avon-w-rita-smallbiz15-blog

[xochimillilili]

Kinktober day 27: Inspection kink

Part of having a cute little pet means making sure all their little puppy parts are working correctly, so obviously one's got to get their gloves on, push and cuddle their little pup into a corner of the bed, before flipping the shirt of their puppy up. A latex gloved hand on their chest to push them down, the other stretching the little thing's legs all nice and open.

"Shhh shhh, hey puppy~ It's okay, I've got you my love, shhh just let me take care of you, you're just a little baby pup after all~" as I shove my fingers into their cunt, rubbing my thumb against their clit. Cooing at my precious pup teasingly as I pull my hand up to their face. "Awww look at you baby, fuck you're just so easy~ Just a good little doggie with an adorable dripping cunt"

Seeing how they moan and squirm under my weight on them as I stretch their cute little asshole with my fingers, praising them once I've managed to fit all of them in. "Look at that pup, your little puppy training is going real well~ Seems I'll be able to fuck my knot in here pretty soon"

Having their head squished between my thighs, my cock throbbing against their chin, as I grab their face firmly, exploring their drooling mouth, seeing how they melt when I shove my fingers down their throat.

"Awww you're such a good puppy babyyy, all your cute lil puppy parts working so good~ Guess you deserve a treat for being such a good little pet" as I grind my boot up against their needy cunt, licking their drool off my fingers

[pisupsala]

Hitchin' a ride

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

Part 1 of Are You Going My Way?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You best keep your distance.

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

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

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

“I could give you a ride,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All beds are full.

It’s been a really bad day.

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

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

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

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

He should do something to help him.

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

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

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

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

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

It happens in a split second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My shift ends at 0500,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it wasn’t just you.

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

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

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

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

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

Seven more hours until your shift ends.

***

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

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

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

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

“Are you going my way, darling?” 

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

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

“Ready?” Bucky peers over his shoulder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be waiting.” 

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

[alienoresimagines]

Bucky: *Does something stupid and gets himself hurt* Buck: After I lovingly nurse you back to health, I’m going to kill you.

[glittter-skeleton]

Ten being into blondes specifically will never not be funny to me

[andhumanslovedstories]

My manager today asked if I was considering getting my Masters in nursing and I laughed for twenty minutes and was like FIRST OFF if I'm dumb enough to go to grad school, I'm getting something useful like an MFA in metered poetry

[teatitty]

Aizawa is so good at dodging Mic's wild gesturing even while mummified because the one time Hizashi accidentally smacked him in the mouth in their UA days he took it as a personal challenge to get better reflexes and demanded Hizashi keep doing it until he could effortlessly dodge all of them

Oboro judged him severely for having the weirdest gay flirting he'd ever seen in his life

[fromamelodytoasong]

EVE BEST as ELEANOR O'HARA in “Nurse Jackie” S1E8 | Pupil

[drumlincountry]

This is going to sound so stupid but I only today realised that a significant number of people like....look down on retail & service industry work.

[likesaly]

They r the same (pt2)

[pisupsala]

Follow Me Where I Go

Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Part 2 of Are You Going My Way?

Words: 8.5k Warnings: smut, 18+

“Dance with me.”

“No.” 

Bucky towers over you even as he casually leans against the dance hall bar while you sip your drink. You lock eyes with him before looking off the side. His gaze follows your line of vision. Matron is hovering near the dance floor, looking like she just swallowed a lemon. Bucky looks back at you, grinning. He’s standing too close to you, moving even closer when he speaks, leaning toward you as he listens. When he touches you — fleetingly putting his hand on your waist, brushing past you, lightly bumping his hand against yours — you feel that same spark as when he kissed you. 

You’ve never had someone vie for your attention so persistently, so overwhelmingly, so intensely. At moments, you’re not sure if you want to bask in it forever or just fall through the floor from awkwardness. Sometimes, you think Bucky might just enjoy you telling him no, whether because he clearly doesn’t get told no very often or because he can tell everything, but your mouth is saying yes. It’s the most delightful kind of trouble, but trouble nonetheless.

Whatever it is, he is making damn sure you only have eyes for him. 

The singing, the touching, the way Bucky always finds you. His eyes fix on you from across the room, popping up in places where he has no business being as a force of habit now, stealing a kiss the moment he sees an opening. 

Your roommates like to joke that you have Major John Egan on a string. It would certainly appear so. But you know better. If you have him on a string, it’s he who is doing the pulling.

In a sudden rush, airmen crowd the bar. Someone bumps into you, your drink spilling over your sleeve. Yelping, you put it down, but before you can turn around in indignation, Bucky pulls you into him, boxing you in between his strong arms, wedging you between his body and the bar. Safe from the surrounding push but right in his crosshairs. The tip of his nose is brushing along the side of your neck. He nips at your jaw. Bucky revels in hearing the small, quivering sigh, your hand gripping the edge of the bar so hard it’s turning your knuckles white. 

If Bucky has realized one thing about you, it’s that you don’t like breaking rules. It’s like you are not used to it. By all means, you move comfortably and serenely between the constraints of your job, rarely complaining about the rigid rules imposed by the Matron. However, it’s not that you lack an adventurous streak; you just do things on your own terms. He can tease you all he wants, goad you into action, and you will look him straight in the eye — flustered, licking your lips in anticipation, breath shallow — and coldly tell him no. You have the worst poker face but the strongest resolve.

And yet. 

It’s worth it because it makes it all the sweeter when you relent. Like now. Once you are sure you both have blended into the crowd at the bar, you spin around to face Bucky, biting your lip. The grin on his face tells you that he has been waiting for this. You grin back coyly. When you reach for him, cupping his face, he easily allows you to pull him into a searing kiss. The music suddenly sounds far away; the surrounding voices are drowned out — he is in his own little bubble with you. 

When you pull away a fraction, breathless, he eagerly captures your lips again. There are few—too few, in Bucky’s opinion—moments when he gets you like this. When your attention is on him, and only him. When you choose to break out of the neat little mold of an army nurse, you are extraordinarily alluring—from your fiery kiss to your soft, curious hands. It’s exhilarating, it’s addictive. You are only like that for him.

“John,” Your whisper, so tender and clear, cuts through his heated thoughts. Pulling away, you lick your lips—it tastes like Bucky’s smokey whiskey. He pulls you closer again, hands running up your sides.

“One more, Dove,” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Just one?” You giggle, chastely pressing your lips against his. He kisses you slowly, longingly. It makes your insides quake like nothing else when he does this. You thought Bucky was all about fun, but this isn’t fun. You thought he sparked like electricity, but this isn’t a shock to the system. It’s searingly intense in its tenderness and earnestness, leaving you speechless, helplessly clinging to him.  

He doesn’t grin or smirk at you; he doesn’t bask in his apparent victory — he just holds you like you are the only two people in the room. And at least for a moment, even John Egan has nothing to say.

Someone bumps into Bucky’s elbow, breaking the moment. You smell the pipe smoke. The color drains from your face because you know exactly who just approached the bar next to your romantic display.

“Doctor,” You greet, trying to keep your voice from cracking. Your hands fall from Bucky’s shoulders as if that makes you look any less guilty. You just hope letting go will actually cause you to fall through the floor now. “Nurse,” He replies, all too calmly, nodding at you before signaling the barman for another drink.

“Smokey,” Bucky sounds bored. 

“Major,” 

You look at your shoes, embarrassed, fidgeting with your hands. You wish you could put more space between Bucky and yourself, but there is nowhere for you to move. You are so unused to being in trouble, flustered so quickly that it’s adorable to Bucky. Caught red-handed, you might as well own it. So, instead of stepping back, he tucks you against him so you can hide your face against his chest, kissing the top of your head. A small noise of mortification escapes you.

“I’m not going to give you grief, nurse,” The doctor sounds wonderfully unbothered — he understands there is no regulation, no rule book, or punishment that will keep people, lonely and far away from home, from finding comfort in each other. “Just be sure Matron doesn’t see; you’ll be scrubbing baseboards for the rest of the month.” He adds almost jauntily.

“Yes, Doctor,” Your voice sounds much more confident than you feel, but you make no attempt to move away, content with hiding your face against Bucky’s jacket.

“That said, Bucky.” The doctor pauses to puff on his pipe before looking at the pair of you pointedly. “She’s one of my best. Take care not to get her sent away, will you?”

You hear Bucky's deep rumble of laughter resonate through his chest. It’s such a strangely sweet sensation—you heard his laugh before anyone else did. His fingers move soothingly down your spine.

“I’m quite partial to having her around myself.”

***

It’s one of those nights that if not everyone at the table were dressed in uniforms, you’d forget the circumstances of how you all came to be in a pub in a small town in East Anglia playing an entirely too intense game of Oh, Hell. It’s a Friday night, packed — you are sat snugly at the corner table, between the wall and Bucky, who seems to keep finding excuses to move closer to you. His knee is brushing against your leg; he keeps finding a reason to touch you, he whispers in your ear. You are unsure if Bucky is trying to get at you, your nerves, or the hand of cards that you are holding. 

You are not supposed to be out this late, but you’ve come to find out it’s becoming harder to say no. Sometimes, you have the nagging feeling that your days with Bucky are numbered. It’s like a dark little splotch in the back of your mind — a small, creeping eclipse. You never mention it to Bucky. Speaking it would make it true. 

