you ever doubted his intentions towards you? 

“Miss, it’s time for history…” It’s Annie standing in front of you, hands on her hips to remind you that you need to call the children in, that has you hastily folding the letter and pocketing it, picking Grogu up and resting him on your hip as you rise. You, as most teachers, do not have the time to be giddy or dwell on love confessions during the school day. 

The day drags on in its last moments. Your desire to return home, to write a carefully crafted response, to find some sort of gift in addition, has you counting the seconds, minutes, and hours as they slowly tick by. Your children can tell you are unfocused and they become incredibly distracted as a result, but despite this you can’t find it in yourself to be frustrated or irritated, not today of all days when your patience with them has been extended by your supernaturally good mood. 

When Din collects Grogu at the end of the day you give him your sweetest smile and thank him earnestly for the letter. He isn’t sure what it means. It’s not an outright rejection or acceptance and despite the burning desire in his chest to receive an answer, he knows how to be patient, tipping his hat at you and offering to walk you home as a gentleman does. 

It isn’t unusual for Din to walk you home after the school day ends, even on nights where you stay late at school he often comes back with Grogu to walk you as the dark sets in. He has never been anything but a gentleman when it comes to making sure you get home safe even in a small town where very little happens and you know everyone. Still, you’ve always appreciated the gesture and you do now, even if wrapping your arm through his and walking side by side takes on a new tension, a new feeling.  

There’s a little thought in the back of your mind, niggling, that you can’t quite get rid of. The thought that this is what your little family could look like if all goes well. That you, with your arm wrapped through Din’s, hands in the crook of his elbow, and him, with Grogu on his hip, little arms wrapped around his neck, could easily be a future image of a family. Not just the Sheriff, a single father, walking the school teacher home because he’s polite and gentlemanly. 

“Thank you again, for the letter and the poetry book. I...you don’t understand how much it all means to me, Din. I...I want to respond properly, take my time….I.” The air is cold, as it always is in early February, but your entire body feels warm as you try to explain that you’re not rejecting his offer. You don’t want him to doubt for a second that you intend to say yes, but it doesn’t feel right to say it. There’s a desire to take your time, to write a heartfelt reply, to ensure that the time he took for you, you take in return. 

“You ain’t gotta tell me right away. It’s okay to take your time, mesh’la.” The reassurance has your shoulders dropping, a sense of relief, the removal of pressure. Any fear you had that Din would grow impatient dissipates and you're reminded once more of how safe you feel with him. Both physically and emotionally. He is a calming, solid presence. There is nothing fickle or finicky about Din and that is a relief when so much of your social world is confusing to navigate. 

“Thank you.” You tell him earnestly, drawing closer to him as you walk. Your side pressed fully into his, hip to hip, arm to arm. You cannot truly comprehend Din Djarin, the many elements that make him a better man than most, but you don’t think you have to fully comprehend him to enjoy being around him, to find comfort in him. Perhaps it will take years for you to fully understand who he is, but you like to believe you’ll get the time to do so. To learn him just as well as he seems to have learnt you. 

Your home isn’t particularly large. When you first came to town the Mayor had informed you that the post of teacher came with a small lodging. It was small; a separate bedroom off of the main living area, a water closet out in the back garden, enough room in the kitchen and living area for your tub to be placed in front of the fire when you need to wash. It was, however, homey, something Din had admired from the first. 

You ensured that blankets and pillows, knick knacks and trinkets covered the space. That it felt like a lived space, a place filled with love and warmth. 

He’s reluctant to leave you when he reaches the top step to your door. There’s a part of him that rarely wants to part from you, that enjoys your company even if it’s silent. You are comforting and familiar, he feels like he can be himself around you. There’s an implicit trust between the two of you. He trusts you with his son, he trusts you with his safety and protection, he trusts you with himself and even his heart, something he has protected ever since the death of his parents at the hands of bandits and thieves. He would be happy so long as he is in your presence and it is that fact that makes him certain about his decision to propose courtship, there is no one he would rather spend the rest of his days with. Terrifying, overwhelming, massive, but he can sense how entirely worth it it will be. 

“Goo-”

“Hav-”

The two of you go to say goodnight at the same time, stopping short and laughing under your breath. You tug at the fabric of your skirt and shift, feeling a wave of embarrassment at talking over each other, an odd feeling when neither have done anything to be embarrassed of. 

Grogu shifts on his father’s hip, leaning forward a hand reaching out to wave at you. You begin to smile, waving back at the little boy, your smile only grows wider when the usually mute boy giggles out “Goodnigh’!” at you with a large smile on his face. 

The boy manages to break the tension with a simple word and smile, once again you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. That this six year old is, perhaps, wise beyond his years.

“Goodnight, Grogu. Goodnight, Din.”

“Goodnight, cabur’ika” There is a pause from Din as if he wishes to say something, before stopping himself, turning and walking down your stairs. You wait there at your door, watching him leave until your eyes can no longer follow his figure as he disappears around a corner and out of sight. 

Your home feels empty, unusually so, with their presence gone, but you decide to put your energy and longing into a response. The first part is your famous spiced cookies. You know that Mandalorians prize spiced foods highly, a cultural aspect that your teacher Atin’a Caivass had shared with you as a child. 

The recipe was hers, one thing she gifted you, shared with you, and entrusted to you. So you get to work, mixing together flour, butter, sugar, egg. Adding spices that are one of the little luxuries you deign to spend a little extra on. They’re the sort of cookies that have a lovely mixture of sweetness and kick, they hit you in the back of the throat just enough to make your mouth tingle. The coco powder in them balances out the heat nicely,

Once the cookies are on the side cooling you hunt out your letter writing items. You haven’t had reason to write a letter since the passing of your parents many years ago. But, you know, in your organised way, where your things are. You collect your writing paper, envelopes, dip pen, ink. You find out your sealing wax, the stamps you haven’t used in years. You lay out each item on your kitchen table with care, feel a thrill go through you that you haven’t felt in years. You always enjoyed writing letters, taking your time to put thoughts and feelings into words onto paper. 

You take up your pen, dip the metal nib into black ink and bring the tip to cream, clean, fresh paper and begin to write. 

Dearest Sheriff Djarin, Din. 

There are few words in the expanse of the dictionary that could truly describe how I felt upon reading your letter. Ever since the kiss we shared I had worried, doubted. I was scared that perhaps you had changed your mind, decided that I was not worth your time, that I was not of interest anymore. When to me you had only become further ingrained in my dreams and wants. I was scared that I had made a terrible fool of myself.

To know that those feelings are returned, that you can see a life and a future with me means the world, it means everything. Grogu and you have become an inextricable part of my life, a part I would never wish to do without. You and that sweet boy make my soul sing and as Walt Whitman once aptly put ‘I am to see to it that I do not lose you’. 

You enchant me and thrill me to no end and perhaps that is not ladylike to say, perhaps I should write a quick acceptance of your offer and leave it at that, but I feel that such honest and open words should be returned in kind. I adore you. 

I adore the crinkle in your brow, the blinding smile when you drop your guard. I adore the kind, gentle nature you have around children, the ease with which you cause them to smile and laugh. I adore the respect you have for me, the respect you have for my authority in the classroom. I adore the curls of your hair, the hook of your nose, the patchy beard that grows on your jaw. I find there is very little I do not adore about you, Din Djarin and that is both a terrifying concept and one that I too adore. 

There was a time I thought little on marriage. I was told I should marry, but what of it? Why would I? You have, for the first time, made me truly desire marriage, a husband, children, a life of pure domesticity and family. 

To put it plainly, and I hope my feelings are not off putting or too forward, I would be glad, happy, ecstatic to one day call myself your wife and to call you my husband, my riddur. 

You asked if I would allow you to court me and my answer is yes, a hundred, a thousand times yes. I would love nothing more than to step out with you, to hang on your arm and begin to take steps towards a life together. 

I wish to make it equally as clear that Grogu matters to me. That I understand that he is part of this, part of you, and that I would never wish for you to part from each other. If you one day saw me as worthy of becoming his mother then I would take that responsibility on with pride and with love. He is a little angel, he captured my heart from the very first day I met him, even with his mischief and I would never wish to part with the two of you or come between your aliit, only to join it. I understand that he is as much your son, your child, as any child born of your own blood. 

I accept your offer of courtship and I knowingly enter into it, and all that it entails. 

All my love and affection,

Y/N Y/L/N

You wait for the ink to dry, in the meantime you take some muslin and begin to wrap the cookies carefully in the fabric. The twine you wrap around you knot into a bow. Redoing it multiple times until you're happy with its shape. There’s no real need for a knot of twine to be perfect, but you want it to look perfect, to be perfect, for him. 

The ink of your letter is dry and you’re careful as you go through the motions of folding the pages, slipping them into a crisp envelope and weighing down the lip. You’re selective in your choice of wax and seal, careful as you melt the wax, pour it and stamp it. There’s a quiet calm about it all, sealing your words behind wax and paper. Knowing that the next time they’re revealed the one person they’re meant for will be reading them.

