#such a lovely series ☺️

[gretagerwigsmuse]

i let out the happiest, most content sigh when i finished this! i’ve been saving it up till i really have time to sink my teeth into it and am so happy i did ☺️ all the sighing and swooning and yearning!!! i really liked how you stayed mostly with the reader’s pov in this chapter, i felt like bucky when he got to the house and said it was exactly like described. i loved this series so much and it made me excited to watch the show every week! can’t wait to see what you cook up next 😉 but now more below 💕

It was truly disorienting to be back somewhere so very familiar when you were so utterly different. - especially when the thing that made you so different is still happening, you’re just no longer a part of it

Any hours when he was not at work, he was spending behind the closed door of your dead sibling’s room, all manner of noises and the odd curse word seeping through the cracks, but neither you nor your mother were quite certain what he was up to. - this is veryyyyyyyy curious to me 😉 wonder what he’s up to! (admittedly my first thought when it was mentioned her brother’s room was across the little hallway from hers was BABY ROOM)

had he guessed the true nature of your discharge then? - i don’t know about this one, maybe? 😉 like the baby animals and springtime and the world starting anew? interesting interesting

There was no desire on your part to entrap or obligate him into anything. That was the last thing you wanted – to pin a man who so cherished his freedom down against his will. - girl…bffr

not all this world’s mothers have babies in the springtime. Some have theirs in the summer. - oh the red cross sensors are losing their minds over these two

and by the end of April you were forced to quit your job and confine yourself almost entirely to the house - oh sweet girl! i’m so sorry to hear that!

brother, but a fully prepared nursery, complete with an assembled crib, rocking chair, dresser, and change table - I KNEW IT!!! and his rationale being that the baby needs some place to sleep!?! DAD!!! you softie

one of the first GI Bill babies, the nurses informed you - oh i LOVE it! that’s so clever of you!!

“But I don’t want him to do the right thing. I want him to marry me because he wants to…” - oh honey 🥺 like she said early, she doesn’t want to entrap him (little does she realize the man is desperate to be entrapped). i really liked her conversation with her mom in the hospital too!

your father stepped in and patiently walked her up and down the length of the porch until she melted into the crook of his arm. - her dad is so sweet!!! i’m so curious how he’s gonna be with bucky! (i feel like a little curt for the first thirty minutes and then he warms right up to him)

“To Both My Precious Girls” - ☺️🥰 get right out of here!!! i’m smiling, blushing, yearning!!! this is so sweet

“Both of your names are going to sound terrific with my last name” - 🤭🤭

“Clara’s loving father and your devoted satellite” - i still love the whole satellite bit because it selfishly reminds me of when my reader calls bradley rocketman, it’s like we’re kinda linked in some way ☺️

It was mid-April when the dreaded Western Union vehicle pulled up in front of the house, your heart leaping into your throat. - i just love that you made the telegram, like all the letters and little bits and bobs you put into all your fics are so unbelievably cool (also the fact that you put in the alt text stuck out to me from the first bradley fic of yours i read!)

you scooped her up, perching her against your right hip as you rose to your feet - this is such a visual!!!! i love that they both get to greet bucky at the door!!! it’s so cinematic

The movement of your left hand caught his eye and his brow furrowed as his gaze landed on the ring you had been hiding behind since April of last year, making you swallow painfully. - oh my god!! can you imagine!?! the poor boy!!!

“You gave it to her.” Setting Clara into her crib, you turned back to him. “We talk about you every day.” - STOP THIS!!! ☺️🥺

It was not until he produced a much shinier ring, with a larger and very real diamond, that you registered just what was happening. He addressed you properly, by your full name, before asking the question. “Will you marry me?” - AHHHHH I KNEW HE WOULDNT CHEAP IT OUT (but also he kept his word, it’s practically the first thing he did!!)

Even though you assured him you had a perfectly good pram, gestured to where it sat on the front porch, he insisted on carrying Clara on his hip, much to her delight. - oh that is darling!

“So we did it out of order, that’s fine. It’ll all be how it was meant to very soon.” - i like that 🤭

VI. "Trust Me, Doll..."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

War is hell and every time it seems you and Bucky adapt to your new normal, the game is changed yet again. When at last Victory in Europe is achieved, the pair of you can finally focus on forging the way ahead.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Grief, Mentions of Death, Imprisonment, Pregnancy, Childbirth in Retrospect, Child Rearing, Motherhood, Era-Typical Sexism and Marital Expectations, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Sex While Trying Not to Be Overhead] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note(s): This is it! Oh wow, we made it, kids! Thank you to each and every one of you for your incredible engagement with this series it has truly been an inspiration! I love all of you and have more Bucky thoughts brewing!!!

As always, letters/telegrams have image descriptions that can be accessed by clicking the 'ALT' button. Special thanks to Marina @precious-little-scoundrel for helping me untangle numerous plot points in this series. I could not have done this without you, darling! This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7444

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Your sudden return home in mid-February had been decidedly awkward. Without time to send a letter of warning, you had spent a lot of coins on a phone call in a telephone booth at the hospital in New Jersey while you awaited the arrival of a WAC commanding officer to process your discharge.

To say your mother had been surprised to hear your voice over the line was an understatement. Mercifully, your father had already left for work that day and you had only had to break the news to her. Given the frosty welcome you had received from him by the time you managed to reach the steps of your childhood home, you hated to think what his reaction would have been if you had informed him that his unwed daughter was kicked out of the Women’s Army Corps for being pregnant without the softening interference of your mother.

