V. "I Trusted You!"
V. "I Trusted You!"
"Trust" Series Masterlist
John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader
The unthinkable happens on Bucky's next mission, leaving both of you to deal with the aftermath of your idyllic day in London, and his harsh parting words to you during that final phone call.
Warnings: ANGST, Language, Grief, Death, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Near-Death Experiences, Despair, Self-Loathing, Pregnancy, Era-Typical Sexism, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.
Author’s Note: I cannot believe we have reached the penultimate installment! As always, letters/notes 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 and the final part of the series. I could not have done this without you. 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: 7477
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Your eyes were burning as you struggled to decipher the last few lines of scribbles on the page of notes you were attempting to transcribe. Two nights of little-to-no sleep after weeks of fourteen-hour days had done you no favors, and the addition of the heavy weight of dread you had been lugging around in your lower abdomen since your disastrous phone call with Bucky yesterday afternoon was not helping. Your eyes lifted to the clock on the wall for the fifth time in as many minutes, once again hoping that no news was good news. It was nearly 1930, surely one of your dependable trio of friends would have delivered word to you by now if there was bad news.
The shrill ring of the telephone on the corner of your desk physically jarred you, your right hand nearly colliding with the cup of coffee you had brought up from the mess in a desperate attempt to make it to the meeting at 2200. Under Myrtle’s expectant glare, you lunged forward to answer it, providing your last name in greeting.
“Darling…” Vi’s drawl crackled over the line, dripping with sympathy, and you were convinced your dinner of army noodles and watery tomato sauce might make a reappearance right there on your desk.
“Vi I don’t…” You blurted out and then snapped your mouth shut because you did want to know, you were just not sure you could take it.
You clenched your eyes shut as your heart began to race, palms sweaty as your stomach continued to churn.
“He didn’t come back…” Her voice trembled and the world tilted completely off its axis, a wail clawing at your throat, desperate to be released.
“Thank you for telling me.” You gritted out before clumsily hanging up the phone, fairly dropping the handset into the cradle, before leaping to your feet and wrenching the office door open to dash down the hall to the washroom.
It was a miracle you made it in time, collapsing into the first stall to empty your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks as your knees stung from their impact with the tile. When the urge to retch finally subsided, you hit the handle to flush and slumped back against the metal dividing wall between the next cubicle, sniffling pathetically.
‘He didn’t come back…’ Echoed through your mind and your hand rose to clamp over your mouth, desperate to smother the noise of pain that ripped through you.
Before you could fully surrender to the shuddering sobs that were about to wrack your body, however, the sound of the faucet running had you forcing your emotions down with brutal efficiency, snapping your head to the side to see who was bearing witness to your second public breakdown since your posting in England.
The sight of stoic, icy Myrtle holding out a dampened handkerchief to you had your watery eyes widening in shock. After a moment of your bewildered staring, she heaved a great sigh and crouched down to begin blotting at your cheeks and brow, dewy with the effort of losing your dinner. The handkerchief was blessedly cool, even if her touch was less than gentle, and brought a modicum of relief.
“What’s his name?” She asked quietly, tone not at all softened, but the tenderness of her actions and the words themselves had your eyes brimming with fresh tears.
“John…John Egan” You rasped.
“It’s heartless how the entirety of a man’s existence is boiled down to three letters. Just focus on the M for now. Doris in personnel is always willing to keep an eye out for a familiar name, I’ll ask her to add your man’s name to her list. Let’s get you up.”
You thanked her softly as she grabbed your elbows and pulled you to your feet. Beginning to tug your uniform back into place, you shuffled toward the mirror to tidy your hair.
“What’s your fellow’s name?” You asked her quietly once you felt confident in your ability to speak properly.
“Bobby Vendetti. Flew with LeMay and the 3rd Division to Regensburg. KIA.” She replied in her clipped, stoic voice and slipped out of the washroom leaving you to wonder if she was a grim glimpse into your own future.