And it’s so easy to forget when you are around him. The weeks and the days pass in a blur. Your heart soars every time he steps off that plane, every time you hear that bicycle bell after a mission. Every kiss is electric and sparks new depths of your attraction to Bucky.

Trouble was never this sweet or this persistent.

You brush his hand off your leg, again, decidedly not looking at Bucky but keeping your cards close to your chest and talking to Gale and Charles across the table from you. “So, what exactly happened to that narwhal tusk?” 

Gale smiles but doesn’t look up from his cards. He is entirely too cool and level-headed to get distracted from making his play. “I recall unicorns were to blame,” He simply replies before grabbing two matches from the pile. “I bet two.” 

“None for me,” Bucky smoothly puts his cards face down on the table before returning to you. You can feel his eyes boring into the side of your face as you chew your lip, trying to weigh the odds — each has five cards. Charles is playing for one. Gale is confident that he’ll win two hands. Bucky is playing for none. Which, in his case, means nothing in terms of whether he drew a good or bad hand. John Egan deals in chaos — he wins as long as everyone else loses. And considering he has a seventy-five-point lead, he’s a deft hand at it.

As he leans into you, you know he’s about to say something to annoy and distract you. So before a word can make it out of his mouth, before that infectious grin wipes you of all rational thought, you gently put your index finger against his lips. It stops him dead in his tracks for a mere second. From the heated look in his eyes, it’s clear this wasn’t a deterrent; it’s fuel on the fire.

“I bet three,” you announce lightly, trying not to look too flustered. Bucky grabs your hand and kisses your fingertips. 

Gale politely pushes three matches your way.

“That’s how you shut him up, then?” Charles jokes. “Any other tricks you’d be willing to share?” The whole table bursts out laughing. You just grin into your wine.

You first notice something is off when a fellow nurse suddenly dashes past and disappears into the men's room. Suddenly, chairs around the room scrape, and a mad scramble of heels is on the wooden floor. Belatedly, you look at the pub's entrance and realize that the Matron just walked in, rollers in her hair, apoplectic. 

“Shit,” You breathe in panic, starting to get up out of your hair, hoping you can hide before Matron sees you, but you are completely stuck between the table, the wall, and Bucky. You freeze — you are going to be in so much trouble. You’re going to be cleaning the whole infirmary. You’ll be redoing the entire inventory. She might transfer you away. 

She might send you home.

Your stomach plummets.

Bucky’s hand, suddenly pushing down on the crown of your head, shocks you out of your paralysis.

“Get down,” He says calmly like this is a completely normal request. As you clearly were not the type to sneak out or break the rules, and all things considered, you have a pretty poor fight-or-flight reaction.

Almost stupidly, you allow him to push you under the table, crouching on your hands and knees in the cramped space between the table legs and the men’s legs. Gale moves his legs out of the way, giving you some space, while Bucky motions you to come closer to him, gently guiding you to kneel between his legs. Above you, the conversation resumes like nothing happened. 

Quietly, you try to find a comfortable position in the small space, taking care not to bump your head against the tabletop. Finally, you settle by leaning your cheek against the inside of Bucky’s knee and resting your hands on his thigh. His muscles flex under your touch, and Bucky shifts slightly in his seat.

The sound of heels marching over the wooden floor is like a death knell.

“Gentlemen,” the Matron says, standing so close to the table that you can see the shoddily repaired ladder on her nylon. “It’s past curfew, and I have several nurses missing from their rooms.” She looks sharply around the table, probably noticing your oddly abandoned seat, slapped-down hand of cards, and half-empty drink.

“No nurses at this table, Captain,” Gale responds coolly — not quite lying. Charles busies himself looking at his cards.

Bucky doesn’t even bother responding, lazily smoking his cigarette. He is currently trying very hard not to think about you kneeling between his legs — your fingers pressing into his muscle, your face so tantalizingly close.

“Are you sure, Major?” Matron presses. “Awful lot of chairs unoccupied in this pub for a Friday night” She trails off as she looks around the room. 

Under the table, you cringe, tightening your grip on Bucky’s leg. She never takes any answer at face value. Your knees are hurting by now, but you don’t dare move with her standing less than a foot away from you.

“That’s Hambone’s.” Crank supplies helpfully.

Several voices call out for Hambone, who you assume must be hanging around somewhere close. Your heart is beating in your throat. Bucky’s leg presses into you as Hambone clambers over the back of the chair. The conversation picks up naturally — they are all pretending like he’s been sitting there all along; that’s his hand on the table. You can’t help but wonder how many times they have pulled this little gambit before or if it’s a side effect of the blind trust forged between the men. No questions asked; just play along.

“White wine, lieutenant?” Matron intones mildly—your breath stocks. You should have really picked a less… obvious drink.

“I like what I like,” Hambone shrugs, downing the glass in one go. He puts the glass down less than gently. “It’s still alcohol.”

Bucky shifts his leg nervously, bumping into your shoulder.

“Major Cleven, Major Egan.” Matron looks down at them sharply, like a teacher about to scold children. Buck remains polite, looking at her as she speaks, while Bucky barely tries to conceal his contempt. “If you happen to see any of my nurses, I expect you to act in your capacity as senior officers and report them to me.”

“And if we don’t?” 

Your nails dig into Bucky’s leg. Shut up.

“Major Egan, you would interfere with Army procedures like that?”

“If we see any stray nurses around,” Buck cuts in before Bucky can reply. “We will be sure to let the Captain know, won’t we, Bucky?”

“Sure,” He agrees curtly. “Goodnight now, Captain.” He dismisses the Matron bluntly, turning his attention back to the card game.

Matron hesitates; you can tell by the uncertain shuffle of her feet. She’s just been dismissed by a superior officer, although she clearly wasn’t done with the conversation. Having her put in her place like that should not bring you joy. It should not give you a warm, fuzzy feeling when you listen to Bucky give an order like that. After an awkward pause, Matron finally bids the table goodnight. You watch her walk away, finally disappearing in the mass of legs near the bar.

You release the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, finally shifting on your aching knees with a small groan. Bucky is doing everything in his power to pretend he didn’t hear that. You just hope Matron finishes her round of the pub quickly  — there really is no comfortable position in the cramped space under the table.

Bucky reaches under the table, stroking your cheek. Your heart nearly stops at the loving touch. He never ceases to surprise you with how tender he can be in these small moments — when he allows himself to let all the bluster and the jokes fall by the wayside. You lean into his touch with a sigh. 

“Is it safe yet?” You ask in a small voice.

“Currently,” Bucky glances over his shoulder. “The Captain is looking for you at the bottom of a martini glass.” 

“Bitch,” Your muffled voice sounds so acutely indignant, Bucky inclines his head to look under the table.

You peer up back at him with those big eyes; your lips slightly parted — fuck. He had thought of you in that exact position more than he would like to admit, but seeing you on your knees in front of him like that gives his half-formed fantasies substance. You pout, leaning against his knee again, waiting for the danger to pass. 

Matron has another two rounds. At this rate, she will at least be unable to hear you and your fellow nurses sneak back into the dormitory. The moment Matron walks out the door, the whole pub sighs a collective sigh of relief.   

“Come here, Dove,” Bucky offers his hand to pull you back up. Hambone makes no attempt to vacate your seat. Bucky doesn’t care as he pulls you into his lap despite your protests about losing a good hand. And you drink. 

Instead, he busies himself with brushing the dirt off your bruising knees, his hand dipping under the hem of your skirt for a quick second. You narrow your eyes at him, pushing his hand away.

“You have to be nice to me,” He smiles warmly at you. “I saved you.”

“You almost got me into trouble in the first place,” You retort levelly. “Again,” You add, looking at him sharply.

Bucky’s fingers gently wrap around your chin, pulling your face close to his. “Allow me to remind you, Dove,” His voice is low, warm like melted chocolate as he squeezes your hip — it’s the only thing you can focus on; everything else fades into the background. “You invited this trouble, insisted on it even.” 

“What can I say?” You murmur innocently, refusing to admit that he is technically correct. “Trouble follows me where I go.” 

Between Bucky and sips of his whiskey, your head is spinning as he leads you down the street of the small village. You split off from the rest a while ago. Giggling, you pull him into a dark corner between two buildings. With your arms around his neck, he accepts your eager kisses.

“And you have the audacity to call me trouble,” He comments, laughing as you push him up against the wall.

“I’m only repaying the favor,” You breathe against his lips, nimbly unbuttoning his uniform jacket, desperate to get closer to him. Feeling the definition of Bucky’s chest and how his muscles move through the layers of fabric thrills you. His hands run down your sides, grasping your hips, pulling you closer. Bucky relishes in your gentle voice and the caring touches that come so naturally to you. But he enjoys cracking through that sweet exterior even more, following your feverish lead, the way you unashamedly rub yourself against him, and your unabashed hunger for him. 

“You know what you want so well, Dove,” He encourages you. “I like that about you.” 

“I just want you,” You manage breathlessly between kisses, so lost in the moment, so lost in every touch, not really thinking about what you’re saying. Quickly, Bucky turns you around so your back is against the wall. Sure, he likes you showing him what you want, and whether it’s the whiskey or the tension that has been building all night — this is the most forward you’ve been. And he’ll be damned if he’s not going to make the most of this precious moment, now that he has you like this, all to himself.

Lightly tracing his hand over your leg, he hitches up the hem of your skirt. It bunches up around his wrist as he moves upwards. You are looking at him in anticipation, taking deep breaths to steady yourself, stroking the side of his face softly as you shift your stance, allowing him to move further. 