It was truly disorienting to be back somewhere so very familiar when you were so utterly different. The war had left its marks here too, though. A gold star banner hung proudly in the front window, in honor of your brother, and your mother’s garden out back had mostly been turned over to the growing of vegetables, with a huge stockpile of jarred preserves now overflowing the pantry. But the two bedrooms at the top of the stairs belonging to you and your brother, separated by a small hallway that was really no more than a glorified landing, were exactly as you had left them in 1942. As if they were frozen in time. Dusted and cared for, but ready and waiting for you to pick up your old lives.

Only your brother was never coming home, and you had returned home but entirely changed. After the relentless pace you had maintained since enlisting, the thought of remaining at home in idle leisure was too off-putting to even contemplate. You allowed yourself a few days of adjusting to the violent change in time – at least when you had traveled to England you had been afford several days at sea to transition. Flight across the Atlantic had been utterly jarring, and it had taken great discipline to turn your nighttime back into day.

But once you had re-acclimated to the North American clock, you had promptly ventured out to find yourself gainful employment at a nearby grocery store. The owner, Nick, was a friend of the family. A kind man who did not seem interested in asking too many questions about why you were back early, was simply eager for the help around his store. It was most definitely not as mentally taxing as the work you had previously undertaken as a WAC, but it was money, and that was sorely needed as babies were expensive.

Your mother seemed fretful about you working in your ‘delicate condition,’ but the demands of the position paled in comparison to the one you had just left, and you rarely worked more than six hours a day. There was still plenty of time to sit with her, improving your knitting skills as you started on a baby blanket. Your mother was duly impressed you had picked up such a feminine skill abroad and seemed more than happy to pass along helpful hints.

In all truth she did appear to be struggling, dwelling frequently on memories and nostalgia for happier times. It was difficult to say how your father was coping in the wake of your brother’s passing. Any hours when he was not at work, he was spending behind the closed door of your dead sibling’s room, all manner of noises and the odd curse word seeping through the cracks, but neither you nor your mother were quite certain what he was up to.

You had sent a letter to Bucky immediately upon your arrival, as promised, still not divulging the full extent of the situation, but it had been stocked with reassurances and re-direction. It appeared he had not yet received it based on his letter that reached you in mid-April.

Damn that man, but you did love him so. Baby animals – had he guessed the true nature of your discharge then? Gnawing ruthlessly on your lower lip, you found yourself pacing around your room, one hand rubbing at your lower back, sore from standing all day with the growing weight of your swollen abdomen.

‘Or is he simply fishing for more information, unconvinced?’ You wondered to yourself, sighing heavily.

He was simply too intelligent for his own good. Another man would simply have taken your words at face value and left it at that. But there was a reason you had not fallen in love with another man. Had not given yourself to another man.

With another deep sigh, you dug out your writing supplies and drafted a reply that acknowledged his statements but neither confirmed nor denied them. There was no desire on your part to entrap or obligate him into anything. That was the last thing you wanted – to pin a man who so cherished his freedom down against his will. Particularly after enduring his current stay in a prison camp.

As the weather grew ever warmer, it became increasingly difficult to conceal your predicament – no matter how baggy or oversized your dresses were. Your engagement ring only went so far in polite society to protect you from judgemental stares and by the end of April you were forced to quit your job and confine yourself almost entirely to the house. May seemed to drag on, though you certainly managed to knit a wide variety of nearly perfect baby clothes for different stages.

Perhaps the brightest spot came one evening when your father emerged from the room opposite yours and left the door open for the first time since you came home, revealing not the preserved bedroom of your brother, but a fully prepared nursery, complete with an assembled crib, rocking chair, dresser, and change table. As you stood in your doorway in shock, eyes brimming with tears, he shoved his hands into his pockets and gruffly muttered, “baby needs somewhere to sleep after all,” before trudging down the stairs to the bedroom he shared with your mother.

June burst onto the scene with the Allied invasion of France and the good news only continued with the signing of the GI Bill on the 22nd. Your years of service and honorable discharge earned you, and your very active and rapidly growing baby, subsidized medical care. It could not have been timelier as appointments became more and more frequent, your due date looming at the end of July.

Much like her father, Clara Mae had a mind of her own when it came to her time of arrival. She was born in the middle of the night on July 22nd at the local veteran’s hospital – one of the first GI Bill babies, the nurses informed you.

The choice of her name had been rather easy, derived from Bucky’s middle name - Clarence. While you could not give her his family name, or even list him as her father on the birth certificate without his signature, you could at least give her this for now. He had already given her his mischievous eyes and unmistakable ears. Time would tell what other of his features she would share. If the grey-blue of her eyes would settle in the color of the stormy sea like his. If the slight dusting of fuzz of her head would grow into luscious, dark curls.

Sitting there in sore, stunned exhaustion as they carted her off to the nursery, you looked up as your mother sidled over, the broad grin of a recent grandparenthood still splitting her face.

“We have to write Major Egan right away and let him know. Oh he’ll be so thrilled, a sweet little girl to come home to now!”

The force with which your face crumpled, physically unable to bear to weight of all your falsehoods and desperate attempts at inner strength one moment longer, sent your tears scattering down the front of your hospital gown. Your mother snapped her mouth shut, completely taken aback by the abrupt shift in your mood, before she collected a wad of scratchy hospital tissues and tenderly wiped at your eyes.

“There now, I know. It’s been a tremendous effort, and things are very difficult.” She soothed and cradled your head to her breast, rubbing your back softly.

Despite becoming a mother yourself not a full hour ago, it seemed you were still very much in need of one yourself.

“What if he doesn’t want me, mama?” You gulped and looked up to her pathetically as you finally gave voice to perhaps the greatest fear that had been stalking you since the realization that you were pregnant had come crashing down upon you. “We’re not even…it’s not even real…” Your eyes dropped to the false engagement ring that mockingly glinted up at you from your left hand.