Bracing your hands against the sides of the wall-mounted sink, you leaned against it heavily as a cruel wave of weakness overtook you, your body feeling an awful lot like a bowl of Jello in someone’s unsteady hand. Screwing your eyes shut, you locked your knees against the desire to crumple to the ground and forced slow, steady breaths into your trembling body until some semblance of control was restored.
Frowning deeply, you lifted your eyes to the mirror to re-adjust a few pins with sharp, self-chastising movements – using the pain as a point of grounding and focus – before you looked acceptable enough to return to your desk. Myrtle glanced up as your chair creaked slightly upon your return and nodded once. You barely managed to return it before glancing at the cup of coffee in disgust. Pushing it further away, you took a deep lungful of air and turned back to the task at hand.
Every time your fingers struck the M key you took a moment to send a silent plea up to every power above that might possibly hear you.
‘Please keep him safe.’
‘Please don’t let it change to a K.’
‘Please let him be alive.’
‘Please bring him back.’
‘Please.’
‘Please.’
‘Please.’
Reaching the end of the report, you swallowed roughly to see that it was just after 2100, time to set up for the last meeting of the day. Punching a pair of holes in the stack of sheets, you secured the report in its dated folder before dropping it off at the filing office and then made your rounds to collect the final weather and supply reports to be reviewed by the senior operations officers. Stepping into the darkened conference room, you laid your burden of files down on the large table before hurrying over to pull the blackout curtains closed. Clipping your hip on the sharp wooden corner as you made your way over to the light switch, you had to furiously blink back the tears that had been threatening to fall since you had emerged from the washroom.
‘Just a few more hours, then we can lose it completely in the sanctity of our attic closet-turned-bedroom.’ You mentally promised yourself with a shuddering breath.
Working your way around the table, you set out targeting information at each place for the Generals and their subordinates to review.
‘To send the next group of boys to the slaughter.’
Shaking your head with enough physical ferocity to send yourself slightly off balance, you succeeded in momentarily knocking such petty thoughts from your head as you confirmed the list of slides with those in the projector. With preparations complete, you settled into your out-of-the-way seat in the corner of the room. WACs did not sit at the decision-making table – your presence in this room was not for the purpose of being seen nor to be heard. It was simply to ensure things ran smoothly and were recorded for posterity.
Would that you could have done something yesterday, after Bucky announced his intentions to fly, as the target of Münster became ever more likely. Bucky sure seemed to think you could affect things – perhaps he would have come back if you had done something. Gulping roughly, you robotically slid to your feet as the jovial voices of several of the operations officers sounded just outside the door, warning of their imminent arrival.
They filed into the room in clusters and bunches, chatting and sipping at cups of coffee they had brought as they flipped through the latest reports. Once everyone was assembled, the meeting began more or less at 2200 and you set to your diligent notetaking, pushing aside the snarling voice in your head that wanted to question their every decision.
It seemed, in their packets, were the loses that had been accumulated in that day’s mission, Bomber Command 114 to Münster – thirty planes and their crews. A horrifying thirteen of these from the 100th. With their determination to mount another assault on Schweinfurt, the lack of operational aircraft and men would mean several days’ delay, but this would certainly afford the Divisions and Wings extra time in the planning. With a tentative date set as October 14, 1943, the meeting was adjourned, the junior officers hurrying to deliver the news via teletype as you cleaned up the room.
You had very little recollection of completing the last report of the day or the journey up to your room, only fully returning your body as you shed your uniform to collapse onto your cot in a flood of tears no longer willing to be kept at bay.