You place the times together on the side with care, ready to be collected in the morning as you leave for the school house. You take a few moments to think about when it would be best to deliver them, deciding that as much as it pains you to wait, the evening, after school, is better than the morning. It would simply distract you more, you have little time to do it, and the evening gives you that time to talk, to enjoy the change in your relationship. 

You go to sleep that night with thoughts of Din’s smile, the one he gives whenever he tells a story to your class, soft, gentle, filled with contentment. Thoughts of the way his hair curls over his ears and his neck moves as he swallows. Thoughts of how he had come into your little mining town of Navarro and shaken everything up in the best sort of way, put to right all the wrongs, solved problems and brought forth solutions.

When you wake the next morning you’re extra particular about what you choose to wear, how your pins look in your hair and how much rouge is on your cheeks. You know, deep down, that Din could care less about the way your hair is pinned or how much rouge is on your cheeks, but it’s something to occupy your hands and mind in the morning before you get to the school house. Once you’re teaching you know you’ll have little time to worry or think about the response you intend to pass on to Din at the Sheriff’s office that evening, but in the meantime you busy yourself with your daily routine. 

The day seems to drag, your smile and good morning to Din as he drops Grogu off for school is filled with tension and unspoken words. Your lessons seem to take forever to teach and where you’d normally be enthused you find yourself more eager for the day to end than anything else. 

Paz is the one to come by and collect Grogu at the end of the day. The large man had settled into town as the deputy not a month into Din’s stint as sheriff. You knew that Paz and Din were close, practically brothers, having grown up together in the covert and that had been the main reason for you warming to him so quickly. Without Din’s presence you would have likely shied away from Paz. He was large, if you’d thought Din was broad shouldered, then he had nothing on Paz, who was a veritable giant. His size and his resting scowl made him intimidating, but his interactions with the children and women of town showed his character instantly. Like another Mandalorian you knew he’d been gentle and sweet, respectful, despite his size and intimidating demeanor. You liked Paz, even if he seemed to enjoy embarrassing you around his brother. 

“Hey there, Little One!” You watch Paz crouch down, arms open as the little boy barrels towards him as fast as his little legs can go. Grogu absolutely adored Paz, he was his uncle, his ba’vodu, and the little boy loved being swung about, hefted to and fro by the giant man. It was the tenderness with which Paz always encompassed Grogu in his arms, lifting him gently to his shoulders, that reminded you of the soul inside Paz. The cover of his book was intimidating, scary, tough, the face of a mercenary and bounty hunter, but his inner pages, his soul was just as soft as Din, just as caring. You were happy to call Paz a friend. 

“Hello, Paz”, You smile up at the man, Grogu now sat about his shoulders, arms wrapped around the top of his head with a little smile. The man in question smiles down at you, “Good evenin’, cyar’ika”, You smile wider at the familiar endearment, happy to see your friend even if the nerves from your impending visit to Din buzz in your stomach and chest. 

“Is Din working late?” 

“Yeah, the kid’ll be at mine for the night, Din’s working the graveyard shift so to speak.” You’re, in truth, glad that Paz is watching Grogu for the night, that Din is working late. It gives you the privacy to give your response, without either the watchful eyes of a child or any other sort of audience. 

“Well, have a good night, Paz” 

“Not as good as yours i’m sure” It’s said with that teasing glint that Paz often gets in his eye and a smirk that twists the shape of his beard. It causes a sort of panic to fill you, at the thought that Paz knows, that he knows what’s going on even if it’s completely believable and acceptable that Din would tell his brother about his intentions towards you. Your body feels warm all of a sudden and you're sure there’s a look of panic in your eyes because Paz’s glint softens down to something kind and gentle as he nods a goodnight to you and walks away. 

You force yourself to go about your normal routine, spending a few hours at the school house marking books, organising the next day’s lessons, tidying up and generally making sure you were ready for all your children the following morning. You may spend a little too much time rearranging the items on your desk and sharpening pencils that don’t really need to be sharpened. 

It’s as the sun begins to dip low in the February sky, and people begin to light lamps in their houses or, for those with enough money, turn on their electric lights that you finally decide enough is enough and grab the parcel and letter from your desk. You march with a strange sort of determination, that hides the mess of emotions you are inside, across the street and to the Sheriff’s Office. It doesn’t matter that Din had already shared his feelings with you, you were still nervous of his reaction, had you responded well enough? Was it romantic enough? Would something in your letter be off putting for him? Was it too forward? Not clear enough?

He is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on top of his desk, heels of his boots digging into the wood of the table. The warm light from various gas lamps bounces across Din’s features, accentuates the sharpness of his cheek bones, the curve of his hawkish nose, the shadow from the brim of his hat. 

His chair makes a sharp screech across the floorboards as he rushes to stand at the sight of you, feet falling to the floor as he bounces to them. The hat is swept off his head, politely removed to show the curls of his hair as he, dare you say nervously, tugs at his waistcoat and checks his attire. It’s somewhat relaxing, the endearing nerves with which he greets you, the quick attempt to perfect himself, to show you the best of him, even if you would have happily been greeted by him even if he were covered head to toe in mud. 

“Cabur’ika…” He’s a little breathless and it causes a flush to reach his cheeks. He’s embarrassed that he sounds like a school aged kid, that he isn’t standing before you behaving like a man, an adult. But, you take the breath out of him. You’re frazzled looking after a long day teaching, the hair of your up-do frizzy and falling out in places, chalk across your cheeks and skirt, wrinkles in your clothes that he was sure weren’t there that morning, but you still looking breathtaking, you still make his heart jump a beat. 

“Din…” You’re breathless yourself, it feels like your nerves have a hand around your throat, a tight grip keeping the breath from leaving your lungs. You fumble a little as you step towards him, tripping on a loose floorboard but catching yourself. Your hands nearly drop the precious cargo they’re carrying and you clutch tighter in response. 

“I...uh...Here.” You had the parcel and letter to him, as he reaches for the envelope first you panickedly say, “The parcel! Open...open the parcel first?” He can see the nerves in you, the way you twist your fingers and bite at your bottom lip, in an effort to ease them he nods with a smile and puts the envelope on his desk, focusing on the package of muslin and string. 

He’s careful as he opens it on his desk, pulling apart the perfect bow you’d tied and unravelling the package with careful hands. His fingers are too delicate in that moment for such large hands, for hands that have choked men unconscious and lassoed bounties, that have held guns. It’s odd for him, how easily he has fitted into the domesticity of town, odd, but not unwelcome. 

The wrappings fall away and he’s greeted by the sight of warm brown cookies, irregularly shaped, although somewhat circular. They’re delicious looking, but what gets him the most is the smell, it reminds him of winter nights in the covert, of his adopted parents and warm cookies and milk, spices that he’s almost forgotten about. He should really ask before grabbing one and tucking in, but he can’t resist the urge to find out if the spices are the ones he remembers from his childhood. 

The cookie is moist and soft as it crumbles away easily onto his tongue, he can’t resist closing his eyes at the taste. He recognises the spices, the taste taking him back to fond memories and warmth, a familial bond between him and those who had taken him in, protected him, given him a purpose, a life. He finishes the whole thing without really realising it. 

You watch on, anxious to see if he likes them. It had been a risk, spicing the cookies, you hoped the significance to his culture was a good thing and not bad. You found yourself second guessing your decision as his brow furrowed, eyes closing, but then he took the next bite, and the next, until the cookie was no more and Din’s chocolate coloured eyes opened and blinked over at you with the lightest sheen of tears. 

“How did you know?”

“I...I had a mandalorian teacher, remember? She...she always liked spiced cookies, I…are they okay? Was...should I not have?” You feel the worry bounce through you, at the thought that you’d crossed some invisible line, some sort of boundary not meant to be crossed. 

“No, no! They’re lovely, thank you. They...they remind me of home, Mesh’la.” He’s quick to reassure you, a warm hand reaching out to give one of your own a quick squeeze, just long enough to comfort you, but no longer than appropriate.

You watch him turn back to the envelope, picking it up with care before glancing between the seal and you, eyes darting back and forth as if he is unsure if he is allowed to open it, to read it. “Open it.” You force the words from your throat, nervous for him to read your words, your thoughts and feelings put to paper, but knowing that the relief once he has done so will outweigh your current anxiety. 

You stand and watch, a lump in your throat, your hands twisting into your skirt as he opens the envelope. A careful finger pulling the seal free and gently easing the pages of your letter from it’s confines. You wait and you watch, eyes intent on his features as his own carefully trace across the curvature of your words. 

He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tears well in his eyes as he reads further throughout your letter. It is not just your open acceptance of his offer that has his emotions rising within his chest, but the clear admiration of him and the openness with which you accept his son. Grogu was his child, you were right, as much as any child of his own blood would be, and he had, in truth, stupidly worried that you might not accept the boy as your own. Your excitement at the prospect of one day being a mother to him causes his heart to ache in the best sort of way. 

Din was purposeful as he placed the letter down and strode up to you, the toes of his boots touching the hem of your skirt. He invades your personal space in a way that sets your skin aflame, yet it is not uncomfortable. You welcome his presence as much as it causes your heart to beat rapidly and your throat to swallow. 