“Just me?” He rasps. His fingertips lightly graze the fabric of your panties, studying your reaction carefully. 

“Yes,” You keen, rolling your hips against his hand. He thought a lot about the delicious sway of your hips when you walk and how it would feel if you moved against him, wrapped around him, the soft, warm flesh of your thighs pressed against his wrist. There is nothing calculated about your movements, only the intuitive pursuit of pleasure. 

“No one else?” It’s as much possessive as it’s an admission of vulnerability. 

“Of- of course not,” You stutter in confusion, pulling back a fraction. The worry etched on your face melts away the moment Bucky’s fingers slip past the elastic of your panties into your warmth. You are so wet for him already, so sensitive that the smallest touches make your eyes flutter in pleasure.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs against your lips possessively, needing to feel your every gasp and breath. “Because that would break my heart.” 

You don’t think Bucky is joking. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. It doesn’t feel like he is joking. A too-sincere confession in the heat of the moment like only he could make, leaving you reeling between the physical sensation of his deft fingers and the soul-searing candidness of his words. You would never have imagined that it would be in your power to change anything about the way that Bucky moves through this world, let alone that he would admit to you that you have the capability to break his heart.

“What about me?” The words tumble from your mouth all wrong, jumbled in a stream of strangely disconnected thoughts and lustful moans. Fighting through the amorous haze, you blink up at Bucky, trying to find a way to re-arrange your question into something more coherent. Until a few seconds ago, you were sure you were the only one in danger of heartbreak in this situation. 

“You,” He replies softly, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, as your breath quickens and your stomach feels tight. “Can have anything you ask for.”

***

It’s the waiting that is the worst. When there is nothing left to do or prepare, you just stand there, scrubbed in. Listening. When you hear the faint roar of the airplane engines, you hold your breath and try to count how many you hear on approach. It’s always too few.

After that, within minutes, the doors to the OR will swing open, and the medics will storm in, carrying the worst casualties. The longer you stay at Thorpe Abbots, the more names and faces you recognize on the operating table.

But the agony doesn’t end there.

Inevitably, when you walk out of the OR, you find out who didn’t make it back. Whispers go around about how many parachutes were seen and where they went down. Rarely does someone admit that they couldn’t have made it out. 

The knot of nerves in your stomach has been weighing you down since you got up that sunny morning. It is the oddest feeling, and you cannot figure out what has gotten into you. Your hands shake as you sterilize equipment; lunch looks even more unappetizing than usual. Your Bucky is not flying today; he’s up in London for R&R. He’s coming back tomorrow, but you don’t feel that kind of nervous. It’s not excitement. 

It’s dread.

You don’t mention it to anyone — it would be bad luck. Instead, you stretch your arms and flex your fingers to relieve the tremors. You force down your lunch, chatting with your fellow nurses. You do everything as you do every day, and a mission is flown. 

Standing at attention in the OR, you listen. It’s an eternity before you finally hear the sound of a plane on approach. And then another. 

Nothing.

It's too long of nothing.

For an uncomfortably long time, you just stand there, listening. That couldn’t have been all of them. Surely, the rest must have been delayed. The minutes tick by. Even as the first casualties come in, everyone works in grave silence. But not another plane passes. You look across the operating table at your fellow nurse. She looks ashen under her mask. The doctor won’t even meet your eye.

As the remaining crews — those who did make it back — filter out the interrogation, the whispers start. At dinner, no one is even pretending to eat.

So many crews lost—Major Cleven’s among them. For now, designated MIA.

Your heart aches for every one lost. Your heart aches for Bucky. 

You have no idea how Bucky has taken the news because although you know he’s returned, you have not seen him. Bucky has not sought you out; you haven’t even caught a glimpse of him in passing. It’s like he’s suddenly a ghost — you hear how he moves about the base, how he’s torn into the CO and Air Exec, how he’s torn into Mission Planning — always, everywhere, just around the corner, a shadow in the corner of your eye.

After four days, you’ve had enough. You can’t stand the pitying looks from your roommates anymore. 

Oh, I’m so sorry.

He hasn’t spoken to you yet? 

I saw him near the officer’s club today.

He’ll come to you — I heard he’s flying soon.

He doesn’t get to do this to you, you decide. He doesn’t get to kiss you like that and say all those things to you only to all but disappear. If Bucky won’t come see you, you’ll go find him.

You’re not on duty tonight, but you should take care to look at the part. Matron would be proud of you: hair neatly pinned, not a crease on your seersucker dress, your navy cape and white oxfords spotless. A neatly wrapped brown paper package with a pill bottle prescribed by Doctor Stover. Although, he might not strictly speaking remember signing that prescription of sleeping pills. It’s part means to an end, part because you believe Bucky might actually need them. 

You've observed that Bucky always easily moves through every situation and effortlessly maintains control. It's like he is right where he’s supposed to be, and subsequently, no one really stops him. And if they do, he just blusters past them. That’s the kind of confidence you don’t have, but you better start finding it quickly now if you’re going to pull this off.

You walk with purpose, smiling politely as you greet the officers and servicemen you pass. It’s just coming up to 9 PM on a summer’s evening — the sun has barely set, and everyone is trying to make the most of the rare free hours of sunshine. You make it all the way to the men’s barracks before the officer on duty stops you from entering the building where you are pretty sure Bucky’s room is.

“Anything I can help you with, lieutenant?” The young officer inquiries suspiciously. 

“I’m tasked with delivering this to Major Egan,” Forcing a smile on your face that you hope doesn’t look too artificial, you hold up the small package. 

“Let me take that for you,” he offers, reaching for the package. “Major Egan is in a foul mood; a nice nurse like yourself should not be on the receiving end of that.” 

Chuckling nervously, you snatch the package out of the officer’s reach. “Are you a nurse too, lieutenant?” You blurt out.

“I’m sorry?” 

“Medication can only be distributed by medical personnel,” You recover quickly, your voice pleasant, although the back of your neck is prickling with sweat. “Army procedure — doctor’s orders,” You add chaotically. 

The corner of your mouth is quivering slightly under the pressure of maintaining your smile. The duty officer looks at you strangely before finally shrugging.

“Major Egan’s room is at the end of the hall, to the left.”

Heart pounding, you thank him before entering the building.

As expected, there is no reply when you knock on the door. 

“Bucky?” You try softly. “It’s me.” 

Nothing.

“Bucky?” 

You listen with bated breath for any sign of life on the other side of the door. With shaking hands, irrationally terrified of what you will find, you try to open the door. To your surprise, it clicks open.

Tentatively, you step into the darkened room. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust and get your bearings. Bucky is on the bed, half under the covers, lying on his stomach, with one arm propping up his pillow and facing the wall. 

“John?” You venture softly. He doesn’t reply, doesn’t stir. As you step closer, you note his slow, deep breaths—the slow, deep breaths of someone pretending to be asleep. You hesitate. Maybe you shouldn’t have come here; he doesn’t want to see you to the point of ignoring you for almost a week. He lost his best friend. He’s lost so many. You understand, but you can’t help but feel the sting of his silence a little.

“I brought you something to help you sleep,” You continue. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, the small brown package feels oddly heavy in your hands. Bucky still doesn’t respond, not even the slightest change to his breathing. 

Extravert, talkative, center of attention, John Egan grieves in stern silence. 

Carefully stepping over Bucky’s boots and clothes, which are strewn across the floor, you place the package on the nightstand next to his bed. He is still stubbornly pretending to sleep. You should go. Bucky doesn’t want to talk to you, and you shouldn’t impose. 

But something doesn’t feel right. Nervously, you rub your fingers over the hem of your woolen mantle. It’s like Bucky’s darkness is radiating from him, sucking all the air from the room. In your heart, you understand that he shouldn’t be alone.

After unclipping your mantle, folding it, and placing it on the ground, you gingerly sit down on the edge of the narrow bed. There is still no reaction, although at this point, you don't expect anything from Bucky. You just want him to know you are here. Leaning over him, soothingly brushing your fingers over his temple, you notice that his stormy blue eyes are open, firmly fixed on the wall. It’s not the only thing you see, even in the room's darkness.

“Di-” Did someone punch you in the face? The words die on your tongue. You retract your hand to stop yourself poking at the bruise. 

He is so stubborn — eyes open, pretending to sleep. Bruise on his face, not a blink. It’s clear Bucky doesn’t want you to do anything for him. You are not here to play nurse to him, you remind yourself. He doesn’t need you to make sure he takes his medicine and ice his wounds. Everything about his actions is screaming that he doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want you. But he shouldn’t be alone.

Taking a deep breath for courage, you toe off your white Oxfords, untie your cap, and carefully lie down behind him, just on the edge of the bed, over the covers. It takes you a moment to settle. You wrap your arm around him, although you can barely reach over the broad expanse of his torso. You hold on to his undershirt at his ribs, pressing your cheek into his back. You match your breathing to his.

Your synchronized breathing is the only movement in the room for a few minutes. Finally, Bucky stirs. Nervously, you wait to see what he will do. He doesn’t get up or acknowledge you in any way. He reaches for your hand, unlatching it from his shirt as he turns to his side, his back still to you. You brace yourself, expecting Bucky to push you away.

Instead, his grip on your hand tightens as he pulls you closer, placing your palm over his sternum and anchoring it in place with his large hand. You scoot closer to him, shimmying your legs under the covers and pressing yourself fully into him. Bucky hooks his ankle on yours, tangling your foot between his. You are wrapped around him, listening to his heartbeat. You stay there, finally feeling his breathing steadying naturally, his heartbeat slowing.