But loosening your hold on your emotions did not provide much relief. In fact you found yourself fading day by day to no more than a hollow shell of yourself, an empty ache replacing all that used to fulfill you. The world grew grey and cold around you, even if the sun dared to show its callous face, and food was barely tasted or tolerated. If you had possessed the mental capacity to notice, the other girls began to call you ‘mouse’ behind your back for the way you would idly nibble at crackers or toast while staring vacantly at things unseen before giving up on the idea of a meal altogether. The majority of your breaks were spent rambling outside, warm or cold, rainy or fair, circling the grounds as you gnawed at the worn ends of your nails and silently repeated your threadbare pleas for Bucky’s welfare.
Nearly two weeks of such dismal behavior seemed to be Myrtle’s limit as she turned to you sharply one afternoon and declared, “We need to get you a hobby. Do you know how to knit?”
Your head whipped up from your typewriter to look at her in startled silence for a few moments before you shook your head pathetically.
“I will show you how tomorrow at lunch so you can stop haunting the grounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Your lips may have even twitched slightly at her literary admonishment, and you nodded meekly in agreement. Though when she handed you a pair of long wooden needles and a skein of midnight blue wool as soon as you returned to the office after a lunch of cold toast and a few sips of soup, you certainly felt out of your league.
“Watch.” She said sharply and leaned back in her chair to demonstrate. “Stab it, strangle it, scoop out the guts, toss it off the cliff.” Myrtle rattled off as she slowly moved her needles through each step.
To the surprise of you both, a soft snort escape your nose and she gave you the tiniest of smirks.
“It is rather memorable. I’ll show you again.” She repeated the process several times, accumulating numerous stitches along one needle before looking to you expectantly.
Tucking your lower lip under your teeth in concentration, you did your best to follow her example. Your fingers found the motions foreign and awkward, the needles slippery, and the yarn uncooperative. But you were not one to surrender easily in any aspect of your life. Narrowing your eyes at the challenge set before you, you poured more of your concentration into the effort and slowly but surely cast twenty stitches onto your needle.
“Good. They will get tidier as you go. I think your first project should be a scarf – something useful and a no more than a large rectangle. Add another sixteen stitches to that and then I’ll teach you how to cast off.”
Glancing at her nervously, the idea of a new step and attempting to create a garment both intimidating, you took a steadying breath before turning back to look at the needles in your hands.
‘One step at a time. Sixteen more stitches.’
It turned out casting off was not nearly as terrifying as it initially sounded. And the hobby of knitting? Remarkably forgiving, unlike the rest of life. When a stitch was dropped or poorly executed, it was a simple matter of unravelling the error-filled portion of the scarf and remaking it. Knitting filled the empty times when you could not sleep, could barely eat as your stomach seemed hopelessly snarled in worried knots. You were still by no means living a healthy lifestyle, but somehow everything was a little less abysmal. Your nerves a little less frayed, your tongue a little less sharp.
The resulting scarf was in no way a work of art, but it was entirely serviceable and would certainly be a welcome donation to the Red Cross to keep some poor soul warm. It was upon the completion of that project, within one week, that Myrtle decided you ought to try and follow a pattern. A knit cap to match perhaps?
Patterns were an entirely different beast and certainly slowed your progress, though your slightly aching hands did not begrudge the slackening in pace as you worked and reworked, knit and unravelled and reknit your way through it. The weather turned genuinely cold by the second week of November, dropping to the single digits during the day and below zero at night. There was still no word on Bucky. No change to his three letters, still holding as MIA.
‘Please. Please. Please.’ You repeated silently with each wooden clack of your needles as you sat cross-legged on your cot, knitting by the light of your bedside lamp until your eyes refused to focus.
Three envelopes with writing as distinct as their personalities were tucked into the small dresser beside your cot – letters from Vi, Ruth, and Mary that you simply could not bear to open. The threat of their sympathy was too frightening to contemplate. Would surely shatter the fragile semblance of normalcy you had cobbled together. Holding equilibrium and hyper vigilance seemed to only way forward. If you were to upset the balance, something catastrophic might befall Bucky and you could not risk such an outcome by changing your well-worn habits now.