“May I kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft and gentle, the southern twang just under the surface. He’s so close you can feel the warmth from his skin. You nod, letting out a shaky breath as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. So large they enclose you so well, make you feel secure even as your heart tries to stutter out of your chest. It matters little that you’ve kissed before, that was quick, this was slow, your attention undivided, your thoughts completely encapsulated by him and his entire being. His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth in gentle strokes as he gages your reaction, eyes focused on your own. He’s slow as he moves forward, as if giving you time to back out, to pull away, but you don’t. 

He tastes like spices and sugar, the cookie lingering on his tongue long after it had melted away. He is soft, but not so gentle, the gentle, delicate nature of your last kiss is replaced by depth of emotion, passion and fire. His lips firm against yours, a large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other falls to your waist. His beard scratches against your skin pleasantly and you think you could happily grow used to this. You think little of propriety, of politeness, when you open your lips to his and meld yourselves closer together, think little of it as you clutch at his shoulders and breathe him in, as your fingers come up to tangle in those chocolate curls and tug incessantly, as his tongue tangles with your own. There is no fear of it going too far, of Din pushing you for more, of demanding more because you both know the lines that must not be crossed, because you trust him implicitly and because you know he respects you enough to not risk your reputation or livelihood for something carnal or baser, even if he desires it. Even if you desire it.

The lack of fear is what allows you to get swept up in the kiss, in the feeling of his hands and lips on you, the warmth of his skin, the smell of his soap. It allows you to forget that the world outside exists, that you are not in your own private world, but in the easily accessible space that is the Sheriff’s Office. 

The spell is broken by the sound of the door slamming open and heavy, booted footfalls on the floorboards. You pull apart with a gasp and Din is quick to stand in front of you, as if to protect you from view, scowling at his deputy in the doorway. Not even the little boy on Paz’s shoulder can take the frustration from Din, he is frustrated at the interruption, embarrassed for you, that you were caught in a compromising position, and irritated by the smirk that’s heavy on Vizsla’s lips. 

Paz hadn’t meant to interrupt, in truth he hadn’t expected to find you there, lips locked to his brother, but Grogu was being fussy. Refusing to eat his dinner and then outright refusing to be put to bed. Paz had decided the kid just needed to see his buir, he hadn’t expected Din to be...in the middle of something. 

“Am I interrupting something, Djarin?” He’s teasing and he feels a little sorry when he sees how embarrassed you look, but it’s worth it for the glare he gets from Din. His smirk widens as Din practically growls at him, teeth clenched tight. 

“Vizsla, don’t make me shove my boot where the sun don’t shine. Ne shab’rud’ni.” He softens a little at Grogu grinning at the two of you, but he still wishes the interruption had never come. He knows it was inevitable, he has a young son, the chances of romance going uninterrupted are slim, still… 

“We’ll be outside, Vod. Don’t take too long” Paz says it, still with that smirk attached to his face. He’s gracious enough to give Din a little more time with you, before demanding the man take his son home and tuck him in bed. 

The door closes softly behind him, the moment he’s out of sight Din turns back to you, sighing out an apology, “I’m sorry, cyare…”

He presses his forehead to your own, hands smoothing across your waist and back in gentle motions. As if trying to soothe the embarrassment from you, bring you back to a sense of peace that had since been disrupted. 

You push your forehead back into his and nudge his nose with your own, “Don’t be. He’s your son.” You mean it. As embarrassing as being interrupted is, as frustrating as it may be, you understand. His son is massively important, and he’s young, there are bound to be interruptions. It’s okay. 

“So, we’re really doin’ this, huh? Haven’t changed your mind yet, Mesh’la?”

“Not at all…” You press forward, a soft, sweet little kiss to lips before pulling back, “You should go...Grogu needs you. Wish him a goodnight for me?” You pull away slowly, untangling yourself from his arms despite your own reluctance. You want to stay there, warm and safe forever, but Grogu needs his father and you do not have the heart to deprive him. 

“Always.” 

Din doesn’t want to leave you, but you make the decision for him, grabbing his hat and carefully plopping in atop his head before ushering him out the door. You watch as he takes Grogu from Paz, putting the boy onto his shoulders and walking with the man down the street. 

He can’t help but look back.

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

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[teawaffles]

The Conspiratorial Bullet: Chapter 5

Returning our view from where the two girls began to rekindle their beautiful friendship to the site of the flag once again, a fierce battle was still raging on.

Just moments earlier, the blue team had been at a numerical disadvantage. But with their allies having received their communications and returned, the battle could now tilt either way…… No, they currently had the momentum to push the enemy back just a little.

“Alright, we’re totally forcing them back here!”

“If we can get through this fight, there’ll only be a handful of them left. We just have to hold out a bit longer.”

The nobles had spotted a chance of victory, and they could even afford to smile now. But as they verified their opponents’ positions from within a thicket, from behind a tree on the opposite side, a mysterious object was lobbed in their direction.

“What’s that?”

One noble had noticed the item sailing towards them — a bulging leather pouch. But its opening wasn’t fully shut, and as the blue team members stood rooted to the ground, the contents of the pouch spilled out onto them from above.

Out the bag poured a vast quantity of dummy bullets.

“H-Huhhhhhhh!?”

Stunned, the men shrieked as the rain of bullets pelted them without mercy. Of course, in the blink of an eye, most of them had been covered with paint.

One of the noblemen touched the paint on his clothes with a finger as he spoke in a daze.

“Is this, really possible?”

It seemed that doubt had surfaced in the others’ minds as well, for those who’d been paint-bombed simply stood where they were, their confusion plain as day. And as they did so, in the distance, a figure watched them from behind a tree.

“Sorry about that. Still, this is a great tactic.”

——As James Bond murmured that, he chuckled.

Needless to say, the one who had delivered that hefty blow on the blue team was Bond. At a spot far removed from the crossfire, he’d quietly made his preparations alone, and lain in wait for the chance to pull off this stunt.

Using bullets in this manner, when they were meant to be shot from a gun, could potentially invite controversy; but Herder had said, “If you get paint on any part of your body, you are out” — and not “if you are struck by a bullet fired from a gun”. In other words, if one adhered to the rules as explained, it could be said that this tactic of raining huge quantities of mock bullets on the enemy was legitimate.

Although they’d been suspicious at first, after a moment, the nobles looked at one another and laughed.

“That was an interesting attack for sure, but now…… what’ll we do? Should we call the referee and seek a decision?”

“Nah, we were completely done in — it’s our loss. Let’s bow out with grace.”

Far from leaving them frustrated, the innovativeness of that idea had felt refreshing; even as they harboured twinges of regret, the men obediently left the battlefield.

The red team members glanced at one another, as if wondering why their opponents were leaving the battlefield: it seemed Bond’s unconventional attack had surprised even his own allies.

Gazing at their puzzled faces with delight, Bond began to head for the apparent location of the opposing team’s flag. There was no rule that a certain person had to capture it, so he wanted to settle things himself if he could. With the blue team’s forces severely depleted, as long as they eliminated the remaining few members, they should be able to steal the flag with ease.

But the instant he saw the path to victory, from the direction of his own allies came a familiar voice.

“O—i, everyone. I’ve taken the flag. The game’s over now.”

That was absolutely impossible. A chill ran down his spine.

The voice announcing their victory—— was his own.

“Huh? We’ve already gotten the flag?”

“That was quicker than I thought.”

Naturally, since they thought the game was over, his allies had let down their guard. Bond shouted to them as fast as he could.

“No! That’s not me!”

But the warning came a second too late. Before his voice could reach them, several gunshots could be heard coming from their direction.

“……They’re done for.”

Bond bit his lower lip as he headed for his allies. There, a group of men stood in a daze, their clothes stained with paint. It seemed they had fallen into a spectacularly executed trap.

The number of players eliminated here was comparable to what Bond himself had taken out earlier. Once again, the balance of the battle had been restored, and his shoulders sank — but then he heard the rustle of leaves from a thicket behind him.

Sensing danger, Bonds dived swiftly into the nearby bushes. That instant, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a certain colleague’s young face.

Bond smiled as he raised his gun.

“You said you weren’t the type to get passionate, but that was a pretty nasty trick you pulled there ——Fred-kun.”

“That’s because I can’t let the team Mr William is on be defeated.”

Fred Porlock responded in a flat voice.

“Bond’s” voice from earlier had been a product of Fred’s mimicry. He’d led his opponents to mistakenly believe that the blue team’s flag had been captured, then took advantage of their lowered guard to inflict a massive blow.

“Hmm, so you’re determined to win too. Speaking of which, you’re rather passionate for someone who’s stone-faced.”

He purposely slung those provocative words over, and from the other side of the thicket, Fred’s retort sailed back.

“Perhaps — but getting too passionate only impedes my work. For me, an ironclad rule is to remain calm at all times.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. It’s precisely this important work which requires a passion that’s second to none.”

“In that case, shall we prove who’s right?”

Fred’s unusually provoking comment had a somewhat joyful ring to it.

Bond chuckled.

“I knew you were a passionate man.”