She sighed deeply before her hands grasped your face and forced your gaze to meet hers. “Well, pumpkin, I’d say that a man who writes to you despite the difficulties is one of the good ones. And usually it’s the good ones that do the right things.”

You frowned and shook your head slightly, as much as her tight grip would allow. “But I don’t want him to do the right thing. I want him to marry me because he wants to…”

There was another maternal sigh before you were gathered close in her arms once more. “Let’s hope for the best then. I’ll get Felix from down the street to bring his camera. We’ll send a photo of sweet Clara Mae and see if she can’t work her magic on him.”

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The Allied invasion of Western Europe had felt like a gift from above, flooding Bucky’s life with a new sense of purpose, and shattering the grim monotony that had calcified everything around him. The gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the evasiveness in your letters, the constant worry and uncertainty he felt for both himself and you. There was surely only one explanation, at least only one rational, sane explanation for your early discharge. But he’d had far too much time on his hands to postulate and theorize all manner of possibilities and their catastrophic outcomes.

June 6 had brought an abrupt and decisive end to that, a sharp divide to their life in camp, and a need for preparations now that the Commonwealth forces were closing in from one side and the Russians from the other. It was early September when he received your life changing letter, two small photos tucked securely between your folded, scented pages. One of you, looking so very beautiful it made his heart ache fondly. And the second of a very tiny infant with remarkably familiar ears.

He huffed fondly and turned back to the letter to read it properly as you finally confirmed what he had long suspected.

Shaking the envelope once more produced a square of paper with the stamp of his daughter’s – his daughter’s – footprints on it.

Cradling it in one palm, he could not help but gawk at the small scale of her. She must be truly tiny…only 20 inches.

“Your girl finally explain herself?” Buck leaned over his shoulder, and he nodded, holding up Clara’s photo.

His friend barely contained a snort and Bucky scoffed in return. “I know – poor girl’s got my damn Dumbo ears. Couldn’t even deny she’s mine if I wanted to.”

“She’s beautiful anyway, despite your influence.” Buck smirked and handed the photo back carefully. “Congratulations. What’s her name?”

“Clara Mae.” An involuntary grin of pleasure overtook him as he said it, quite enjoying the way it sounded. You had picked well.

“Your girl did an excellent job. Be sure you tell her so.”

“You know I will.” He replied with a firm nod.

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The twelve weeks it took to hear from Bucky were both a blur and an agony. Clara did her utmost to keep the household, and you in particular, thoroughly occupied. You were somewhat relieved that your parents were sleeping on a different floor than her, that it gave you a chance to dart across the hall and mollify her discordant wails with a fresh diaper or a feeding. But on those nights when even you could not seem to sort out what ailed her, your father stepped in and patiently walked her up and down the length of the porch until she melted into the crook of his arm.

Truly, for such a small being, she had the entirety of her grandfather wrapped around her littlest finger. Clara was the first he greeted upon returning home from work and the last he kissed goodnight. None of this would have been possible without his willing arms, nor your mother’s endless wisdom when it came to washing bottles and diapers and Clara’s vast wardrobe of tiny clothing. But in the quiet moments, when she was busily suckling in your arms or just as you were falling asleep, your thoughts would always fly across the Atlantic to barbwire fences and Bucky.

You hoped your letter reached had him. You hoped it had all of its contents still, that none of them had been lost while being reviewed by the censors and whomever else pried into your mail. His reaction? Well you could not even dare to hope what that might be. It would cause your entire body to tense almost painfully and prevent your lungs from filling with air.

Every day you did your best not to look too eagerly as the postman delivered the mail, flipping through the envelopes calmly, hiding your disappointment when his reply was not there. Your agony came to an end, at last, in mid-October. Hearing your soft gasp, your mother offered to take Clara on her morning walk – it was generous to be sure, but you were also more than aware that she enjoyed the attention warranted by pushing the gorgeous girl through the neighborhood in her pram.

Settling down at the kitchen table once they had left, you sliced open the envelope anxiously.

Tears of relief were tracking down your cheeks by the time you reached the end of his letter, making it difficult to read his words clearly. He had replied. He was not angry, nor dismissive. He called himself Clara’s father. And there was an oblique, very Bucky-like proposal in there. Your watery laugh echoed in the empty kitchen before you sniffled in a very unladylike way. God, you missed him so very much. By the time your mother and Clara returned, your tears of relief had been replaced by sobs of longing that had her tiptoeing through the house, deeply concerned his letter had been one of rejection.

Looking up at her apprehensive face as she peered through the doorway, you smiled through your pain and nodded. “It’s good news.”

“Oh, well…good.” She gave you a somewhat bewildered smile and found a handkerchief for you to once more clean yourself up before you gathered Clara close.

“Your daddy says he loves you, peanut. What do you think of that?”

Clara’s face stretched into one of her toothless grins that came just as easy as Bucky’s did, and you fought the urge to cry again. “Yeah…me too.”

Your reply to Bucky’s letter was accompanied by a holiday card fingerpainted by Clara, now that you were confident in the mailing time of roughly six-weeks, as well as another set of dry goods for him to share with his friends. Time continued to march on and in an effort to better document Clara’s rapid growth, you purchased a user-friendly camera, having Felix give you some lessons.

Mid-January, Clara received a gift from her father – a stunning ink drawing of him done by one of his roommates apparently. It had been over a year since you had looked upon his face and the breathtaking detail captured by the man who drew it, A. Jefferson based on the signature, inflicted an intense barrage of memories. You promptly went to a five-and-dime store to purchase a frame for it, setting it on the dresser in Clara’s room next to a model of a B17. You made a point of showing it to her every day, telling her stories about her daddy – only the appropriate ones of course, wanting her to know him.