The third week of November brought the arrival of a familiar and, frankly, unwelcome face. It appeared you had not seen the last of Captain Miller yet, for she transferred to Pinetree as the replacement for the WAC commanding officer Captain Burns who had suffered a rather severe fall down those treacherous attic stairs a couple days prior. Your greeting was professional, if a bit on the frosty side, and you could feel her beady eyes boring into your back as you left her office along with the other WAC officers to inform the enlisted women of the personnel change.
Despite being a Lieutenant, you had yet to be placed in direct charge of any personnel yourself, a fact that you might have mused further upon if you had the energy to spare on useless pursuits. As it was you were barely getting through the day-to-day struggle of survival while awaiting news of Bucky.
It came not two days later, in the form of a note dropped on your desk as Myrtle shuffled past with a stack of folders. Eyeing it with trepidation, you slowly reached out for it before unfolding the torn scrap of paper to reveal three entirely new letters.
POW
An exhaled sound of elation escaped you before you could stop it, quickly clamping your mouth shut against further outbursts in respect for Myrtle’s lost loved one. Setting your elbows on the wooden top of your desk, you lay your hands over your face and rambled off a silent litany of gratitude to the powers of the universe for this outcome. It was by no means the best – Bucky would most certainly be furious to have been apprehended by the enemy, to be kept behind fences and barbed wire. But it was absolutely not the worst, and for that you could feel nothing but relief.
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Every time he closed his eyes, all Bucky could hear was your shaky inhale, laced with pain, which had seeped through the phone after his careless statements on October 9. Even as he had slammed down the receiver, it had already begun to echo in his ears as he wrenched open the door of the telephone booth and stormed back to the hotel room. The only anger he felt about the entire affair was at himself. He had not been there for Buck, and then he had hurt you.
Each piece of flak, each bullet that struck his plane, felt like divine retribution for his personal failings. And while he was utterly furious when that third engine died, forcing the crew to bail out, he was also convinced on at least some level he deserved it. Deserved to be caught by those snivelling kids and their fathers. Deserved the beating in that godforsaken town that the RAF had failed to flatten. Deserved to have died on that wagon, but the sunlight still pricked at his eyes stubbornly.
Your agonized sound ricocheted through his throbbing skull and his eyes shot wide with the realization that if he were to give up now, he would only be hurting you more. Failing you and everyone else he cared about. His stomach lurched in horror and, seizing upon the distraction of the two repellent grave diggers, he rolled himself off the cart, making for the woods with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Everything hurt, most especially his head, and he could barely see out of his right eye, yet somehow, he managed to evade them. Before everything went black.
By the time he arrived at the interrogation centre he knew he had missed his chance to escape. But there was a bed, and a blanket. Some questionable food, but it was better than wormy cabbage. His interrogator, for all his claims of insider knowledge, knew nothing about Buck – the famed sports hater, nor you. Everyone around Thorpe Abbotts was more than acquainted with the fact that he was utterly devoted to you and yet the slimy blond tried to insinuate he was still up to his good time ways. It did not make the barbs and intimations of Buck’s death any less painful, however. But it failed to make him crack.
When at last he arrived at the prison camp, first spotting Crank and to his unspeakable relief, Buck, he was convinced his legs might give out right there on the spot. Refusing to give those sneering guards the satisfaction, he forced himself to continue putting one foot in front of the other, remaining curt yet polite through registration and combine assignment until he was delivered to his quarters. Barely able to summon the energy to embrace Buck, he asked him to point in the direction of an open bunk before crawling in and passing out for hours.
Bucky’s memory of the next few days was spotty, consisting of vignettes and flashes rather than full days. Brady and Buck had seen to it that he had made the twice-daily roll call, forcing watery broth down his throat, and Bucky had even managed to wash the last of that soldier’s brains from his hair with shockingly cold water. All the while he felt the need to mutter the apologies to you that he should have spoken. He should have called you that night when he reached base, or even right after he had hung up in London. He vaguely recalled Buck soothing him, uttering platitudes like ‘your girl isn’t stupid she’ll understand’ ‘just hang on you’ll tell her yourself.’ It was around his fourth day in camp when things began to clear, and he felt more like himself. Then the monotony set in.