With that single line uttered with joy as the catalyst, Bond leaned out of the vegetation and raised his gun. It seemed Fred had the same idea, for both of them were now pointing their revolvers at each other. But this was no time for indecision. Both men pulled the trigger, then took evasive action. The bullets passed through the exact spots they’d been a moment earlier, and they each hid behind a tree at the same time once more.

That thrilling battle lasted only a moment. Then, Bond called out with a childlike innocence.

“Aah, what a shame: I’ve been hit. Look, here’s the paint stain.”

“I’m not getting fooled by that — you completely dodged the shot.”

Fred had instantly seen through his deception. But even after his true intentions had been read like a book, Bond seemed to be enjoying himself, and he made to step out in preparation for his next move.

——Then, as if in response to that action, Fred raised his voice.

“Mr William, we can carry out a pincer attack now.”

“……What?”

That shocking line sent Bond looking around the area in suspicion. Then, as Fred had said, he saw William standing behind him.

“Hey Bond. How’s it going?”

“W— Will-kun!?”

For a split second, Bond panicked. He’d been trying to keep an eye out for William’s movements, but then the man showed himself just when he’d been focusing on Fred — this was the worst possible situation he could’ve found himself in. Bond knew he still had a few teammates left, but could it be that William had wiped them all out without making a sound?

In any case, it was a fact that his most formidable enemy had crept up behind him. Bond switched gears: in a flash, he took aim at William.

But far from defending himself, the man simply shrugged, as if he was troubled.

“Sorry, but — I’ve already been eliminated.”

“Eh?”

Yet another surprising statement. Bond’s thoughts were in disarray as he stopped himself, his gun still trained on William. Then, he felt something thud against his back.

“…………”

With an awkward smile plastered on his face, Bond turned his head, and looked behind him. There, stood Fred with his gun raised. Somehow, it seemed a slightly victorious smile had risen on his face.

He didn’t even need to check his back — he knew he’d been hit. With a magnificent sigh, Bond sat down on his haunches.

“Ah~, you’ve got me. So something like that was possible too……”

Now, he finally understood the plan that William and Fred had concocted. Bond ruffled his hair in regret, and William smiled as he spoke.

“There wasn’t a rule saying that you can’t take a detour as you leave the battlefield.”

William had anticipated the strategy his opponent would employ, then used the fact that he’d been eliminated, purposely passing through the frontline where Bond and the rest were in order to give the impression that he was still in the game. Of course, he made sure to tell the people he encountered that he was already out, so that they could avoid wasting bullets on him.

Even so, for those who knew William’s true power, the effect of his presence was enormous; now, just as William had planned, Bond made the mistake of leaving his back open to Fred.

“I didn’t think you’d also exploit loopholes in the rules.”

“Nonetheless, it’s a tactic bordering on foul play. Though, as long as Herder doesn’t show up, it should be alright.”

“……Will Herder-kun appear when someone breaks the rules?”

It was certainly an entertaining thought, but keeping watch over the movements of every single player must surely be a monumental effort. That said, it was flat out impossible for a single person to cover such a huge area — that was probably just a joke, wasn’t it?

In any case, Herder had yet to reveal himself; whatever the truth about his actions behind the scenes, with Bond — the mainstay of his team’s offence — now eliminated, this battlefront had effectively collapsed. As a result, the red team’s chances of victory were now almost zero.

“Aww, even though I was so fired up; I wanted to play on just a little longer.”

Bond hung his head in regret, and William smiled gently at him.

“It’s a pity indeed. Now it’ll be up to Moran and the rest to turn the game around.”

Analysing the state of the battle from here on, William looked towards the little cabin: the setting of the game’s impending climax.

Scoreboard

🔹 Blue team: Albert, Jack, Fred, William, Kevin, Andy

🔺 Red team: Moran, Bond, Louis, Helena

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows #illustration insert

[mymedicine]

Love and Other Drugs

or, 5k of new bf harry

moodboard/inspo tag + my masterlist

sum - yacht parties are cool and all, but harry really just wants to spend more time with his girl

warnings - alcohol (have I even written a fic where both mc’s are sober the whole time yet lmao), light sexy stuff (lil bit of ch*king k*nk if you squint), swearing probably, harry being a little shit, fluff to the maxxxxx

notes - good lord, this fic has been the absolute death of me. I stg, murphy’s law is real. anyways, the driving home scene is completely inspired by real life events that once made me swoon, but now I am lonely and so so tired so pls be nice to me thx much love <3

“Hold still!”

Harry whined and craned his neck away from his girlfriend’s hand, but he wasn’t able to go far with his back flush against the car door. “No baby, we’re already late!”

“But you’ve got jam on you!” Y/N cried. She reached her fingers up to rub the reddish marks off of his face, but, once again, he turned his head away like a stubborn child. “And we wouldn’t have been late if you hadn’t spent two hours combing your hair.”

“S not jam, it’s lipstick,” He insisted, deliberately ignoring her second (valid) point.

“Whatever. It’s on your cheek.”

Y/N made one final attempt to clean him up, but this time, he managed to escape the circle of her arms. He ran backwards toward the dock, taunting her playfully as he went, “Come on, baby!”

“Harry!” Given no other choice, she frantically pushed the lock button on the car key and chased after her child—er, boyfriend. She winced as her high heels hit the asphalt, feet aching against the gold sandals already. He’d slowed down a little to give her a break, but she was still panting as she yelled, “You can’t go to a fancy yacht party with lipstick on your face!”

He finally stopped running—thank God, because they were right in front of the ship and the last thing Y/N needed was to embarrass herself (or rather, be embarrassed by her man-child boyfriend) within sight of all the famous people that would surely be onboard already.

“But I like it.” He pouted as she reached him, entwining his fingers with hers before she could use them to try to scrub his face again.

Before she could reply, a familiar Irish accent boomed over the loud purring of the boat’s engine, “Harry! Y/N!”

Y/N really hoped someone was keeping an eye on Niall tonight. It was barely dusk and he already looked a little too buzzed to be leaning over the railing on the top deck. She craned her neck up to look at him, giggling to herself at the flush in his cheeks and the blonde mess on top of his head.

“Welcome abooaaard!” He waved far more aggressively than was necessary.

“Happy birthday, Niall!” Y/N yelled back at him, blocking the bright sun with one hand—a hand she discreetly wrestled out of Harry’s.

Harry, too, looked upward and was squinting into the sky. The sun was just beginning its descent into the horizon, and soon the evening would be hanging behind the silvery moon. In the mean time, the sky was bright and painted with delicate strokes of soft pink and peachy orange.

While Harry waved back at his friend, Y/N took advantage of the distraction—and his exposed cheek.

Without warning, she hurled her hand up to his face and swiped at the pink mark as hard as she could.

“Hey!” Harry whipped his head back to her, mock hurt written all over his face.

Y/N flashed him a cheeky, victorious smile. “Got it!”

September in south Florida was as hot and humid as summer anywhere else. Even out at sea, with the cool ocean wind surging throughout the top deck of the yacht, it was plenty warm enough for the guests to enjoy the outdoors.

“H, can you hold my phone and keys in your pocket?”

Harry was standing awkwardly near the railing of the boat, fiddling absently with the plume of lace and chiffon on his black top. He still had a faint reddish mark on his cheek (she wasn’t sure if it was leftover lipstick or just irritated from her rubbing at it) that Y/N, despite the turmoil that had ensued over it, found very endearing. She always thought he was handsome. She had since the first day they met four months earlier. But tonight, he was positively glowing. He shined in the fabulous black number, his skin further brightened by the setting sun and the utter joy coursing through him (the entire flute of champagne he’d already downed certainly didn’t hurt, either).

He took the phone and keys from her while she admired him, happy to help her but not without a smart remark: “You should’ve worn the dress with the pockets, love,” he chastised her playfully, a smirk dressing his berry lips.

Y/N’s eyes widened, “You said you liked the pink on me!”

Choosing her dress for the night had been an ordeal that rivaled even Harry’s complicated hair routine. She’d originally chosen a black long sleeved one with pockets that was comfortable and appropriate and matched Harry’s own all-black ensemble (which he’d had picked out for weeks). Her boyfriend rejected the black dress, pointing out that she’d be hot it in because “It’s practically summer in Miami, love.” Instead, he chose a silky pink number, midi-length and tight in all the right places with a tastefully low cowl neckline. She’d dressed it up with a few gold bracelets and a single pearl earring in her left ear that, to her satisfaction, matched Harry’s. And yeah—it didn’t have pockets, but Harry liked it and it made her feel sexy and that’s all that mattered.

Harry hummed with a tight lipped grin. “Yeah, you’re right,” His tone was innocent, almost regretful as he looked her up and down. The pink sunset behind her was highlighting her figure just right, wind rushing through her hair, exposed skin supple and tempting. Harry was mesmerized by her.

His hands moved on their own accord to gently hold her by the waist. “Your ass looks really cute in the silk…I reckon the color makes your skin glow a bit, too. And matches your makeup, and looks nice with my earring…” He continued spewing some breathy compliments at her, even after she sort of stopped listening when a waiter holding a tray of delectable looking hors d'oeuvres caught her attention.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course, honey,” she replied (mostly) honestly. He was always a mushy little sap for her, but she truly did love the way he appreciated the little things she put effort into. “Thank you for noticing those little details.”