That it was also self-soothing was simply a bonus.

That letter was the last one you received from him. As Clara’s features sharpened into Bucky’s, and his dark curls framed her face, it was his gaze staring up at you from your arms as the weeks ticked by with no word. When the abnormally harsh winter yielded to spring once more, there was still no reply to your January letter. The war was all but won, the Germans quite literally surrounded, the Russians in Germany and yet there was nothing.

It was mid-April when the dreaded Western Union vehicle pulled up in front of the house, your heart leaping into your throat.

‘Please let him be alright.’

Your mother had been in the kitchen, working on lunch, but silently appeared at your elbow, ghosts of her own heartbreak etching her features.

“Deep breaths. Anybody can send a telegram, not just the War Department.” She murmured and knelt down beside Clara on the rug to play with her as you forced your leaden feet to move towards the door.

Accepting the yellow envelope from the infuriatingly neutral-faced boy, you confirmed that it was indeed addressed to you before impatiently tearing into it.

Exhaling shakily you smiled in relief. Major Cleven must have escaped. That he would have spent the money to send a telegram to update you on Bucky, and to share a message from the man himself, was quite moving. You could not help the chuckle that escaped you, however, at the fact that this was twice now that Cleven had terrified you in the process of trying to share good news.

“All is well?” Your mother asked softly from the living room, and you turned quickly with a smile.

“Yes, he’s ok, his friend somehow made it back to England and wanted me to know he’s doing alright.”

The smile she gave you in return contained no small amount of relief.

The Russians were in Berlin by the next time Western Union made its second delivery at the beginning of May.

‘Please, when we are so very close to victory, please.’

Even less patient with this envelope than the last, you felt a swell of elation at just the first word.

And he meant it. It was not entirely as soon as either of you would have liked, given that Victory in Europe happened not a week after that telegram, on May 8, 1945, but Bucky certainly did come to you and Clara as soon as it was possible.

It was a hot afternoon in early July, the wind having abandoned everyone when the sun rose that morning. Clara was in a bit of a mood courtesy of the heat and her desire to move about the house independently. Certainly, she had been crawling for months, terrorizing everything and everyone in her path, but as of late she had been pulling herself to her feet and trying desperately to take those first few wobbly steps towards upright freedom. She certainly could manage it while gripping tightly to your fingers for balance, but today her chubby cheeks and granite eyes were screwed tight in consternation as she swatted your hands away to go it alone.

“Alright peanut, off you go then.” You smiled encouragingly, sitting back on your heels as beads of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.

Letting go of the edge of the coffee table, she wavered and wobbled, overcorrecting her round little infant body before landing heavily onto her bottom with a squawk of frustration.

“So close, so–”

The rapping of knuckles against the wooden frame of the screen door cut off your statement and you scooped her up, perching her against your right hip as you rose to your feet.

“Let’s go see if that’s the postman with Grandma’s package, shall we?” You smiled and tickled her soft tummy with your free hand, earning a giggle accompanied by her gap-toothed grin as you headed over to the front door.

The man standing there in uniform was most certainly not the postman, however.

“Bucky…” You whispered in shock as he stood before you, in the flesh, after nearly two years of constant worry and concern.

All that separated you now was a flimsy screen door, which you lurched forward to shove open. His eyes were wide as he stared at the pair of you, Clara peering at him curiously. The movement of your left hand caught his eye and his brow furrowed as his gaze landed on the ring you had been hiding behind since April of last year, making you swallow painfully.

“It’s not real.” You murmured quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong impression, and stepped back to invite him inside.

The sound of his bag hitting the floor was all the warning you had before he was pulling you tightly against him, burying his face into your hair. Pressing your face against him in return, you clung to the back of his uniform jacket, wondering if he had always smelled this good or if he had bought new cologne since returning stateside. A sudden strangled sound came from his throat, and you straightened quickly to see Clara had a ruthless grip on his tie and a wicked grin on her face.

“Ta.” You said firmly, holding out your hand and she surrendered her stranglehold on the piece of fabric which you carefully tucked back into his jacket.

Bucky smirked down at her slightly, but his eyes were filled with barely concealed wonder. Clara, for her part, did not seem the least bit fazed by him whatsoever. Her chubby little fingers moved to trace the shiny buttons of his jacket before stretching up to brush along the coarse hair on his upper lip.

“You like my mustache, Miss Clara?” He grinned and pretended to devour her finger as it strayed too close to his mouth, sending his daughter into a fit of giggles and making your cheeks ache from smiling so wide.

An involuntary yawn suddenly overtook her, and you glanced at your watch, nodding as the time confirmed your suspicions. “It’s nap time, I’ll just take her upstairs.”

“Can I come?” He asked softly, making no move to release his hold on you and you nodded quickly, pressing your lips to his cheek softly before leading him to the stairwell at the back of the house.

“This place looks exactly how you described it…” He murmured softly, threading his fingers through yours as he followed.

Looking back to him, startled, you swallowed down the swell of emotion that had been threatening since you had first laid eyes on him. “I told you about it once, in that…hotel room in London…almost two years ago.”

“And I’ve imagined it almost every day since.” He assured you easily as you climbed the stairs, making you shake your head in awe.

Glancing through the open door into your room curiously for a moment, he followed you into Clara’s nursery, grinning softly as his eyes landed on the drawing he had sent.

“You gave it to her.”

Setting Clara into her crib, you turned back to him. “We talk about you every day.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours and he smiled gratefully before reaching out for your left hand, his thumb stroking along the band of the ring there.

“You know, this isn’t very believable, doll.” He muttered and you felt yourself tense as you eyed him, suddenly nervous in his presence after all those months apart. You had been separated longer than you had even known one another. “I’d have bought you a much bigger rock.” His lips curled into a smirk.