The weather was already cold, even for late October, and he was sorely missing the sheepskin coat he had swapped with Kidd for his plain leather jacket. It only grew colder as the days grew shorter, darkness coming to dominate the time they spent huddled together around the small table eating their meagre rations. Apparently, the Red Cross packages, though frequently delayed, had their captors feeling entitled to provide them less than their full allotment. The atmosphere was grim among all the prisoners there, particularly the Brits and Canadians who had been POWs since ’41. Bucky was not sure if he had the fortitude to last that long.
The first mail call did not come until December and Bucky did not even bother raising his eyes as the enlisted man tasked with the duty called out everyone’s name.
“Cleven, DeMarco, Brady, Egan…”
Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly, and he looked to the young man, who’s name was just on the tip of his tongue but seemed determined to escape him, to see him holding out an envelope expectantly. Bucky reached out to take it, swallowing roughly as he recognized your writing immediately.
“…Cruikshank, Murphy…oh and this is for you too, Egan.”
Bucky’s eyes tore from your delicate cursive to look at the small box he was holding out, taking it with a mumbled ‘thanks’ before setting it on his lap. The box bore your writing too, his fingers idly tracing the loops and whirls before he heard a soft laugh.
“Go on then, Bucky.” Buck smirked at him, already well into his letter from Marge, eyes alight with pure excitement.
Bucky exhaled slowly before tearing at the paper covering the box, a broad smile forcing its way onto his tired face as he was struck by the scent of you. Pulling the first woolen object from inside he turned it in his hands a few times before recognizing it as a hat, misshapen though it was, and quickly pulled it onto his head. Several of the guys laughed and he was certain he looked a fool, but he also felt immediately warmer for it. In pulling out the much longer garment, clearly a scarf, a small note fluttered to the ground. Wrapping the scarf around his neck he scooped it up to read.
There was a total of thirty-one words on that small piece of paper, with your name included, but he only cared about the last three, just above your signature. Taking a slow breath, Bucky was thankful for whatever divine entity existed that had prevented him from ruining his relationship with you. He turned back to look at Cruikshank as he mocked his new winter fashions.
“I’m sorry Crank, what did your girl send you?” He smirked good naturedly, picking up your letter from the tabletop, feeling the thickness of it, hoping there were a lot more than thirty words to lose himself in.
“My mom sent me this fine number.” Crank cracked back, pulling on a comparatively well-knit cowl scarf which he seemed more than a little proud of, but Bucky would take your questionable textiles any day.
First and foremost being he was currently wrapped in a cloud of wool that smelled so distinctly of you he had to be careful not to let his thoughts wander. He shook his head, laughing along with the rest of the guys, each of them basking in the glow of their first contact with home, as he carefully tore into your envelope. He was very obviously not the first to open it, probably not even the second, which sent a flash of annoyance through him, but he was learning to conserve his energy for things he actually had control over.
He closed his eyes tightly as his mind was flooded with the memory of you falling apart in his arms all those weeks ago. It seemed like another lifetime now, but it was heartily reassuring that you too seemed to have such memories on your mind in writing this. Slowly opening his eyes once more to return to his grim reality, his eyes drifted below your signature to your post-script.
The grin that split his face was near-painful and if he had not already reached the conclusion, the words would have surely been the final piece of evidence required to confirm that you were the perfect woman.
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January brought with a continuation of daytime temperatures below zero, the return of your appetite, and your first letter from Bucky.