“You’re welcome. Know ya don’ just do it f’me though,” His ring clad fingers drummed against her waist, the metal cold through the thin silky material she wore. “Love that about you.”

Y/N cracked a smile in spite of the nervous shiver washing over her at his words. She couldn’t help but notice it was already the second time he’d said that word since they’d embarked. He was treading dangerously close to the vast, uncharted l-word territory. He’s a little buzzed, she reasoned with herself, despite also knowing it was silly because he’d only had a single champagne. But then again, he was a lightweight—and judging by the way he suddenly dropped her waist to chase down a passing waitress for two more glasses, he wouldn’t be slowing down any time soon. If he told her while he was drunk, would it really count?

He returned to her side, keeping one flute for himself and presenting the other to her. “Thank you, honey,” she said, grasping the stem of it (even though she still had a half full one resting precariously on the railing behind her). It was a fitting nickname for him, she thought. She hadn’t really meant for that to become her little pet name for him, but he loved it just as much as she did. “You’re sweet.”

“You’re sweeter,” her boyfriend hummed happily, “even when you’re checking out that waiter…”

“No! I wasn’t!”

“You kinda were,” He smiled cheekily at her.

“Was not.”

“’S alright, baby. He’s handsome. You’re allowed to have a little look.” But the way he held her protectively by the hip betrayed his words.

“You know I only have eyes for you,” If that wasn’t a hint, she didn’t know what was. “I’m just hungry. He was holding bacon wrapped shrimp, I think.”

“Mmm, me too,” Harry replied, the interaction already forgotten in favor of a savory snack. He tugged on her hand so they could follow that waiter, grumbling as they padded around the crowded deck. “Niall’s a fuckin ass for not serving dinner at an evening party.”

“Oh give him a break! It’s his birthday.” she let him pull her toward the middle where more people were gathered around the bar and admiring the decor—

“Is that an ice scultpure?”

Harry was right. It was a giant clear sculpture of a guitar made entirely out of ice. People were around it, admiring the intricacies and mingling and sipping on expensive looking drinks.

“How long you bet til it melts?”

“Not before Niall accidentally knocks it over,” Y/N laughed and gestured toward the man of the hour, who indeed was stumbling over his feet while trying to maintain a conversation with a group of several strikingly beautiful looking people—models? Probably.

It was obvious that Niall hadn’t planned this for himself. The whole thing was far too elegant and classy. His drunken ramblings were entertaining, sure, but he stood out amidst the black tie formals and live R&B music floating around the large deck of the luxurious vehicle.

Harry chased down the waiter and grabbed shrimp skewers for them both while Y/N continued quietly giggling at Niall’s antics.

Minutes drifted into hours as alcohol, shrimp skewers, and joyful conversation flowed liberally about the deck. Y/N had separated herself from Harry—much to his drunken dismay—to go and mingle with some of the “famous people.” She did it all on her own, confidently striding over and striking up a conversation with anyone worthy of her attention.

“Long time no see, mate.” Mitch’s voice interrupted Harry’s inner thoughts surrounding his girlfriend. He tore his eyes away from her and turned to face his friend, who was standing with his own girlfriend beside him.

“Been busy,” Harry replied.

Sarah’s eyebrows rose as a grin spread across her cheeks. She glanced at Mitch, who wore a matching one.

“You both have been quite busy, yeah?” Sarah cocked her head toward where Y/N was, grin widening along with Harry’s eyes.

Harry hid his smile in his glass, taking a large gulp of the bubbly. “What d’ya mean?” He asked innocently.

“We saw you staring at her, buddy.”

Well, fuck. He can’t exactly deny that. He was indeed watching her as she mingled with a group of people—exceptionally beautiful people. She fit in perfectly with the models, her smile bright and dress shiny, hips swaying tantalizingly to the beat of the drums. She engaged effortlessly in what looked like an exciting conversation with A-listers and held their attention with sweeping hand gestures. Even from across the deck, he swore he could feel her joy. Light just radiated off of her and sent a gentle flutter through his belly and a heat wave through his heart.

Sarah studied him. The way his eyes twinkled and his cheeks flushed with happiness…it was obvious. “You love her.” She deadpanned.

Harry shrugged in response, a knowing smile on his face which he didn’t bother to hide this time.

“You do!” It was Mitch this time, who wrapped an arm around Sarah and looked at her with the same happy smile his friend wore.

“No comment.” A twinge of jealously bit his heart as he watched a handsome brunette lean down to whisper something in his girlfriend’s ear. He frowned instinctively, picturing the man muttering flirtatious compliments or dirty suggestions to her like he should be doing right now.

Sarah continued to watch Harry watch Y/N, unsure if he was even listening anymore. “It’s alright to admit it. Love is a beautiful thing.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said Mitch, “it’s a drug!”

“Hey look!” Harry shouted a distraction, pointing somewhere behind the two of them. He spotted two waiters bringing out an impressive tiered cake swirled with white frosting and topped with those sparkling candles. “It’s time to sing for the birthday boy!”

The boat erupted in a cacophonous rendition of the birthday song as the cake was placed on top of the bar. Night had fallen over the deck, making the sparkly decorations shine blindly bright against the moonlight. Meanwhile, Niall was dancing hysterically among the crowds, even singing along to his own birthday song in a drunken spree. At the final, …to you! he performed a dramatic bow and roared, “Thank you, beautiful people!”

Applause died slowly as Niall began grabbing peoples’ faces to kiss their cheeks in thanks. Y/N looked around for Harry, quite certain that her boyfriend would be perfectly willing to accept a kiss from the birthday boy, especially when he was inebriated. Sure enough, she caught sight of him wrapped up in an embrace with the blonde, a wide smile on his face as Mitch and Sarah laughed hysterically at the interaction.

Harry accepted the cheek kiss, just as his eyes met hers over Niall’s shoulder.

“Y/N!” He screeched and broke the embrace. He started running over to her in an uncoordinated stride, limbs flailing and most definitely spilling alcohol on other peoples’ expensive clothes.

“Y/N!” he slurred, finally reaching her side, “Gimme a kissy!”

She laughed. “You just got kissies from Niall, honey.” “But I want your lipstick on me. Yeh wiped it off.” He frowned deeply, no—melodramatically as his hand cupped his own cheeks where the pink lipstick mark once was.

She called him a little baby but obliged anyways, stamping a firm lip shaped mark on one of his flushed cheeks. He grinned wildly in response and looked at her with that look in his eyes that she absolutely adored. He was looking at her like she was royalty, like she hung the moon and commanded the sea and granted miracles upon mere mortals such as himself.

“Wish I could give you one too…” Harry trailed off, eyes wandering around the room. “Maybe then all those hot models and waiters would leave you alone.”

“Aw, you jealous baby?”

He nodded shamelessly and, with a pouty look, tucked her into his arms. He pressed a series of hard kisses on her cheeks and temples, squeezing the silky pink fabric at her waist. The feeling made her heart squeeze in the most delightful way—chest tight and warm with…with love.

“Wanna go check out the lower deck?”

And Y/N hadn’t known this man too long, but it was long enough to know that he had anything but innocent intentions with his sweet request. She was still only nursing her third glass of bubbly, but Harry’s suggestive stare and wandering hands seemed to ignite the slight heat flowing through her veins into an inferno.

It engulfed them both as Y/N’s back hit the inside of the door to the lower deck bathroom.

Harry’s lips were soft and playful and sexy all at once—just like him. He trailed hot kisses down her cheeks and jaw much like he had earlier, only now there was no audience. No need to hold back. Only hot, sweet skin swathed in pink silk and black chiffon.

“You marked me already, ’s my turn.”

Just when she was feeling a little too sober, Harry’s words drenched her in the heat of desire. This was definitely a bad idea, but it didn’t sound like one when he put it like that.

His fingers slipped from her jaw and followed his lips down to her throat, enticing her with a gentle squeeze—a warning? Or a promise for later? Either way, this bathroom escapade was fucking sliced bread and she was putty in his hands.

He sucked harshly on the supple skin of her neck without warning. A gasp slips out of Y/N’s mouth and Harry’s ringed thumb pressed deeply into the center of her throat in reprimanding. His other fingers gripped the crook of her neck, just enough to make her head spin and keep her body pliant.

Meanwhile, his other hand slithered down the smooth silk to her waist, his hold on her heavy and warm. Harry’s swollen lips retracted from her bruised neck, not before pressing a few gentle pecks to the hickeys to soothe the pain.

Y/N felt dizzy with pleasure and enveloped in love. She couldn’t help but chase his lips for a few more desperate kisses as he pulled away from her neck. She suddenly wished she could admire the marks he’d left, but the glazed, hungry look in his eyes would definitely suffice. The little bathroom felt ten degrees warmer—leaving Harry looking hot and flushed and absolutely irresistible.

“You okay, baby?” Harry whispered in the tiny space between them, words slightly slurred and dipped in bliss.

Y/N nodded aggressively, letting her hands wrap around the back of his neck where his skin was hot and hair curled adorably. “Please kiss me again.”