Bucky didn’t want to talk, but he didn’t want to be alone either.

He just didn’t want you to see him like this when he’s so not like himself. Or maybe that’s the problem: he is exactly like this, but he doesn’t want you to know that. He doesn’t want to spoil, poison, how you think of him. Most people, Buck being pretty much the only exception, wisely avoid him when he’s in his dark moods. Bucky couldn’t bear the thought of you doing the same. So he convinced himself not to seek out you as a mercy to himself—a bitter mercy, in the hope you’d still be there when he came around.

But you came to find him. He realizes he underestimated you in that respect. Of course, you would never just stand by, sit pretty, and wait for things to resolve themselves. You walked through pouring rain with a busted boot, making your way home through darkness and icy winds. You do things on your own terms.

He’s just glad that you’re here now rather than leaving him and all the trouble he brings you behind. It calms the storm in him enough to finally fall into a deep sleep.

It’s hours later—it must be—when you startle awake. You are still in the same position you fell asleep, tangled up with Bucky. He is still fast asleep. You blink against the darkness in the room, trying to focus your vision on something that will tell you the time. Gently, you extricate yourself from Bucky, quickly checking the time on his silver watch that had been discarded on the nightstand. It’s barely 4:30 — plenty of time to get ready for your shift. But if you want to sneak out unnoticed, you should get going before the whole base wakes up.

Tiptoeing around the room, you try to fix your hair in a bun in the darkened reflection of the small mirror — just so it doesn’t look so obviously slept in before you tie your nurses’ cap back on. Your dress is hopelessly wrinkled.

Behind you, Bucky groans, rolling over in the bed. 

“C’mere,” His voice is thick with sleep.

You look over to him, bun untwisting between your suddenly unsteady hands. Bucky is motioning to you, arms outstretched invitingly. The sheets are pooled around his waist; his normally carefully styled dark curls are a delicious mess. Powerless against his magnetic pull, you drop your cap on the floor as you climb back into his bed, into his waiting arms.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice still rough. He pulls you against him, kissing your forehead. Your fingers run through his tussled hair. 

“Of course,” You breathe, tilting your head up, hoping to get another kiss. Bucky’s hungry mouth on yours is almost more than you bargained for, hand running up your dress, over the top of your stocking, hiking your leg over his hip. His movements are deliberate, intense. Your breath hitches between the fiery kisses as you try to find equilibrium from his roaming hands. Where before he would playfully tug at the ribbon keeping your wrap dress closed, he now single-handedly undoes the knot, pushing the dress open.

“Bucky,” You gasp, pushing against his chest, trying to slow him at least down. “John,”

“You didn’t think you could come crawling into my bed and then play this innocent, did you?” He is smirking at you, hand now firmly planted on your ass, squeezing.

“I - I didn’t-” You swallow dryly. Bucky notices that you are pumping the breaks — eyes wide, hand planted against his chest  — so he switches gears. Gently rolling you onto your back, Bucky sits up on his knees, slowly running his hands over your thighs. He leans forward, pressing kisses against the swell of your breast, peeking out from under your slip dress, up your neck, along your jawline.

“Just let me take care of you,” He hums against the sensitive skin of your throat. “Like you took care of me,”

“I didn’t do anything.” You try to make sense of the feverish thoughts, your hands aimlessly traveling up Bucky’s arms, the muscles taut under your touch.

“You stayed,” he replies simply before capturing your lips in another searing kiss. You had so many reasons and every chance to walk out last night. He certainly didn’t make a very enticing choice, but you chose him anyway when he probably least deserved it. All he can do now is make you don’t regret it.

He’s pulling at your dress, dragging it over your shoulders, flinging it somewhere into the room. You struggle to keep up, yanking up Bucky’s shirt over his head, dog tags jangling on his neck. Bucky is shimmying the slip over your hips, pooling it under your breasts. You curl up, allowing him to pull it over your head. His body is on yours — skin to skin. It’s a beautiful feeling; so warm, so intimate. You run your nails over Bucky’s broad shoulders, getting acquainted with every ridge, bump, and rippling muscle under the skin.

Bucky rolls his hips into yours, drinking in your reaction — the gasping breath, the soft moan, the pleading look in your eyes. He needs to feel something. Something to fill that gaping hole in his chest, something to stem the simmer of crushing anger and pain before he loses grip on it. 

Thankfully, you have so much to give, and give it to him so freely. Bucky wants to drown in your soft skin, every gasp and moan of his name torn from your lips, your loving touch. He wants you to make him forget for just a moment that his best friend has gone down behind enemy lines and how many more friends he has lost already. He wants to feel something else that isn’t the crushing weight of the world that no amount of alcohol and no punch to the face could make him forget. 

Somewhere in the frenzied movement, Bucky skillfully rids you of the rest of your undergarments.

“You’re so beautiful, Dove,” he breathes, looking down at you, naked, hair splayed over his pillow. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this.” 

He's straining against his shorts, but he also wants to savor this moment with you. And in that moment of quiet, you realize you should tell him. You've never been with anyone like this before — never gone this far.

But the second his body covers yours again, his lips on yours, all hesitation dissipates together with the rest of your rational thinking. It feels too good, and you don’t want to stop now. Experimentally, your fingers dance over his chest, down to his stomach. Bucky twitches under your touch — breathing ragged between hungry kisses covering your body. His teeth tug at your nipple, tearing a loud moan from you. You’ve never experienced pain so pleasurably.

Bucky’s hands also roam over your body, squeezing and caressing every curve and dip with reverence. He traces a finger down the length of your spine before cupping your ass and pulling you closer to him. You can feel his hard length pressing against you through the thin fabric of his shorts.

You suppose you should feel nervous, but every bit of your body and mind is already entirely occupied with Bucky; there simply isn’t room. All you can think about is how you want to feel him, how you want him to feel you. If you’re not ready now, if you are not sure now, with Bucky, then you doubt you’ll ever be. 

Bucky’s fingers travel down your ribs, tickling the small of your waist, caressing your hipbone, ghosting over your slit. You arch into him, your hips jerking against his touch.

“Tell me what you want, Dove.” He grins against your mouth.

You doubt you could find the words. Maybe talking is overrated anyway.

“John,” You just keen softly, biting down on your lip as you grab his hand and guide his fingers inside to rub small circles over your clit.

“You are a demanding little thing, aren’t you?” Bucky teases, although he is enjoying this immensely — your small hand over his, showing him exactly what you want, the little domineering edge to your actions. You keep surprising him in the best ways — beyond the sweet and caring, you know what you want and how to get it. And he will gladly give all to you.

You muffle a moan against the crook of his neck as Bucky starts to move his fingers in a slow rhythm, curling them just right to make you start clenching around him. He knows what you like — he has had you come apart by hand. But having so eager, so needing yet assertive while naked under him, is everything he needs right now.

Bucky’s fingers continue to move inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your mind is hazy with desire as you grind against his hand, wanting more of his touch.

“Like- like that,” You whimper, your hips moving feverishly against his hand — your hand is tangled in his hair, tugging at his messy curls. “Don’t stop, please - fuck,” You breathe.

Bucky smirks, moving his fingers faster, and adds a second one, pushing them deeper inside of you. You shudder at the feeling, unable to contain the moans escaping your mouth. You can feel yourself getting close to the edge — you know that Bucky can sense it, too.

“Shh, Dove,” He leans down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss to silence as his fingers keep working you to a climax. “You’ll wake everyone up like that — or do you want an audience?” He chuckles. You can feel his hot breath against your ear.

“No,” you giggle at his words despite your brain being close to short-circuiting. “I don’t like to share,” You add with a soft sigh, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s neck, holding onto him tightly as the pleasure builds within you. Bucky captures every moan and sigh that he tears from you.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” He whispers against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “So responsive and needy for me.”

Your breath hitches, your body trembling as the pleasure builds within you. Bucky’s words only fuel the fire that is consuming you.  Bucky can feel how close you are getting, and he knows that it won’t take much for you to reach your climax. His fingers move faster inside you. The feeling of fullness is overwhelming, yet not enough.

“Come for me, Dove,” Bucky urges, nipping at your earlobe, encouraging you so sweetly to let go. A wave of ecstasy consumes you as you cry out Bucky’s name into his mouth. Your body shakes, contorting against him, as the orgasm washes over you, leaving you breathless, eyes closed, floating between. Bucky gives you very little time to recover — you barely register that he’s rid himself of his shorts, wrapping your legs around his waist, his hand clutching your hip, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“I need you so badly, Dove.” His voice trembles slightly, and his breath is shaky. It’s strange, in a way, how it warms your heart that Bucky allows you to see him, experience him, in these moments of vulnerability. He trusts you with these glimpses of him — beyond the jokes and bluster, beyond the clever comebacks and impulsive challenges — stripped back to the things he keeps hidden.

“I need only you,” You sigh in ecstasy, eyes fluttering as he enters you slowly. It feels tight, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels odd but not wrong. You swallow, shifting awkwardly, trying to accommodate how full you feel, but not sure what to do. Bucky is not moving, his fingers tight on your hip, body tense.