Laughter, something that felt so foreign to you after its long absence, bubbled up from your chest while tears simultaneously flooded your eyes. His hands cradled your face as his lips met yours at last, the kiss distinctly salty despite the best efforts of his thumbs to swipe your tears away. Laying your hands atop his, it began to sink in that he was really home, he had truly made it back to you. And Clara. There was no more need for constant fretting and pleading mantras. He was here.

“In fact I did.” His statement, a continuation of his discussion about your fake engagement ring, felt disorienting as it interrupted your inner musings, and you watched in confusion as he sunk to one knee right there in Clara’s bedroom, slipping the piece of costume jewellery from your ring finger before tucking it one of his pockets.

It was not until he produced a much shinier ring, with a larger and very real diamond, that you registered just what was happening. He addressed you properly, by your full name, before asking the question.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes of course I will.” You nodded vigorously, watching him clumsily slide the heavier ring onto your finger before his mouth was on yours once more, demanding and possessive.

Pressing against him, you would have completely forgotten yourself if not for the sound of your mother calling your name from the bottom of the stairs, tone laced with confusion and worry – surely from finding the front door open and a piece of strange luggage in the front hall. Bucky pulled his lips back and pressed his forehead to yours, hot puffs of his breath caressing your face.

“Parents’ house…”

You let out a small laugh of chagrin. “Parents’ house.” You confirmed before pulling back and guiding him out, leaving the door slightly cracked so you would hear when Clara awoke.

Miraculously she had slept through the entire exchange, a superpower she had surely inherited from her father. Descending the stairs, introductions were made, and you did not miss the way you mother’s eyes lit up as she took in the new ring on your finger. Your father was slightly more difficult to win over, still smarting from the perceived mistreatment of his little girl. You were more than a little convinced he might be taking Bucky to the toolshed to shoot him when he asked for the man to accompany him out there for a chat after dinner.

Your aggressive scrubbing of the dishes in the sink as you watched anxiously out the window amused your mother to no end.

“He’s just ensuring Major Egan has your best interests in mind.”

“He’s not gonna kill him, is he, mama?” You worried your lip and she laughed, wiping Clara’s sticky fingers clean after her joyful decimation of a bowl of sliced strawberries.

“He will do no such thing.”

By some miracle, the pair of them immerged unscathed twenty minutes later, shaking hands and sharing a laugh. You rediscovered the ability to exhale and prepared Clara for her evening walk, which Bucky insisted on joining. Even though you assured him you had a perfectly good pram, gestured to where it sat on the front porch, he insisted on carrying Clara on his hip, much to her delight.

Not only was the vantage point much better, but she had unfettered access to all the intriguing bits of his uniform to occupy herself with as the pair of you followed the usual route around the neighborhood. While no one had taken it upon themselves to be overtly rude to you, something about seeing all six foot two inches of Major John Egan carrying his carbon-copy daughter with you on his other arm seemed to go a long way to repairing your somewhat tarnished reputation around town.

People who had politely nodded or offered no more than tight-lipped smiles were now openly waving and calling greetings as you passed.

“Sure are popular around here, doll.”

“I assure you, it’s the pair of you.” You smirked at him and Clara who was busily tugging at the flap of his breast pocket. “Everything alright after your visit to the toolshed?” You asked now that you were far enough away from the house that your father would not hear.

He nodded easily. “Your father and I are of like minds. You and I are going to the registrar’s office tomorrow to get a marriage licence and then we’ll get this little one’s birth certificate sorted as well.”

“He wasn’t…too harsh on you?” You asked with more than a little trepidation.

Bucky looked to you softly. “No more than I deserved.”

“You deserved no harshness, we both know full well how this happened…”

“I sure didn’t stop you. Couldn’t have, even if I had been able to think straight.” He smirked and kissed your temple. “So we did it out of order, that’s fine. It’ll all be how it was meant to very soon.”

Sighing fondly you continued your progress until Clara was slumped against his shoulder, barely able to keep her eyes open. By the time you returned to the house, your mother had set up a small camp bed in the nursery for you and moved Bucky’s things to your room for the night – everyone agreed there was no way he could possibly be expected to sleep on the sofa. He was simply too long. Wishing one another good night in the hallway with a lingering kiss, you pressed your lips together as your mother cleared her throat expectantly from the landing below and slipped into the nursery for the night.

It was difficult to say how long you had been asleep when a faint noise, your ears now well trained to listen out for the smallest of disturbances, woke you. It was most definitely still dark when you raised your head, immediately looking to the crib to see Clara sleeping peacefully on her stomach, index and middle fingers of her right hand suckled soothingly by her full lips. Shifting your gaze in the dimly lit room, you jumped slightly to see Bucky leaning against the doorframe, clad in his boxers and undershirt, silently watching her sleep, expression pensive.

Sliding to your feet as gracefully as the low bed and your thin cotton nightgown would allow, you padded over to him quietly to whisper, “everything ok?”

“She’s just so small…” He replied in a hushed voice, gesturing with his hands, eyes still fixed on Clara’s sleeping form, and you smiled fondly.

Reaching out, you gently manipulated the distance between his palms to represent how small she had been as a newborn. “She was only that big a year ago.”

His eyes tore from the crib to study the small gap between his hands before lifting slightly to drink in how little you were wearing, how thin the material was to try and make sleeping in the summer months bearable. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, revealing the rapid dilation of his pupils before his mouth descended onto yours ravenously.

Sliding one arm around his waist, you pressed with the other against the centre of his chest to guide him back across the hall, closing the door to your bedroom behind you as you quickly surrendered and parted your lips for him. He grunted eagerly, pressing his fully hard length against you through the thin barrier of your clothes, making you gasp at the rapidity of his response.