He did as he was told, of course. His lips moved tenderly with hers and his hands trailed lower, gently caressing her waist and hips. His fingers started a course back up to her ass, this time taking the fabric of her dress with them.

Y/N’s head felt light as a feather, no thoughts besides Harry…Harry’s hands…Harry’s lips…Harry…

She curled her thighs around his hips and he responded effortlessly, hoisting her up by the backs of her thighs and pressing taut between the cold bathroom wall and his own hot chest. The temperature in the room seemed to rise impossibly then, the sounds of breathy moans and gentle sucking kisses seamlessly diffusing into the heat and surrounding them in a delightful symphony.

Y/N was thrilled by the way Harry’s tongue tasted like champagne—as sweet and plushy as always. She decided then that she would never get tired of the feeling of his mouth on hers, of the dizzying joyful feeling his lips gave her every single time.

“Harry…honey…”

“What ’s it pretty girl?”

The pet name in his raspy accent went straight to her core. She let out another shameless whine, squeezing his waist tighter with her legs.

“I need you, Harry…”

“Hm? Need what?”

She groaned—now he wanted to be a tease. After he’d gotten to give her the hickeys like he wanted.

“Harry, please.”

“‘M just messing, pretty girl. I know what you ne—“

Suddenly, a loud crash rang out in the little cabin. Y/N let out a screech and sprang away from Harry, landing awkwardly on her stiletto heels. Wide eyed, she and Harry both looked up toward the source of the sound. Muffled shouts followed, in the midst of a horrible shattering sound, like broken glass, or hail or—

“The ice sculpture!”

They were both wide eyed and panting and a little sweaty, hair tousled and lips swollen red.

“Oh shit,” There were more muffled shouts and some shuffling of feet above them. Even through the ornate ceiling of the bathroom, it was clear there was an ordeal going on up there.

Breathy pants lingered between them, and the room suddenly felt even smaller, even more swelteringly hot and stuffy. Of all things to ruin the heat of the moment…a fucking ice sculpture.

They looked at each other blankly, as if to say what the hell do we do now?

“Let’s head back up while everyone’s distracted.” It was Harry’s alcohol-induced idea, cooked up in his foggy brain.

“There’s no way we can go back to the party like this.” Y/N gestured between them—the sweaty foreheads, messy hair, skin dotted with hickeys, and most prominently, her boyfriend’s obvious arousal.

Harry sighed, glancing down at himself. “Let’s leave then.”

“What, you wanna swim home?”

Harry frowned, “Huh?”

“We’re on a fucking boat, dumbass.”

Harry looked away from her with wide eyes and burning cheeks. Right…Absently, he thought it was funny how she could go from making out with him against the wall of the bathroom, practically begging for more, to mercilessly making fun of him, all within seconds. His thoughts bled into his expression, a happy smile tugging on his lips as he thought about her and her unparalleled sex appeal and her cute laugh and her mock insults and her more and more.

And just like that, he was laughing. His wild laughter seemed to echo in the small bathroom. Despite their hot rendezvous being rudely interrupted, Y/N swore she could smell the happiness in the room—almost as poignant as the champagne on his breath.

Seconds later, she couldn’t help but join him in happy laughter.

Turns out, the fallen ice sculpture was even more of a hazard than they’d initially realized—so much so that the captain of the yacht demanded an early return to shore and a continuation of the party on land. Many patrons were disappointed by the early end to the yacht cruise, not including the birthday boy himself, who Y/N would be surprised if was still walking at this point.

As they sailed back toward the shore, Harry was nursing yet another flute of champagne while Y/N clung to him in the boat’s interior—half because she wanted to cover his erection from any passerbys, and half because she just really wanted to hold him. He’d also managed to produce a slice of cake on a porcelain plate, which he’d presumably snagged when he left her on the couch to find more alcohol.

“You look cute,” she mused at him while he chewed the forkful of cake she’d just slid into his mouth. She was sideways in his lap, bare feet rested on the arm of an expensive looking couch. She vaguely realized that this area of the boat was probably off limits for guests, but fuck it, she thought, no harm no foul.

“Hm?”

“I said, ‘you look cute.’” Y/N repeated. He really did look cute like that, with his face flushed and hair messy and a tinge of lipstick still lingering on his cheek.

“Oh yeah,” he mumbled with frosting still between his teeth, “I heard you the first time.”

“Oh my god, you’re so annoying. I take it back.”

“You can’t take it back!”

She gathered another forkful of cake and brought it up to his lips, “I just did.”

“Fine then,” He said, “I’ll just toss you overboard. Out of sight, out of mind.”

At that, Y/N gasped. She quickly turned her hand away and brought the cake into her own mouth, licking her lips for extra impact.

“Noooo!” He held her by the hip and dragged her even closer to him, as if she were about to get up and actually go overboard and take the cake with her. “I’m sorry baby, you’re cute, too. So cute. Like, so cute that I can’t believe you like me.”

Like? I think I more than like you.

“I can’t believe it, either.”

The words were on the tip of her tongue, dancing around in the tiny space between their lips like electricity. Harry leaned forward and kissed her tenderly, sucking on her bottom lip as if trying to pull them out of her.

Yet again, they were interrupted. This time by a loud horn blare and the captain’s voice over the intercom. “Land, ho!”

“Finally.” Harry sighed in relief, already trying to stand up from the couch, “Can you take me home now, please.”

“We can’t just leave when the party’s still going! What about Niall?” Y/N pressed her hands against his chest to slow him down.

“Niall won’t remember a damn thing.”

She considered his words. He wasn’t wrong; Niall had already knocked over the ice sculpture, after all.

“Take a left here,”

“Here?”

“Ye—wait, no.” Harry slurred, shaking his head from the passenger seat.

But his girlfriend had already turned the wheel to the left, inevitably sending the car in the wrong direction, again.

“Shit, M’ sorry baby.” he said with a drunken giggle.

“Good lord Harry…”

She threw the car into a random driveway, grumbling as she executed a clumsy K-turn.

She could hear the cranky frown in Harry’s voice as he groaned, “You’re a shit driver.”

“Well you’re a shit navigator!” Y/N looked over and gave him a pointed look. But the look only fell on his droopy, half-open eyes. “Where the fuck do I go?”

A beat of silence passed as Harry’s head lolled around. He hummed a bit, imitating the low rumble of the car’s engine. Finally, he murmured, “Keep goin’ straight.”

“Are you sure?”

He didn’t reply, just turned to look at her with that mischievous drunken smile.

“Aw fuck, no. We passed it up.”

“Harry!” She couldn’t help but laugh. Despite her annoyance, his antics were amusing. “Are you sure you actually know where you live?”

“Of course I know where I live!”

Y/N sped into another middle-of-the-road U-turn, and Harry dramatically fell into her lap with a low yell.

“Slow down, you minx! Gonna get us killed!”

“You’re so dramatic, Harry. If you’d just tell me where the fuck you live!”

“Can’t remember.”

She craned her head up to ceiling, letting her own eyes fall shut as she inhaled her frustration.

“Okay, fine. It’s that blue one over there.” He gestured vaguely to the right, but it was too dark to see the colors of the houses anyways.

Y/N let out her deep breath, “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

His growing smirk gave him away. After only a few seconds, his foggy brain would not allow him to contain his giggles.

“Harry!” she whined. He was always kind of silly and clingy, but the excessive alcohol made him an actual baby. He was still laying in her lap over the center console.

“Why are you like this?”

He pouted, feigning hurt. “Maybe I just wanna spend more time with you.”

Y/N’s fingers loosed on the wheel. She slowed the car to a stop against on of the curbs in the quiet neighborhood, poised under the soft light of a street lamp. Her annoyed expression softened and the familiar urge washed over her—the urge to kiss his cheeks and tell him she loved him and squeeze him tight and never let him go. How could one person be so annoying yet so fucking adorable?

She pushed his hair back (not without thinking about how he would’ve scolded her for messing it up at the beginning of the night when he had been sober, but now he was far too drunk to care) and wrapped an arm around his neck. It was definitely an awkward position and Harry couldn’t have been comfortable like that, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held her arm in both hands and snuggled into her lap as she cooed at him. “Aw, baby. You could’ve just told me.”

“But we’ve only been together for a little bit…and I don’t want ya to get sick of me.”

“Could never get sick of you, honey. Not even if I wanted to,” she said earnestly, continuing to stroke her fingers gently through his curls.

“Really?”

Now if that wasn’t a hint…this man was even stupider than she thought. In spite of his endearing idiocy, Y/N still could not resist the urge to just love him.

The idea that he could possibly love her back crossed her mind several times, especially in the past few weeks.

But they’d only been officially for a month and a half…was it too soon? Would she scare him off? Was there some unwritten rule of love to wait until they’d at least seen each others’ homes? Although, if she did tell him now, Harry was so drunk he may not even remember. If it went horrifically wrong, maybe she could forget it happened. (No, she definitely would not ever be able to forget if that happened, but the lie comforted her a little nonetheless). But if it went well, she’d be more confident telling him again when he was sober tomorrow. And at last, she didn’t even think she could hold the words in for another second while he was cuddling into her and kissing her arms like a baby kitten.