“Fuck, you are so tight,” He groans, eyes screwed shut. Slowly, he starts moving, calculated and deliberate — as much for his own sake as yours. Every time he bottoms out against you, it’s a shock of pleasure that runs through him from his crown to his toes. You are suddenly a lot quieter, breath softly catching with every move, your loving gaze fixed on his face, hands grasping his shoulders, as he draws out of you again with agonizing slowness before driving back in forcefully.

Your nails dig into his shoulders in response to this new pace. He looks down at your body — every supple curve moves as he drives into you, the jiggle of your hips and ass precisely as he imagined it so many times now. Bucky knows he’s not going to last very long if he gives in to how hard he really wants to fuck you. He should make this last; make it good for you. Make sure you keep coming back to him. And only him.

Bucky feels so good, and you cannot help but stare at him. His taut muscles, those broad arms and shoulders, the way he moves with such grace, his face contorted in pleasure—the pleasure of being with you. Intuitively, you move your hips in tandem with him, wanting to feel more. It’s such a small movement, but it elicits a string of curses from Bucky. You almost want to ask if something is wrong, but before you can even start finding the words, Bucky grabs you by the ankle, hitching it over his shoulder, angling your pelvis up. As he drives into you again, so much harder than before, all control and grace suddenly forgotten, your eyes nearly roll into the back of your skull from the overwhelming pleasure. 

He wanted to be nice — he wanted to be gentle, but you are so impossibly beguiling it drives him to madness. He sets a punishing pace, unrelentingly slamming into you now. He presses his face into your ankle, kissing and nipping at the skin. You are crying out incoherently; he hears you swear, repeating his name in ecstasy, clawing at him desperately. 

Bucky wants to remind you to be quiet, but he’s so focused on your walls tightening around his cock, he cannot come up with the words anymore. Bending forward, your leg still hooked over his shoulder and not once breaking pace, his free hand wraps around your mouth, muffling the delicious noises you’ve been making. You look surprised for a second, still under his grip.

“You are so goddamn loud, Dove,” Bucky wrenches out. “And I’m not in a sharing mood,”

The way your eyes crinkle, he can tell you are smiling — you think this is funny. You are actually fucking impossible. Your hands are running up his arms, gripping onto his shoulders tightly, your nails digging into the hard muscle as you buck your hips against his again and again, trying to take him deeper. 

He leans further forward so he can look into your eyes. Something in his gaze makes your heart stutter, an intensity that takes your breath away, smile melting off your face. Then suddenly, he’s moving faster, harder, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room. You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your bodies as Bucky’s hips are slamming into yours uncontrollably; he can feel his release rapidly approaching. It’s like fireworks going off in his head, every nerve ending on fire as he desperately chases his own pleasure.

It’s like the flick of a switch that makes the dam break, and he spills into you, his movements coming to a halting stop as he groans out your name, intermingled with curses, like the dirtiest prayer. You keep rolling your hips, every move making him moan and tremble, delighting in watching Bucky helpless against the tide, riding out his orgasm with you.

Finally, he nearly collapses into you, putting all his weight on his forearm so as not to crush you. Bucky’s hair is hanging over his forehead, the sweat on his chest intermingling with yours. Dazed, you grab this hand, pulling it off your lips, softly kissing the tips of his fingers.

Gently, Bucky pulls out of you, wrapping your arms around his neck so he can shift you both on your side. You cuddle up to him, peppering kisses along his jawline, enjoying how his mustache scratches against your cheek. His fingers caress your loose locks as he tries to get this breathing back under control. Brushing Bucky’s messy hair back, he looks relaxed even in the faint light of the room. The tension has left his body, and the darkness consuming darkness has also abated.

“I like it when you look like this.” You confide softly. Bucky looks at you, eyebrow raised.

“Like what?” He asks laughter in his voice. “Fucked out?” 

You shake your head, laughing too. Although you don’t think you will ever be able to look at him normally again — how are you supposed to function now that you know what Bucky looks like, what he sounds like when he comes undone, how gentle and sweet he can be, and how mind-blowingly he can fuck you?

No, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to not think about that when you look at him. And you’re glad.

“I meant when you look relaxed, happy,” You correct. “But yes, fucked out suits you too,” You add a little flippantly.

“Well, lucky me,” Bucky presses his forehead against yours, his tone turning from light to that deep timbre that pulls every string in you. “Because you look delightful in every position.”

After everything you’ve just done, the afterglow actually feels deeper, more intimate. Now that the lustful frenzy has melted away, only softness and fondness remain. Soft kisses, gentle caresses, sweet nothings—anything to fill up the time that is ticking away for you. You know that you will have to get up soon and try to sneak back unseen. If you could, you’d put it off forever.

“I’m flying today,” Bucky announces soberly as you’re pulling your stocking up, sitting on the edge of the bed. You pause, looking at him, waiting for him to continue. He is still sitting in bed, naked and smoking, with covers around his waist. You knew Bucky would be flying soon, probably on the next mission; however, he has never told you explicitly like this. It just never really came up before. When he doesn’t say anything else, you just nod in reply. 

“I won’t be on duty when you come back,” You say, focussing back on getting dressed. 

“So you can wait for me here.” Bucky leans into you, offering you a drag of his cigarette. He’s smiling playfully.

“Here, here?” You joke back, mockingly incredulous, blowing the smoke into the room.

“Preferably,” Bucky presses a kiss onto your exposed neck, close to the messy bun gathered in the nape of your neck. “Right in this bed.”

“How about I come to find you?” You tease, pushing Bucky backward, hand on his chest. “You just focus on what you need to do. I’ll be there.” You assure him with a wink.

[jealousmartini]

I am so desperate to be someone's 🍸anon but ive already gotten to the point where my account and name is kinda well known in this community, that if I ever dared to do this, everyone would know its me and ITS PISSING ME OFFFFF

[xxanaduwrites]

much ado about nothing, major

ii. bluell & blue skies

the main hub

pairing: john “bucky” egan x (ofc) maude “blue” bluell

warnings: this story will contain mature themes, descriptions of injury, blood, sexual content, swearing, as well as, physical and mental illness. proceed with caution.

— ii. some inappro-pro jokes courtesy of curt & mentions of beating a dude up, that’s all i got folks !

word count: 5.5k

there must be something or nothing at all.

The sound of clinking glasses, chattering men, giggling women, and tapping feet amongst the beat of swinging jazz filled the Officer’s Club and the ears of one Maude Bluell at roughly around 2100 hours.

The newly polished nurse of Thorpe Abbot’s infirmary leaned rather uncomfortably against a nearby wall with her fellow colleagues observing the function. Now changed out of her more suitable work attire, she stiffened like a board in the confines of her neatly pressed Red Cross issued uniform. Already becoming rather used to her usual loose white ward dress and cap, the fitted material of the more proper wear seemed foreign to her. Too foreign to be a uniform worn just a week prior, in route for base transfer.

The more she spent in the infirmary, the more time was proving itself to be heavier conceptually speaking and lighter actuality speaking. The truth of the matter was that Nurse Bluell witnessed enough loss in one week that could very well add up to more than whole lifetime.

So maybe — just maybe the Dirty Shirley Q was attempting to shove into Maude’s hand — wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “‘S not all that bad, Blue. Just a cherry little thing with a pinch of alc. ‘S like sucking up straight candy.” Susie slurred and the bright red liquid swayed like a wave in a storm trapped in glass.

“Not everyone wants to rot out their teeth and stain their tongues red like you, Q.” Lottie pointed out and grimaced at the concoction with a sweet cherry on top. To prove her point further, the blonde took a sip of her less colorful drink — a simple gin and tonic.

If the concept of “two sides of the same coin” could be defined by people, Maude was certain Lottie and Q were the perfect definition.

It became quite apparent early on that Lottie upheld a more serious and resolved persona, taste aligning simplistic and rather blander than her bubbly and eccentric colleague Q who flourished in a rather colorful nature.

In an odd way, even though the two could get into the occasional spat over their differences, they overall leveled each other out in a way where Blue wasn’t sure where she exactly fit in. How she found fit into such an established dynamic.

“And not everyone wants to deny every name on their dance card, but here you are,” She countered, clearly commenting on something Maude was unfamiliar with. Something that spiked a nerve in Lottie. The red headed nurse noticed the newbie's confusion drawing prominently in her features. “Lots has a look but no touch policy,” She explained, the drink flailing about even more dangerously as she exasperated, enough for Maude to accept this drink from her without a word.

Crossing her arms over her chest, the all work, no play blonde ignored her former colleague and turned to her new one. “It’s not entirely true. You see, I look at it this way. We touch men all day long –” Sue promptly cut Lottie off with a well timed snort, and Lottie sighed but continued on, “rotating between check-ups, wrapping wound after wound, and seeing them in their most vulnerable states…I just – I don’t know, something about it doesn’t sit right with me,” she shrugged nonchalantly, not knowing that her words laid heavily on Maude’s own chest.

“But, there’s no denying that the girl lovesssss to look!” Sue chirped in, nudging her friend’s shoulder who’s mischievous grin was hidden behind the rim of her gin and tonic. “Speaking of, has anyone caught your eye yet, Blue? See anything you like?” She mused, fishing for the hot gossip as she liked to do.

Had anyone caught her eye? Well a very certain major who had waltzed his way into the infirmary just this morning had, but could she admit such a thing when she was trying to convince herself otherwise?

“Oh I – I dunno,” Maude finally spoke up and blushed madly, cheeks promptly dusting pink.