“The damn sheets smell like you, I’ve been hard all night.” He groaned and you quickly smothered his mouth with yours, well aware just how loud he tended to get.

If you were lucky enough to get away with this, you were going to have to be as quiet as possible.

Rucking the hem of your nightgown up over your hips, he pivoted to deposit you onto the edge of the bed, settling between your thighs as you worked one another’s underwear off. Pressing skin to skin, his head fell back, and you quickly slid your palm over his mouth to smother his eager sighs, rocking your folds along the length of him as you gnawed on your lips and swallowed your own keens. Bucky’s eyes bored into yours hungrily as he mirrored your movements, almost daring you to keep quiet as he continued to moan against your hand.

Silence became impossible for you too as the blunt tip of his cock snagged on your entrance and he rocked his hips forward, slowly sinking into your warmth. Falling back onto the mattress, you slapped the hand that had previously been propping you upright over your own mouth to smother your eager groan as your eyelids fluttered in the struggle to remain open. Shifting forward once he had settled fully inside you, Bucky’s face hovered just above yours, eyes still pinning yours as he began the eager push and pull towards ecstasy.

Desperately trying to keep your hands in place over your mouth and his, your back arched at the long forgotten and very heightened sensation of being so very stretched by him, trembling with each brush of his pelvis against your sensitive bundle of nerves. His hands planted onto the mattress on either side of your head, fisting into the sheets as his hips snapped demandingly into yours, each sharp exhale from his nostrils cascading across your knuckles as you felt the tension building within you.

Sweat glistened on both of your skin, the efforts in the lingering heat of the night only making you both slick as you writhed beneath him, heart hammering inside your ribcage. And still his eyes would not leave yours. The one time you gave into the urge to clench them shut, he sent them flying open once more with a sharp nip to the meat of your palm and you quickly wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper.

You could feel him clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth, desperately driving into you until your body shattered in release, nearly going limp with the force of it. Bucky nestled his face tighter to your palm as, with two more erratic thrusts, he followed suit with a harsh cry, thankfully still smothered. Slumping forward, utterly spent, you cradled him close a moment before shuffling and maneuvering to rest against the headboard with him properly nuzzled against your neck, and his legs mostly on the bed.

Stroking his hair lovingly, every so often scratching your nails along his scalp, you could not help the fond smile as his harsh breaths evened out and the weight of him grew heavier against you when sleep overtook him. Sighing softly, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to join him in rest.

The next time you opened them you were alone, tucked beneath the sheet, the soft light of dawn filling the room. The distinct sound of Clara’s giggles carried from across the hall, and you sat up, grabbing your summer housecoat and peered into the nursery to find the pair of them perched on the camp bed engaged in a very entertaining game of wooden blocks it seemed. Bucky had retrieved the model of the B17 from the dresser and was frequently swooping it down to destroy whatever Clara’s clumsy little hands built, much to her delight.

“Ah, Mommy’s up.” Bucky’s statement revealed that you had been caught and you smirked, stepping into the room to kneel on the carpet beside them. “Did we wake you?”

Shaking your head softly, you kissed Clara’s head and then Bucky’s cheek. “Did she wake you, though?”

He shrugged. “Probably my turn anyway.”

You smiled tenderly, laughing as Clara clutched at his arm to demonstrate that she had assembled a new construction in need of his attention. Watching fondly, you blinked slightly to see a new addition to the dog tags, crucifix, and medal that he normally wore. Amidst the collection was now the faux engagement ring you had sported for over a year. Reaching out, you traced your finger along it, raising an eyebrow in silent question as his eyes met yours.

“To remind me of that time I was overly reckless.” He murmured and you swallowed painfully, pressing your lips to his firmly.

Sliding his arm around your waist, he pulled you snuggly into his side, continuing to entertain Clara easily.

“We’ll get the licence today but, what kind of wedding would you like, doll?” He asked quietly.

“Just a date at the courthouse is fine.” You assured him with a nod.

“You don’t want a big wedding or anything? Honestly doll, anything you want and it’s yours.” He assured you softly.

You laughed watching your daughter gnaw on the corner of a wooden block. “Seems a bit hypocritical to put me a white gown don’t you think?” You smirked and shook your head when he looked ready to defend your honor. “I don’t need all those fancy things John, I just need you.”

When he finally came up for air, your lips more than a little swollen from his attentions, he huffed a laugh.

“Not sure what I’m going to do with the parachute I smuggled home now, though…”

“Well, Major Cleven’s getting married soon, isn’t he? I’m sure Marge would appreciate it. She seems lovely from the letters we’ve exchanged.”

He turned to you wide-eyed, struck silent, and you could not help but laugh. “Never underestimate the ingenuity of women, John.”

Bucky shook his head in awe. “Trust me, doll…I would never be so foolish as to underestimate you.”

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

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot, @darylas, @carpediem1219, @blueberry-ovaries

[daouoffroads]

I can't tell dreams from reality. // Still, there is this horror at being left behind.

[bevioletskies]

gemini & fourth (in every universe) ↳ heart vs. tinn vs. kongthap + pictures on their phone

"Let’s take some photos...to remind us of our first date."

[supes9]

Roy + Johnny + Coffee Breaks ☕️

[dreamsofg0ld]

The Beatrice Letters (LS to BB #5)

How I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way

Dusk My dearest darling,

…Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.

I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M.

I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fetuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping.

I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl.

I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear daggerproof tunics, and as a daggerproof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home.

I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled.

I will love you until every fire is extinguished and until every home is rebuilt form the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love you until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try.

I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog.

I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me happens to me as I am discovering this.