“I love you, Harry.”

“You do?!”

Suddenly, he seemed alarmingly sober.

“Ugh, yes. How could I not?”

He looked appalled, really. As if the idea of her loving him was absolutely insane. “Well, I annoy you, I kiss you in public, I drink too much, I spend way too much time on my hair, I’m not as handsome as that waiter…”

“And you’re pretty stupid.” Y/N interrupted with her own addition to the growing list.

“Yeah, you’re right. I am pretty dumb…But,” he paused, flipping over in her lap to look her in the eyes, “I did get one thing right.”

“What’s that?” She asked, fondly stroking his gelled hair with trembling hands.

“Falling in love with you.”

And loving him was that easy, as easy as sipping champagne and eating cake and falling overboard. She loved his flamboyance, his confidence, his kindness. She loved his silly tattoos and his bunny teeth and the little scar under his chin and the faint lipstick stain on his cheek. She loved the way they teased each other like children. She loved the way his mouth felt against hers. She loved the way he adored her. And so, she couldn’t help but smile wide.

“Alright, let’s add you’re super cheesy to that list, too…”

thanks for reading! please reblog if you enjoyed <3

feedback is welcomed, encouraged, and highly appreciated!

#harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #boyfriend!harry #yacht!harry #harry styles #my writing #i know shes a lil babie one shot but please be nice i have slaved over her

[winterscaptain]

enough.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: here’s a little thing i put together to fill in some holes. it takes place the first week of aaron’s recovery at home, about halfway through his month-long medical leave following faceless, nameless.  

an ajf fic arc that happily stands on its own! one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven

words: 2.5k warnings: description of wound dressing, canon-typical injury, language, brief body image mention (scarring)

summary: “not taking your pain meds doesn’t make you captain america. it just makes you stupid, and in pain.” in other words: healing is annoying and certainly non-linear. 

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

You knock on his door, takeout in your hand. “It’s me!”

After a minute of silence on the other side of the door, you take your keys out of your pocket and start to open the door. “Don’t shoot me. I’m using my keys.” You move to open it, and the chain is in place. 

Damn it, Aaron. 

Then - 

Is he okay?

“Aaron?” You call through the gap in the door. You leave the keys in the knob and pull your phone out of your pocket, hitting the first number on your speed dial. 

You hear his phone ring, a smack, and both from down the hallway and through the speaker (with an echo): “Hotchner.” 

“I’m here with dinner. Open the door.” 

His voice is thick with sleep. “You have a key, right?”

“The chain is on. I’m surprised I didn’t trip the alarm.” 

He makes a little dissatisfied noise and hangs up. You can hear him plant his feet and amble down the hallway. 

You smile a little at him as he approaches the door, almost looking inconvenienced as he shuts it, removes the chain lock, and opens it again. 

“Are you seriously upset that I brought you food?” 

He shakes his head and steps back, letting you in before closing it.  “No, sorry. I just didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

You take stock of him as he turns his back on you and sits on the couch, settling with a slowness that looks painful. You set the food down and then return to lock the door. It’s easier for him to answer your question when you’re not looking at him. 

“How are you feeling?”

A sigh. “Alright.” 

You look over your shoulder as you slide the chain lock back into place. “Don’t lie to me. It won’t work.” 

His head is in the takeout bag as he answers, still avoiding your eyes. “I’m sore and I can’t sleep at night and everything is healing slower than I want.”

There we go. 

You sit beside him. “Do your dressings need to be changed?” 

“I got most of them earlier, and Jess came over to help me yesterday, but there are a few that need to wrap around and I can’t -” He stops with a huff. “I can’t reach without -”

You put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I got it.” 

His jaw is tight, shaky. “Thanks.” 

“First,” you say, grabbing one of the boxes, “food.” 

There’s a grateful little pull of his lips as you dig in. The news is on, but you pick up the remote and change it to some ridiculous reality TV program. 

“I was watching that.” 

“No you weren’t.” 

He wasn’t. 

You avoid his exasperated eyes as you set the remote on your side of the couch - farther than he can reach without stretching. 

You eat together in silence, the trainwreck on the television only marginally holding your attention. When you glance at him, you catch the side of his face twinge when he reaches for his glass of water.

“You know, not taking your pain meds doesn’t make you Captain America. It just makes you stupid, and in pain.” 

He levels you with a glare. 

+++

“Stop squirming.” 

“Sorry.” 

With gentle fingers, you tape and tuck gauze around one of the wounds on his ribs. He flinches, a little pained noise leaving his throat. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Your fingers flutter for a second before setting back to work. Reaching blindly behind you, you grab the roll of gauze wrapping. “Hang on for just a second - this isn’t going to feel good.” 

He takes a deep breath (as deep as he can, anyway, considering his injuries), and you begin wrapping the dressing around his ribs, passing the roll from one hand to the other. He grits his teeth whenever it pulls the right amount, and your lower lip disappears between your teeth. 

“I’m going to tuck it in front so you can reach it, okay?”

He nods, his eyes closed. 

You’re sitting on his desk while he’s perched on the edge of his chair, his arm resting along the back - up and out of the way. This is the only place in the apartment he’s comfortable removing his shirt. 

Every other room has a mirror or a big window. 

“Okay, one more.”

You’ve saved the hardest one for last, but it has to go in that order. It’s the one just above his collarbone, right off the hollow of his throat, that needs the most attention and frequent changes. 

You tip his chin with the tip of your finger, giving you more space to work. 

Gingerly pulling at the tape, you remove the soiled dressing. Aaron’s breath comes as deep as he can through his teeth. When it quickens, you stop. 

You readjust so he can keep his head where it is and you can sit in his eye line. He meets your eyes with a tight jaw. 

“What can I do, Aaron?”

He closes his eyes again and tilts his head further to the side. “Just keep going.” 

The tears come unbidden into your eyes as you continue your work, but your hands and breath are steady. You can hear him match his breath to yours and you’re thankful for your relative composure.  

The wound still looks wretched - angry and red and black and blue and weeping - but it’s not infected. 

You hold a towel up and he gingerly presses it to his chest while you reach for the wound wash, hiding your face from him. 

“Thirty seconds, thirty seconds,” you assure him. “Do you want me to count?”

He shakes his head. “Just do it.” 

You shoot a gentle stream of the solution across the open tissue, held together by more stitches than you want to count, both internal and external. Anguished noises leave his chest through his teeth and you know he’s trying to suppress them with unsteady breath. His eyes are shut impossibly tight, and you can see unauthorized tears gathering in the corners. 

This is always the hardest part, and you’ve never gotten through it without crying. You hate how much he hurts. It’s like you can feel it yourself, the sting, the bone-deep ache, the throbbing. 

Tears fall down your cheeks, some landing on your shirt and others wandering down your throat. 

Even then, he knows you don’t pity him. 

If he thought that, he wouldn’t let you anywhere near him.

You wash and dab, wash and dab, until the wound is clean and fluid-free, apologizing the whole time. You throw both the wash and gauze to the side and reach for fresh wrapping while swiping at your eyes. 

Fuck. 

“Just a second.” 

You’ve touched your face, so now you have to wash your hands. Again. You leave him and go into the kitchen, wash and dry your hands, and return to him. 

He catches your eyes before you settle back down. There’s something behind his eyes you can’t name, and it sends something flying around your body. 

You always feel a little guilty for your tears, but he understands. He thought for a moment, in the beginning, about what he would do if the situation was reversed. 

After scant seconds of consideration, he had decided he could never be as composed as you, as vulnerable and open as you. He could never offer to clean and dress your wounds - the thought of causing you pain of any sort, even helpful pain, was unbearable. 

Besides that, he would be so angry that you were hurt at all and wouldn’t be able to keep his hands steady. 

At the very least, he would probably scare you with the intensity of his fury. Anyone who ever laid a hand on you would be subject to a wrath comparable to that of God. 

And Aaron’s mom is Catholic, so he would know. 

There is not a moment where he takes your execution of this particular task for granted. He knows how difficult it is. He thinks, perhaps, that this is the bravest act of love he’s ever seen. 

But could you love him?

Love?

No. 

Too old. Too broken. Too divorced. Too married to work. Too poor a father. Too many other things that make me wholly undeserving. 

He couldn’t, wouldn’t, subject you to himself. 

He’s satisfied loving you in silence. He’d done it for a while now, he realized, after his conversation with Haley. 

It would have to be enough.

It would have to be enough to watch you carry on with your joyful, vibrant life. 

It would have to be enough to watch your face light up for someone who loves you, who puts a ring on your finger and makes you happy. 

It would have to be enough to spoil your children if and when you became a parent, to hold the title ‘Uncle Aaron’ instead of ‘Dad.’

It would have to be enough to know you would outlive him and die loved. 

It would have to be enough. 

You pick up your tools again, using three fingertips this time to tip his head to the side at the temple. He almost smiles. 

“What?”

He shakes his head the barest amount and raises his eyebrows. “Nothing.” 

With a roll of your still-watery eyes, you get back to work, folding and pressing the gauze to the wound with a light, even pressure. You try to ignore Aaron’s hiss as the smile dissolves off his face, replaced by restraint and pain. 