She suddenly felt grateful for the Dirty Shirley and took a sip, the tart yet sweet mixture coating her tongue in a delightful way. The condensation of the glass felt cool against her now heated skin, and she prayed it would cool down her unease in the current conversation. If not, at least she could simply blame it on the drink. Not that she knew very well what it was like for herself. She wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with, but she had been around enough functions with family and friends alike to know how flushed face one could get on a glass or two – worse with a few more added into the mix.

“Give the girl some time. She just got here after all and we haven’t given her a run down yet on who’s who.” She noted. “Wait, have we?” She asked, turning to Blue for confirmation to which she shook her head in a delcarative no. “Oh then, this’ll be a thrill. Perfect timing then, ain’t it Sue.”

“Absolutely! You’re in good hands Maude Bluell. Can’t go wrong with Lots full boring government names in conjunction with my fun nicknames for the full effect.” Sue added.

“It’s not boring, it’s official and makes our job a whole lot easier.” Lottie reasoned. “At least I can identify each pilot by their title and rank efficiently with no hiccups on their health charts.”

“Hey! It was just one time, and in my defense it’s not my fault that two Majors decided to have the same goddamn nickname, and it’s no help when Croz only refers to them as the “two Buckys” in conversation.”

“Two Buckys’?” Maude questioned, rather perplexed.

“Yes, see the blonde over there. Strong cheekbones. Full lips. Bright blue eyes,” Lottie — as loud as Maude could hear over the blaring music and as subtly as she could, a good two gin and tonics in — pointed to the definition of such a man seated right in front of the Officer’s band.

Maude followed her eye and nodded in confirmation.

“That’s Major Gale Cleven,” She said in her left ear.

And on her right side Sue added in, “Buck, or in other words — if you couldn’t tell — the man Lots was fawning for before she found out he’s got a girl back home.”

Lottie shot her a look.

“What? Made it real obvious with those detailed descriptors. I’m simply stating facts.” Sue regarded Lottie while fetchinf the cherry out of her own Dirty Shirley “Anyways, Name’s Marge. Short for Marjorie. High School sweethearts from Wyoming or something like that.

Major Gale “Buck” Cleven — Maude repeated over in her head, trying to commit it to memory.

“Couldn’t help it. He’s a real gentleman. Quite reserved but extremely smart. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t gamble. Doesn’t dance with a single girl. It intrigued me.” Lottie concluded and then continued on, “next to him, to the right is Major John Egan.” Lottie trained Maude’s gaze just where she wanted her and just where Maude herself had not expected to be.

Major John Egan. Major Egan. The man Lieutenant Payne had mentioned in his demotion and replacement from today’s mission. The man who walked right into the infirmary at 0900 hours and churned something deep inside her, yet to be deciphered.

Out of his flying gear and signature sheepskin jacket, she took in the sight of Major Egan in his more formally pressed uniform, and her breath hitched. There was no denying how handsome he looked all cleaned up, but she wouldn’t make that known to them. Not now and especially not here.

“That’s Bucky.” Q was back in her right ear, and Maude wondered if this is what it felt to have an angel and a devil on your shoulders, whispering different things. “Confusing, aye?”

“Bucky,” she repeated aloud, a small laugh escaping the nurse as she twirled the straw around in her drink. “So it’s Buck and Bucky then, not the Buckys.”

“Technically, yes.” Lottie nodded.

“Quite redundant.”

“Precisely, but for good reason I suppose. Sue can explain that one further.”

“Oh yes!” She lit up. “So apparently, Major Egan has always been known as Bucky back home and when he first saw Major Cleven, well he couldn’t get over how much he looked like some fella named Buck from Manitowoc, Wisconsin — also his home — and they’ve been stuck like glue ever since. All in good word from Curt of course who filled me in on all this business.”

“Right…and oh! Over here is Captain Bernard Demarco.”

“Benny.” Sue cut in again.

“He’s the one that has that sweet pup Meatball running around, and….” Lottie kept the flow going, canning the conversation on the redundant nature of the Buckys.

Maude tried her best to stay attentive, taking in the passing faces and attaching them to their respected names, yet she couldn’t help but draw her gaze back to Major Egan who’s long fingers were tapping against the arms of the chair he occupied to the beat of smooth jazz as he spoke to his friend next to him. She attuned her bouncing stare to the drink starting to take effect in her system, but also to her remembrance of why she truly pulled up to the function — to find Lieutenant Crosby and properly congratulate him on his promotion.

Yet, through the whisking crowd of people, the target of her mission became indetectable.

At some point Katherine “Tatty” Spaatz, daughter of Lieutenant Carl Spaatz, and Helen — both Red Cross volunteers for the Clubmobile circling the Eighth Air Force’ First Air Division — joined in on the conversation, greeting the nurses, and meeting the new addition to their circuit.

Tatty recounted stories to Lottie of countless pilots trying to get in her good graces just to secure a promotion from her father. It never worked, while Helen continued to help Sue familiarize Maude with the crew on base. Helen was in the middle of trying to point out another pilot to the nurse when the band started playing a new song — a popular song that not only Sue knew very well, but Maude too. Blue Skies by Irving Berlin. Maude hummed it to herself the past week any chance she got. Any time she was feeling rather blue so to speak — ironically enough. And Sue — well Sue wasn’t one not to be observant.

“Blue!” She interrupted Helen’s tagging game by latching onto Maude’s arm. “It’s your song.” She proposed excitedly.

Maude, taken aback for just a moment, collected herself enough to correct the notion and Helen’s sudden raised brow. “Oh — I — ‘S not my song. I just like it.” She shrugged.

“But your Bluell. Blue. Blue Skies!” Q slurred shirly as ever. “Come on Blue. Sing for us.”

“Oh no I — I don’t sing,” The shy nurse mumbled out, not lying so to speak but not telling the truth either. Sure, Bluell sang, but only when she was alone. When no one else was present. When she had a good sense of privacy. Humming was one thing, but singing no — singing was a whole other ball game.

“‘S not true. I’ve heard you.” She assured, making escaping this proposition even more impossible.

Maude gasped. “When?”

“Just the other day. When you were out hanging the sheets up on the line,” the red head recalled, not giving up by any means.

As a newbie of sorts, Maude was appointed to hang up the freshly washed sheets outside to dry before the beds were made back up — neat and clean in preparation for the inevitable return of injured pilots. Q usually came out with a basket to collect the dry ones, and on one particular day, she had caught the nurse there — singing away in what she assumed to be a rather private area. Instead of making herself known, Q took a moment to listen to the newbie's voice, connecting to what she could only imagine to be what fluffy clouds would sound like if you could hear them in one’s ears, if clouds could in fact sit in such a way — soft and airy on a summer’s sunny day.

“My, well I —I” Embarrassment dusted Maude’s features as she found herself at loss for words in being discovered.

“Yes, she has quite the voice!” Lottie suddenly overheard the conversation, added in, piquing the interest of the Clubmobile girls.

Maude silently wondered if her colleagues and newfound friends were really her friends at all.

“Oh! Now I must know. Would you sing for us?” Tatty asked, absolutely intrigued by this information and ever-so slightly tipsy herself.

“I – I dunno,” Maude replied shyly, her fingers reaching up to the edge of her collar, tugging the material away from her now heated skin.

“It would boost morale,” Helen reasoned, actually considering the state of their boys and how music seemed to ease their souls.

Especially one Major John Egan who, little to Maude’s current attention, was absolutely fizzing with delight just across the way.

“Do you know what this is missing?” The Major probed suddenly to the blonde Lottie described in heavy detail only moments prior.

Buck, knowing his friend and exactly what he would be up to whenever music was involved did not hesitate in replying. “Nothing.”

“Vocals.” John announced, totally disregarding his friend’s input on the matter.

With a sigh, Gale reiterated, “no, it’s not.”

“I’m gonna sing.” John proposed, as if it was not already obvious enough to Gale.

Already ten steps ahead of his antsy friend, Gale’s reflexes proved to be on par and he eased John back down in his seat just as fast. In complete conjunction as one Nurse Maude Bluell was being eased herself. Right in front of the band and the lone microphone propped on a stand next to the conductor. A conductor who found himself rather confused with the sudden presence as well as the rest of the club when she nervously tapped it with a cherry red nail, freshly done up by Q. A necessity as the red head liked to say in her chain of convincing for the night. A chain that Maude had found herself unmistakably tied to for the rest of the evening with a reasoning of Biddick’s MIA on center stage.

“Looks like a lady has beat you to it.” Gale hummed in complete amusement. An amusement not reciprocated by his friend, slouched in defeat with his arms crossed over his chest in utter disappointment.

The nurse cleared her throat suddenly, trying to stifle her nerves and block out the faces that were drawn to her every move. So much so that she even had one Major John Egan attuned, eyes glued to her like a hawk catching their prey.

A twinge of familiarity washed over him as he took in the young woman with full red lips and pinned up hair, a complete contradiction to the nurse he saw in scrubs just a few hours prior attending to Lieutenant Joseph Payne. Yet, what captivated him, what really set in that sense of recognition were her eyes. Those hazy green eyes that had almost rendered him speechless in completing his promotional tasks for Croz.

“B—Blue Ski —“ the raven haired woman’s vocal chords betrayed her rather quickly leading the men — with a lack of better judgment enraptured with booze filled minds — to laugh at her mishap.

“Learn your place sweetheart!” Someone hollered far away. Too far away for Bucky to attach a face to voice so to speak, but close enough that he could make out every single syllable, every single word clustered in a sentence that made his blood boil tenfold.