I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else — your co-star, perhaps, or Y., or even O., or anyone Z. through A., even R. — although sadly I believe it will be quite some time before two women can be allowed to marry — and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more, although I personally think three is plenty, and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I must say that on late, cold nights I prefer this scenario out of all the scenarios I have mentioned.

That, Beatrice, is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.

…I miss you. Who knows when I will see you?

[srnileforme]

Winny Thanawin as Q.

WE ARE (2024) | EPISODE 4

[visualtaehyun]

Hi hope you don’t mind a question out of the blue but as you did the Love Sea ep2 dissection I thought you might be able to help - the stream I watched didn’t have any translation of the texts between Mat and Kom(?) and I wondered if you could shed any insight into their conversation?

Hiya ✨️ I know exactly what you mean because I also didn't have subs there but when I went to check on the iQIYI app, they were there so I assumed it was a temporary issue.

Anyway, here are the translations!

🌊: Ai'Kom, as Khun Connor's boyfriend, do you know if Khun Tongrak has any problems with work or not?

For any interested folks, Mut calls Kom มึง /meung/ = impolite, familiar 2nd pers. pronoun

👤: Dunno either but Connor says that there's no need to worry about work.

🌊: How so?

👤: Connor says P'Rak knows how to handle that (work). But other things are more of a concern.

👤: He won't say any more.

👤: Connor says if you want to get to know P'Rak, to go find the answer yourself.

Reminder that Kom and Connor are the couple from MAME's novel Love Sand. Connor's voice and texts have shown up plenty already in ep.1 and Kom is even physically gonna show up at some point since we know Pentor plays him.

[sydney-carton-of-sour-milk]

The Many Illustrators of A Tale of Two Cities 15: Charles Keeping

Keeping This One Brief

Our second in the spooky subseries is a set by Charles Keeping, a famed English illustrator, children's book author, and lithographer who, among his many other accomplishments, illustrated the entirety of Dickens's work for the Folio Society.

This set is unique among all those we've seen so far, both for its recentness (call its publication date a Bowling for Soup song the way it's "1985"🤪) and for its source:

Rather than being from a large public resource like the Internet Archive or from my own personal scans, these are all coming from the personal blog of Derrick J. Knight, a fellow netizen who just so happens to have scanned the illustrations of the book he was reading and uploaded them to the Internet for all to see.

Out of gratitude and respect for giving these precious rarities of illustrations to the public, I'm going to keep this post simple and straightforward, with no post-notes.

Here they are (fair warning, a couple of these are pretty gory):

That's it! Thank you, Charles Keeping and Derrick J. Knight!

& the standard endnote for all posts in this series:

This post is intended to act as the start of a forum on the given illustrator, so if anyone has anything to add - requests to see certain drawings in higher definition (since Tumblr compresses images), corrections to factual errors, sources for better-quality versions of the illustrations, further reading, fun facts, any questions, or just general commentary - simply do so on this post, be it in a comment/tags or the replies!💫

[veveisveryuncool]

next up in the redeemed villain squad, the bitch ass egg that i used to scream "die" at when i was 8 (i never forgave him for his sins)

headcanon time yee haw

around 20 years old, the youngest in the kumazaki trio (excluding marx), a fact that he both hates and takes advantage of

cannot drive a damn thing. too busy gaming to get a license. this is why the lor has crashed 263827848383 times. do not trust him at the head of the star allies sparkler.

bandana dee HATES him and does not trust him one bit. magolor makes a point to be extra annoying to him.

VERY interested in the Ancients to the point where he dresses like them and tried to base his whole personality off the "ooo magik smart spooky so wise" vibe. he is an overzealous fanboy who cosplays everywhere he goes.

like tell me you don't see the similarities between magolor and hyness's robes. magolor probably found out he was 0.002% Ancient and ran with it (his ears look very similar to hyness's just saying)

game magolor is aroace but won't stop flirting with every living being (manga magolor is a different story)

has offered all his friends part time jobs at his themepark, they are now an unstoppable staff team

idk man something about how taranza is an expert in magic and susie is an expert in technology and how magolor is a perfect blend of both, constantly fluctuating between dramatic and poetic speech patterns and modern lingo. how the themes of their games revolve around the loss of love, family, and friendship for taranza, susie and magolor respectively.

susie and magolor get into petty fights at least once a week. they are either planning to kill each other or gossipping and counting money at any given point.

loooves to make fun of taranza. that's not nice, dude. stop.

lowkey kinda jealous of taranza for being better at magic than him. taranza offers to teach him but he always declines.

this guy is marx's biggest supporter #1 bestie bro before hoe partner in crime, all that jazz

they pull off silly shenanigans together and are banned from most public spaces.

magolor has taught marx everything he knows. their tomfoolery is unmatched.

has a hard time expressing his true feelings, often puts on a facade of overdramatizing his emotions to the point where it seems fake

genuinely does like making new friends, he thought that by obtaining the master crown, he could make a universe where people would have no choice but to like him because he would be the greatest ruler in the galaxy and overcome his crippling loneliness

option B was making a themepark, where he would be the harbinger of fun and joy, creating a space where people could meet and make new friends and hopefully see how fun and friendly magolor was, too

he is overjoyed that kirby considers him a friend after everything and would do anything for him

constantly trying to get on meta knight and dedede's good side

magolor's got outfits for every occasion. a real fashionista, that guy

[aylinaliens]

episode one of low frequency really had thames buying lube literally ten minutes after meeting mon and had him stand there with a shit eating smile on his face as its being rang up

your honor i think i already love this idiot and this silly little bl

[nadekosnake]

Thoughts on friends wearing matching clothes whilst hanging out together? Contexts you might think it was amusing to do that in?