Holding the pad in place with one hand, you take the tape, hanging the roll on your thumb while you pull with your other hand. You tape all around the perimeter of it, gently warming the adhesive against his skin. 

“Alright. Almost done.” 

You have him hold the end right under the wound while you stand to better get around him. Once, like a sash, around his shoulder and across his back and under his other arm, once around his ribs, repeat. 

Again, you tear and tuck it in front so he can reach, and gently pat it into place. 

When it’s low-profile enough to disappear under his shirt -

“Finished.” 

You turn and gather everything into the little bin that lives under his bathroom counter before he can say anything. He watches you, and you can feel his eyes at your back. 

The first time you came to visit after he got home, he was worried you’d look at him differently, was worried you’d pity him. 

He shouldn’t have.

You showed up at the door looking at him just the same way you always did. He wasn’t sure quite what way that was, exactly, but it was the same. 

The first time you offered to help him with his dressings, he refused outright. It was only when you saw that a wound on his left side had ripped a little and bled through his shirt that you wrestled him down and took care of it. 

Harder still than exposing his pain? Taking off his shirt. You’d reached for the top button the first time and he flinched like he’d been burned. 

He refused to meet your eyes. 

“What on earth are you so afraid of?”

He opened his mouth as if he was going to raise his voice at you, but then snapped it shut, his jaw working. His eyes were trained on the carpet. 

“Hey.” 

He looked at you somewhat reluctantly. 

“It’s just me.”

I know, he thought, that’s the problem. 

“This,” you gesture to his general torso area, “is not going to scare me or freak me out. What does freak me out, however -” You point at him with a packet of sterile gauze. “- is the thought of you trying to do this on your own, ripping your stitches, you not going back to the hospital, getting infected, going septic, and having a generally bad time.”

He finally speaks, the barest bit of sarcasm in his tone. “That’s quite a reach, isn’t it?”

You shoot him a withering look. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me you’d willingly go back to get your stitches fixed every time you ripped them, I’ll leave you alone.” 

He won't meet your eyes again, looking like a guilty child as his eyes wander to the corner of the room with a bit of a squint. 

You made your point rather elegantly. 

You pass him his shirt over your shoulder and he takes it, slipping his arms into the sleeves. 

His ridiculous number of button ups were coming in handy, especially considering the increased risk of stains. You’ve soaked more shirts in peroxide in the last week than you care to count. 

Occupational hazard, I guess. 

You pick up the little bin and take it back into the bathroom, your fingers tracing over the framed photos of Haley and Jack in the hall as you pass. 

There’s one of you and Haley, too, at some sort of summer function where you were all together. If you aren’t mistaken, Jess took the photo as you and Haley lounged in lawn chairs, laughing.

Another one of the two of you sits on the dresser in Aaron’s bedroom. You’ve never seen it. 

It’s another Jess-capture. Haley has Jack in her arms, kissing him on one cheek with a smile while you press a kiss to the other, eyes shut tight. One of your hands rests lightly on Haley’s arm, the other makes bunny ears over Jack’s head. The boy’s face is all crinkled like he hates it, but Aaron knows that photo was bookended by a screech of laughter and many, many giggles. 

+++

You bounce into the office in the morning, looking no worse for wear even after spending the night on Aaron’s couch. 

Hey, it’s a comfortable couch.

The pair of you stayed out on the couch watching bad movies far later than you meant to, but it’s alright. 

Not the first time that’s happened. 

You could neither confirm nor deny that Aaron slept, but you saw, through his open bedroom door, that he was still and quiet for most of the night. 

“You look chipper this morning,” Penelope notes. 

You shrug. “I slept well last night.” 

“How’s Hotch?” Emily asks. 

You make a little wavering noise. “About how you’d expect, but alright.” 

It’s later in the day when Dave pulls you aside and thanks you, wrapping you in his arms. 

You lean into him and you’re almost frustrated, but not surprised, when tears press at your eyes again. It seems you’re made of them, these days. 

“We’re so lucky to have you.”

You shake your head, burrowing into his shoulder. “Other way around.” 

He pulls back and kisses you on the cheek, patting your other one affectionately before offering his hand to you. “Agree to disagree?”

You roll your eyes and shake on it. 

“Sure, Dave. Sure.” 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @dwellingsofrosie @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @word-scribbless​ @jdougl-love​ @sageellsworth05​ @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile  @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster @spencerelds @the-falling-in-the-danger 

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch #tali writes fanfiction #tali talks cm #aaron hotchner fanfiction #a joyful future #shut up tali #a joyful future fanfic

[gryffindors-weasley]

The Two of Us

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: A trip to the Burrow can be a handful amongst the Weasley’s, but you and Ron finally manage to have a moment to yourselves.

Warnings: mild language, fluff

(not my gif)

Spending the tail end of the summer at the Burrow had become somewhat of a tradition ever since you and Ron had gotten your own small house on the outskirts of town just two years ago. It was an adjustment, not being around the bustling chaos of the Weasley’s. And it was far more quiet than the both of you were used to. But the new space quickly felt like home, or maybe it was the fact that anywhere felt like home as long as you were with one another.

That being said, it was always something to look forward to. Though the Burrow had since been rebuilt from its considerable damage, it was designed in the same, wonderfully crooked and tall way that it had always been. The Weasley’s always were a family of warmth and welcoming so any bit of time, large or small, could brighten anyone’s spirit.

But now somehow, some way, you’ve finally managed to break away from the tightly knit group and have a moment to yourselves. You were in the expanse of fields around the misshapen home, everyone having long since gone inside as the sun was beginning to dip down in the clear sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight as the vibrant hues of oranges, yellows, and blues blended together in a beauty only the sky could hold. Yet even being presented with such natural glamour, Ron considered it no match to the very person standing right in front of him.

He dipped his head down to kiss you, a joyful laugh leaving your lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Are my kisses really that funny, Love?” He asks in faux offense, his crooked smile breaking through his terrible attempt at being hurt.

“No, you’re just really sweet,” you smile brightly, “and maybe they’re a little funny.”

For that he closes any gap that may have been there, peppering your neck in the most playful of kisses. Your jovial laughter rung out once more into the evening sky at the sudden action, his adoring gaze fixed on you.

When your laughter calms and he’s still staring, you sigh with a smile, tilting your head slightly to one side before your eyes found it. It was small, a delicate flower petal tangled within near unruly ginger locks. It must’ve been from all the wildflowers you’d tucked in it several moments earlier. So you reach up, plucking the little petal out and hold it between your fingers. The yellow pigment transferred it’s powdery residue onto your fingertips, something you immediately swiped onto the tip of Ron’s nose as the petal was sent fluttering to the ground.

His smile only widens under your gaze, cheeks tinging the softest shade of pink though in the deep orange glow of the sun, it was almost indiscernible. But you saw it, of course you had seen it.

“Ron Bilius Weasley, are you blushing?” You jest, though you already know the obvious answer.

He simply rolls his eyes, distracting himself from reddening further as he looked off to the side. It wasn’t long before his gaze is redirected to you by a finger on his jaw. Your smile is soft, taking in every bit you can. The way the golden hues of the sky bring out the richness of his hair that hangs down and tangles with his lashes. The way those very ginger lashes splay across his cheeks every time he closes his eyes, or the delicate freckles that dotted along his nose and cheeks like stars often do in the sky. Specifically that one not far from the corner of his mouth. That one was your favorite.

Your admiring was cut short when his voice pulled you from your daydreaming thoughts. “Would you care for a dance?”

You smile, processing the question you only half heard for a moment before nodding. He took your hand in his and held it close to his chest, his other arm encircling your waist and bringing you closer. He kissed you once, and then another, even stealing a third kiss before he smiled softly in the close proximity. Then it had almost turned to a full laugh upon seeing the same powdery yellow now smudged on your cheek from where his nose had brushed against it. As much as he tried, he couldn’t refrain from letting out an airy laugh.

“I love you.” His words are nearly whispered as he spoke them to you and only you. “Bloody hell I love you.”

You laugh softly, brushing your thumb over his chin. “I love you more.”

Soon you rest your head in it’s rightful spot on Ron’s shoulder, face tucked in his neck as the dull scent of his cologne still lingering on his skin made you smile. His cheek is smushed lightly against the top of your head as his eyes flutter closed, the breeze blowing gently through his hair while you sway softly to music unheard but still known to the two of you. It certainly hadn’t been quite as elegant as the slow dancing McGonagall had taught him, the moment embarrassing at the time but one he still cherishes. But it was a dance the two of you knew. One that spoke volumes with the simple nature of it.

Molly spots the two of you from the kitchen window and can’t seem to look away from the moment happening before her. Her youngest son has found the love of his life, after watching him pine for you for quite some time in his teens. She tears up at the thought and brings herself to look away, not wanting to intrude with prying eyes, but a proud smile remains on her face.

—

Tags: @iliveiloveiwrite @snitches-at-dawn

#ron weasley #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley fic #ron weasly imagine #ron weasley x you #ron weasley fluff #harry potter fic