He was no singer himself — hell he couldn’t carry a note for the life of him, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that singing — singing your heart out was freeing. It was fun. It was a way to forget the truth of it all. The truth of this reality, adhered to a war wrapped in violence and a future of uncertainty. A future only men lucky enough could promise.

Instead of jumping out of his seat, finding the man, and beating him to a pulp like he really wanted to for speaking to a lady in such a disrespectful manner — he decided on a different approach. An approach that would ease the clear embarrassment of the pretty raven haired nurse in front of him.

“Jack,” he whispered over to the pilot on his left, cringing at the scene. “should I sing?” He asked him, hoping to gain a better sense of backup clearly not tuned to his level headed friend.

To Bucky’s misfortune, Jack was with Buck on this one. “No.”

He tried again, this time with another colleague adjacent to buck. “Should I sing?” He motioned again.

And again. “No. You’ll just make it worse.”

John sighed. “Alright, you’re right. You're right.” He feigned a nod in agreement, putting on a facade that did not last long enough to see the light. Looking back at the nervous nurse caged in laughter of no good nature, John knew there was no shot in hell he’d leave her there imprisoned. Whatever bit of jealousy had set him off as he saw her hit the stage of sorts was long gone.

So, he hyped himself up, readying himself to take flight just as he did every time in a B-17, and tapped his fingers against the wooden edges of his chair. Letting out a breath, he finally stood up and danced his way over to the mic, leading Gale to send him a classic knowing glance of his that was reserved to him alone anytime he whipped up an antic.

“It’s my song, Buck!” He reasoned to his best friend just before turning around and coming face to face with the green eyed goddess.

Completely surprised, Maude nearly gasped at the sudden intrusion but collected herself enough to follow his gaze as he fitted himself behind her.

“May I?” The Major whispered against her ear, his arm brushing against her hip as he reached for the microphone in front of her.

His touch proved to be magnetic — electric even, and it shot something within her enough to keep upright and reply ever-so carefully. “My yes. Of — Of course, Major.” She went to step out of the way, but a warm and gentle hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her up against John’s side.

She could have melted then in his embrace, fitted so perfectly next to him as he grasped the mic and stared down at her as he began to sing….

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

And then, just as she was starting to feel comfortable being serenaded, but considering the prospects of a duet, Major Egan’s hand flexed at her side, signaling the tilt of the mic close enough in her direction that they could sing together.

Yet, to her surprise he let her have her moment alone.

When you’re in love. My how they fly.

And the lines came out clear — clearer than she could ever imagine, but that was all she would contribute. She’d let the Major take the reins on the rest of the song with a simple nod of encouragement.

Blue days

All of them gone

Nothing but blue skies

From now on

With a final flourish, he dipped the young nurse. Her heart dropped to her stomach at the sudden movement, sending shock waves throughout her whole body in a reminiscent way. One that reminded her of her childhood. It brought back memories of the very first time she ever rode the Coney Island Cyclone with her father. The creeks of the wooden structure probed nervous jitters as the roller coaster went up, up, up — only to bring sweet relief as the cars swooshed down, down, down. And down she was now with Major Egan’s charming features in her direct line of sight. Pretty pearly whites, deep blue eyes, and large warm hands leaving her breathless yet grounded in his embrace.

If it wasn’t for the cheers that rounded out amongst the ladies and the hardy laughs that echoed from the men, the Major and nurse could have very well been locked in their own world — where it was just the two of them, alone. But they weren’t alone. They were surrounded by a bubbly crowd of fellow airmen and red cross members alike who were now making their way to the floor to dance out their newfound excitement.

Yet, the caging of it all felt rather intimate to Maude — who was now being pulled right back up by Major Egan. With a bit of a stumble and a trip of a heel, he caught her before she could trip — a strong arm wrapping around her lower back, urging her upright like a straight torpedo.

Her cheeks reddened ripper than the deep shade of lipstick coating her lips as her hand subconsciously found itself situated on Egan’s chest. Palm fizzing against the eloquent beat of his heart.

“Hi,” he mused, eyes sparking in delight as he took in the small frame of the nurse in front of him — her lack of height noticeable at this newfound proximity.

His prominent figure towered above her, forcing her to crane her neck back and head upward to look him in the eye. It wasn’t surprising. Truly it wasn’t. His stature became apparent the moment she first saw him. But now, standing right in front of him, practically caged over his towering presence was intimidating. “H-Hi.” She managed out and then tumbled in a frantic frenzy. “Bucky — I mean J— Major.” She sighed in an effort to compose herself and settled on, “Major Egan.”

Maude’s fumble did not fail to surprise the Major. It struck a pitch of laughter out of him instantly.

A pitch that Maude didn’t catch as a reaction to his sudden charm of her. “My apologies.”

So John, well he would swing until he got a home run. “No need to fret, doll.” He reassured her. “‘M not a formalities type anyways. Nothing good comes out of being a tyrant in team sports.”

“You’re an athlete then?” Maude questioned, trying to annunciate her words as loud as possible considering the boisterous music in the room.

Bucky chortled and matched her. “Far from that. Much more enjoy being an observer. A listener. More of a reader nowadays to keep up with the score.”

“Understandable.” She nodded, tilting her head ever-so subtly to get a better reading of him. “And what team has the pleasure of your devotion, Major?”

“Bucky. Please. Call me Bucky.” He corrected her. “And baseball. The New York Yankees,” he replied and her eyes alit with a familiarity John picked up on without fail. “You like the Yanks, doll?”

“Yes — well no. I mean being from Brooklyn it’s only customary for me to be a Dodgers fan. But you — you’re not a New Yorker, so I’ve heard.”

“That’s right. You’re fairly acquainted with me, ain’t yuh? Yet, I can’t recall the same for you. No shot in hell would I ever forget a gal quite as pretty as you.”

“That’s rather kind of you, Maj — Bucky.”

“Got a name, doll? A nickname even? Rank?”

“Maude. Maude Rue Bluell. American Red Cross Nurse for the 100th bomb group. Just touched down last week. But, I’ve found myself replying to the call of Blue. Quite redundant in name. I know. Yet, I have a bit of suspicion that it’s more complimentary of my mood as of late,” she revealed, more than she intended. More than she even expected. Usually — in matters such as this one — she’d find herself to be rather shy and timid. Especially in the presence of such a devily handsome man as Major Egan himself.

But something — something in the way he spoke to her was easing. His teamwork mantra proved to be a strong suit in his personality. She could tell he was a good leader just by his attitude and stance — equalizing himself against a woman in such an untraditional light. Subconsciously, it made Maude more drawn to the young man in uniform.

The edge of his lip curved up in a smirk. “Blue, huh?”

Bluell only had a second to nod in confirmation before the Major grabbed her hand, spinning her in a circle in accordance to the music. He pulled her back just as fast, her back aligning perfectly against his broad solid chest. A strong arm wrapped around her stomach, slender fingers taking shelter against her hip.

He leaned over then, the combination of his lips and mustache tickling the delicate skin of her ear quickened the pace of her heart. “Seems I’ve found myself my very own Blue Sky then,” he whispered.

She let out a laugh. A real genuine one. Lips perking up in a sweet smile.

“Smooth, yeah?” He mused, his lips still close enough to brush a smile against her ear a second time and his voice still low yet husky enough to warm up her insides.

“Mhm,” she hummed simply, rolling her emerald eyes playfully in an attempt to conceal her affections. “Out of the park.” She mused, swaying back and forth in his hold.

“That’a girl!” He chirped as she spun out of his hold.

Their hands puzzled right back together instantly, feet tapping to the beat as they danced with the rest of the pairings on the floor. There they were, forgetting all their troubles in the heat of the party. Just as the other girls intended. Just as John intended. Maybe for once, Maude could admit that the Club was the best medicine for her troubles, even if it would wear off come morning.

John and Maude danced well off into the night, until the nurse’s heels left blisters on her soles and a sheen of sweat dusted the curls on Bucky’s forehead. The Major was one to take notice, channeling his inner gentleman as he excused himself to fetch the two of them refreshments from the bar.

Alone, she moved out of the boisterous crowd to meet the girls but stopped short once she noticed Lieutenant James Douglas approaching them.

Meanwhile, John was situated at the bar next to Buck when a call came through for them. “Buck. Egan”

“Sir.” Buck replied as John took a swig of his drink, waiting patiently for Maude’s to be fixed up.

“From who?” Bucky asked intrigued.

“Operator, I have Majors Cleven and Egan…” Red murmured before passing the phone to Buck.

Buck took it with ease, a chorus of his name ringing out of the speaker from a far too familiar New York accent. “Yup.”

“Ayeeee Buck is that you?” Lieutenant Biddick exclaimed on the line just as John was leaning over to listen in on the conversation.

“Curt.” Buck confirmed, leading John to follow suit an octave louder in a Bucky like fashion.

“Curt!” John banged his fist on the table, pleased to know Curt had made it.

Susie being nosey as she tended to be, did not fail to excuse herself from the flirting attempts of Douglas on Helen. She whipped across the floor in an instant, locking a careful arm around Bluell, dragging her to the bar with her. “It’s Curt!” She chirped, beaming from ear to ear.

“Buck! Buck!” Curt repeated as the girls found themselves at the bar. Q fitting herself right next to Gale on his right – Maude sandwiched between her and Red.