Aw, I actually really love it! 🤭 I dress in lolita fashion and there's a concept called "twinning," when you and your friend(s) wear matching outfits. You can style the outfit exactly the same or a little bit differently, like with different colors of a particular dress or with different kinds of accessories. The general guideline for twinning in printed dresses is that the print will be the same, and dress type and/or color can vary! If it’s a solid dress, then generally it’s the color that can vary. Here's a variety of examples from Tokyo Fashion: one, two, three That has really affected how I view matching outfits outside of the subculture ngl, I just think it's fun! People should wear them all the time regardless of context!!!

[randomjreader]

I found this hella funny for some reason and had to share

@/yr.rcee on tiktok

[loststarphounix]

Quick Persona 5 thing *putting on the Persona mask*

I love the dynamic of Ryui/Akira and Ryuji/Yusuke, but my favorite ship has to be Ryuji/Akechi because it hits that subsection of Strangers to Frenemies to Lovers to Tragic Enemies that I crave at times, which is the inevitable betrayal of trust and loyalty and the spiraling of obsession.

Persona 5 spoilers below

Like imagine Ryuji meets Akechi before the beginning of the game, he just thinks this guy is overly nice because he’s secretly a creep. He has no idea is Akechi is an actual celebrity and Akechi finds this immediately amusing and makes use of this by using Ryuji as a soundboard of sorts - gauging his reaction to certain key phrases and words to see what the average teenager is thinking and the trends of the day.

They are passing friends at first: seeing each other at the train station but going to different sides of the platform or heading out the station, seeing each other in the crowded streets after school and track practice where Ryuji is heading to the arcade or the ramen shop. Then they start to actually meet up on purpose, at the park or by the movie theater to enjoy whatever mindless action film was playing because that was Ryuji’s favorite genre. Akechi even visited his home a few times and was invited to stay for dinner with the family. It was nice…domesticed in a way he always dreamed. And more and more, Ryuji became his favorite person to text or call on days when he’s at his lowest or when the adults around him had pushed his buttons with their self importance. He was like a balm that soothed his heart. It was around this time, that Akechi realized that his affection was turning romantic, but he didn’t stop it. In fact, he decided to let it grow - after all he deserves love, like any of the other normal, more stupid teenagers their age. He could make Ryuji fall for him he was certain: he was attractive, not too tall, attentive and intelligent. He just had to make strategic moves to ensure their relationship evolved in the way his mind envisioned and it would be perfect.

But after second year, after Ryuji is attacked and subsequently kicked off the track team, things change. Ryuji is still his sunshine self, but it’s muted somehow, like the light was almost snuffed. Akechi hates that anything in this disgusting world tried to take the light from his only source of happiness. How dare it even think of touching Ryuji! The blond was his and the world had no claim to him.

Akechi makes himself more available to Ryuji, who even though is very much in pain and recovering, is badgering the young detective (“ have you eaten anything other than pancakes? Like I know I have a ramen obsession, but yours outdoes mine!” “You’ve been sleeping right?”) and it endears him to the blond. He wants to help, but Ryuji insists he can handle Kamoshida on his own and that his mom has enough to worry about than some other teen sticking his nose into their lives. But this doesn’t satisfy the brunet, because he cannot believe this goofy, lovable oaf wouldn’t want his money and connections to make his life better; even if he doesn’t know who Akechi actually is.

This leads to him planning on making Ryuji want to spend more time with him, promising himself that he’d reveal who he actually is and make Ryuji and his mom’s lives so much better. It wasn’t like it was going to be hard, Ryuji became his schools pariah after Kamoshida disbanded the track and field team. He was lonely, lost…in desperate need of a friend. And Akechi was that friend, giving him attention and love. And soon, with time, Ryuji would see that he didn’t need any of those idiots. He could have all he ever wanted, being by Akechi’s side.

But then Akira comes along and ruins everything Akechi worked on for the past year. How could he have predicted that the delinquent who transferred to Shujin Academy after assaulting and upstanding adult? And that Ryuji foolishly would see this thug as a kindred spirit?

Ryuji was spending more and more away from Akechi, to be with that scum. The light seemed brighter now, soaking the world in a warm glow that emitted from him every time they squeezed five minutes together. But it wasn’t from him. And it made Akechi want to scream at the injustice if it all. He was the one who found Ryuji first - the one who saw him as he was. Why can’t he be the cause for this warmth? Why was he not good enough to make Ryuji bloom again?

And after his cover being blown by this Akira and Miss Ann at the tv station, he can see the appeal…kind of. Akira was smart, he’ll give him that; clever too with how he almost trapped Akechi on live television with his questioning. Ryuji looked so impressed by his new “friend”, it made Akechi want to vomit. But he wasn’t Akechi, who knew how to sooth Ryuji on his bad days and knew just how to help when his leg started to acting up.

Then he finds out the truth about Ryuji and the Phantom Thieves - that his little sunshine was apart of that group of thugs? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

And when Ryuji discovers his secrets - who Crow really is - and falls right into that criminals arms, it drives him to the breaking point. He decides that he’ll use the Palaces and Mementos to create the world that always should been his: him happy and loved and in love with Ryuji by his side, with Akira chained and humiliated; forced to see Akechi touch and claim what was never his again and again for all eternity.

Ryuji would be a little upset at first, but he’ll forgive Akechi. He’s foolishly kind like that. And he’ll understand in time why the other did what he did. He will…Akechi will make sure he will.

[ink-asunder]

Trying to yawn with a TMJ flare:

[Id: pic of a scrungy cat. End id.]

[t-u-i-t-c]

the drive and ninninger crossover is 10x more fun when you've seen both btw

[canireadinpeace]

My taste in men is getting worse

my love for y'all (and him) is infinitive