“Yeah, it’s Buck and John. Susie’s here too. Where’d you end up?” Gale spoke for the two of them.

“Ughhhh, that’s a very very good question, but we’re safe and sound ‘er.” Curt replied amidst his own boisterous surroundings. He pulled the phone away for a moment to ask, “Hey! Aye, wh – where am I?”

“Where are ya?” Someone asked far away. Too far away for John or the girls to grasp, but close enough for Gale to catch the tail end of.

“Where am I?” Curt repeated.

“In the devil’s dope son!”

“Ugh–ah we made a wee bit of a mess up ‘er.” Curt explained. “Well – the people are really swell and they’re looking after us. It turns out they don’t like the English much either, but they like me because I’m Irish!”

Again muffled voices took over. “You’re not Irish.”

“I’M IRISH!” Curt yelled, brushing smiles across the faces of Buck, Bucky, and the girls.

“No you’re not.”

“Hey, my family's Irish.” He was still going on, the group trying their hardest not to burst out in laughter. “I told ya I’m an American but anyways… Buck – hold on, hold on.” A rustling sound took over for a moment as Curt resituated himself. “Ugh, I wanted to call you and to let Sue know I’m ‘ight but…Thank you Buck…Thank both of you for saving our asses. I mean it.”

“Yeah, well alright you just get back here soon, Curt.” Buck replied.

“We miss you Curt. We’re glad you’re still with us!” John yelled.

“He’s okay. He’s really okay!” Susie bit back a smile.

“He’s quite alright.” Maude assured, resting a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Eh – John said he misses his little spoon.” Buck joked and Sue laughed.

“Heyyyy I’m the big spoon ‘er remember?” Curt chided. “Just ask my Sue. Where’s my Sue?” He asked, unraveling the lollipop she supplied him earlier.

“It’s gonna be cold tonight Curt!” John added.

Curt’s voice became muffled as he shoved the petite treat in his mouth.. “Gotta tell ‘er I’m sucking ‘er cherry rye now.”

“W–What?” Buck’s eyes widened up in surprise and embarrassment at the rather inappropriate and unexpected joke.

John did not fail to miss the twist of Gale’s features. He picked up on it rather quickly, his interest peeking instantly. “What he say? What he say?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You know what Curt. Lemme pass the phone. Sue, Curt wants to talk to you.”

She squealed excitedly and grabbed the phone. “Hi baby!” Soon her fingers were wrapped around the cord, mirroring how wrapped up she was in conversation with her man.

Maude watched her friend beam with a newfound sense of radiance. Her joyfulness bounced off of her like bright sunbeams, warming up Bluell just as much.

She was so stuck on the picture of her friend, she didn’t realize John had weaseled his way next to her until he was nudging his shoulder with hers. “Doll..” He pushed a glass of water across the table in front of her.

“Thank you.” She hummed. A smile was still plastered across her face as she took a sip.

“So much for being blue, huh?” John mused, completely infatuated with her smile. “Nothing but blue skies…from now onnnn…” He sang in her ear.

Her cheeks began to sting from smiling so much. “You're something else, Major Egan.”

“Well – I’d hope so. Rather be something than nothing at all, you know?” He replied thoughtfully, so thoughtfully that his simple yet profound words settled deeply within the confines of her chest.

“I –” She began to say something, anything really but lost her train of thought in an instance when a fellow pilot interrupted across the Club to make an announcement.

“Come on everybody! Bike race in the mess hall – who’s in?”

“I am.” Bucky stated.

“Me too.” Buck agreed.

And that was that. It was settled. The boys would be racing and Maude and the rest of the ladies would be pulled along to watch.

John grasped Maude’s hand then to do just that, but stopped her in his tracks as he leaned over to whisper, “wait – don’t I get a good luck kiss?”

His forwardness took her by surprise, and even though his charm was very well infectious, she found herself hesitant to appeal to his wishes. “I wouldn’t suggest pushing your luck, Major, but I’m not the kind of lady to oppose a reward in the face of a victor.”

“Ah,” He held their conjoined hands up and kissed the back of hers, sending goosebumps across her fully clothed skin. “More reason for me to win then, hm.”

“Precisely.” She hummed in agreement, right before he took off, dragging her along. Leaving her in a fatal attempt of matching his long strides as she giggled and yelped out his name.

Before she knew it, she found Lottie and the rest of the girls in the Mess, perched and ready to watch the race along with Croz who was mounting a bike not too far away. She congratulated him in passing, and he was happy to see her. It was all a frenzy of fun and games, absolute excitement – until it wasn’t. Until the boys were just reaching the finish line, – Bucky right behind Buck – and the alarms were going off. Alarms that reminded them of the war they were truly in. A war that kept them on their toes and left them taking shelter. Left John without his kiss and Maude running dry of her medicine.

There would be more blue days than blue skies for Nurse Maude Rue Bluell and Major John Bucky Egan – but this night – this very night proved to be the catalyst of something new for the two.

Something that would become much ado.

iiii!! idk how i feel about this but enjoy peeps. feedback would me amazeballs. also curt is wilddddddd 👀🍒🍭

love ya’ll,

xanadu

tag list:

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@luminouslywriting

@justheretoreadthxxs

@karmasloverrr

@precious-little-scoundrel

@hellfirequinnie

@yorkshirekiwi

@beingalive1

@andreakz

[witchofthesouls]

I like the idea of Tourniquet being there for the bonding peroid with the second set of triplets simply because he can't be kept away and it was deemed unwise to atempt. After the Soundwave check that no spy, Camians are Just Like That™️, Soundwave is making sure he's sent for. Probably by putting a seguestion in Kaon's audial.

The DJD has a time with this. Vos may have fallen in love. Nickel approves of his bedside maner. The bitties are happy to be showered in affection.

And if this is in an Overlord being a menace timeline, well if he shows up quick enough he can help disposeof Overlord. If not well Tarn presenting Reader with Overlord's corpse for catharsis isn't too terrible.

Or, in the High Priest!Megatron verse, Tourniquet literally hitchhiked across galaxies to go track his child. Not only Tarn interacts with his creator-in-law, but Hook gets his wish on knowledgeable medical personnel willing to train.

And promptly starts to have regrets because it's a Camien Healer, but not to point to ask the mech to stop because Decepticon Medical Division needs trained staff.

Caminus is a very collectivist society as a necessity from their Seekerkin roots and pragmatism from resource deprivation. They take resourcefulness to a different ballgame.

Because of the low population and Caminus' inability to fully interact with them as he once did, they take communal responsibility very seriously, such as healthcare.

As far as the Order of Luminara is concerned, Tourniquet is on sabbatical and had requested he document any planetary systems that would aid their community. There are specific metals that are necessary for Titans to function, and they're constantly search for it.

Meanwhile, Tourniquet is ever-so-slowly "addressing critical issues" in mechs' medical records. He first sends a friendly warning. If there's no appropriate response (aka mechs coming into fix it), then Tourniquet starts hunting.

Mind, he's used to targeting vicious predators, cannibals, or lifeforms with extreme transformation sequences, and he trained with a Healer who was a devoted follower to the Path of Suffering that specialized in collecting rare samples in unstable/hazardous terrains.

The Decepticons got nothing on him. They think Tourniquet has a death wish as he constantly requests to be sent to Deathworlds or planetary systems that are extremely hazardous to mechanical lifeforms, and his body language is too 'open' as Camiens typically mingle in each other's space and aren't as reluctant to physicality.

Tourniquet can fold them like a chair with a pleasant expression on his face.

Most likely with Nurse's third clutch (second with Tarn as the ignitor) because Tarn jinxed them with his wet-cat sadness on how the first trio are growing up to run around instead of toddling on shakey pedes. He yearns for those early thousand years of soft frames and crawling struggles. One of them still has an endearing lisp because their mouth is crowded out by rows and rows of serated denta. Tarn will forever deny it, but he was mournful when the first clutch got their own room via converting Nurse's old habsuite. He got separation anxiety and empty nest syndrome. Nurse had to elbow his side because of all the sad music on replay, and it's confusing the newsparks.

But on the other hand, it would be hilarious that Overlord shifts his focus onto Tourniquet. Not only does Tarn have his in-law nearby, but he gets front row tickets to Overlord and Tourniquet having a Thing and a medical boot camp, Camien-Healer style.

This includes extreme survival training in radioactive terrain, learning effective pharmaceutical concoctions in a bucket, and close-quarter weaponry combat. Nurse helps Tourniquet with the remedial courses.

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Vestees were a fairly popular thing to make in the 1940s. They used less thread/yarn than blouses and could be worn under suit jackets.

Anyway, just imagining Chick trying to be cheeky and slip a hand up under Minnie's jacket when they're out in the village one night, and turns out she's wearing this rather than a full shirt, and he short circuits.

"Where is the rest of your blouse?"

"A lady does not remove her jacket in company. I didn't need it."

"Anything else you're not wearing under there?"

"Maybe you'll find out. Maybe you won't."

Chick does NOT recover.

[mueritos]

being in a social work masters program as a marginalized person who is ages ahead in theory and experience in comparison to your (white, privileged, rich) cohort is a fucking minefield. solidarity for all and every other marginalized person in these fucking micro aggressive and liberal ass social work programs.

[nightfurylover31]

Most Banette are born from grudges, but this was not the case. Joy's was born out of the desire to see her again. After all these years, it never stopped looking. It shows how much Joy loved and cared for the doll when she was young.

And they're finally together again! 😭💕