How something so small and thin as paper could both wound and soothe at the same time was perhaps the greatest of all mysteries to you. Elation at seeing his writing, hearing his voice in your head, was mottled with grief and pain at knowing what and who kept him from you. It was almost too horrid to think what he must have endured to date – what he could very well be enduring in this very moment for his letter was dated over a month ago.
‘Please keep him alive.’
Using your next Friday off you, made a special visit to the shops, collecting things like dried soup, nuts, and other things from Bucky’s list. Chocolate was harder to come by, but managed by accumulating your own rations of it, despite how you could not seem to get enough of it lately. That and apples. The staff in the mess line seemed to always have one on hand for you now, at every meal, after your constant requests, and the first crisp bite brought almost as much pleasure as a kiss from Bucky.
Adding a pair of hideous, in your opinion, mittens to the box of provisions, you sent it off via the Red Cross hoping he would not have to wait too long before the items reached him. A short note was all you added.
As you were making your way up to your room to begin a more detailed letter, you were startled to see Myrtle and Captain Miller walking down the hallway together, heads bent close, the sight giving you more than a little unease. They had not noticed you, several steps short of the landing, and you happily remained hidden behind a stone pillar as they stepped into Miller’s office together.
With a frown, you continued on your way, hoping that nothing was amiss, but struggling to shake the sense of foreboding that had settled around you like an unwelcome, smothering blanket. It was an odd sensation, considering the way that you had been desperately fighting off the deep chill of the English winter that seemed to have snuck its way into the very marrow of your bones. You were constantly burrowing beneath blankets and coats and scarves, even going so far as to squirrel a lap blanket into the bottom drawer of your desk for use during your long motionless periods of typing.
Your suspicions were confirmed when Captain Miller asked to have a word with you in her office the following Monday. Nothing had ever gone well when you spoke to this woman alone and this time proved no exception to the rule.
“How have you been feeling lately, Lieutenant?” She sunk her teeth right into the meat of the issue not two seconds after gesturing for you to take a seat across from where she sat, perched behind a rather ornate desk in her remarkably well-appointed office.
“A…alright I suppose, Ma’am, no complaints.” You did your best to answer lightly, very much desiring to keep your exhaustion, born of the constant worry combined with the demands of your position, from reaching her untrustworthy ears.
“Hm.” Captain Miller replied, tone conveying that she remained utterly unconvinced. “I must say you seem rather changed since your time at Thorpe Abbotts. You look less than well to me, and some of your colleagues have brought such concerns directly to me. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you to see the surgeon tomorrow at 0800, just to be sure you’re right as rain.”
“Ma’am I assure you, I am–” You began to protest, wondering just whom considered you unfit for duty.
“That will be all, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.” She replied brusquely and you rose to your feet to salute her quickly before slipping out of her office, mind racing.
Certainly, your lack of sleep was less than desirable, but your work or various knitting projects were safe haven from the darker thoughts that seemed prone to find you during periods of rest. Aside from that, though you were fine. Improved, even, since communication had been somewhat restored with Bucky, though you could not seem to shake this annoying sniffle. But everything else was just…
Your eyes flew wide as your steps abruptly halted in the middle of the busy hallway, hardly registering the sharp bark of the man behind you as he narrowly avoided slamming into your back. In all your desperation to lose yourself by blindly trudging forward through life, just trying to get through it, it seemed you had lost track of something rather important. Springing back into motion, you hustled to your desk, digging out last year’s calendar, flipping back through the dates, racking your brain for the last time you’d had your monthlies. Your fingertips grew colder with each turn of the page until you reached September. That was the last time you could confidently say that you had bled.
And then there had been the ‘idyllic day’ in London with Bucky. Or more specifically the night.
Looking down at your abdomen as though it were some separate entity; having acted entirely on its own agenda, you felt your lower lip wobble. The door to the office opened, the sound of the pane of glass rattling lightly in its wooden frame startling you into an upright posture as you slammed the calendar closed. The look Myrtle gave you was one of confusion laced with guilt and had you bristling defensively as you vividly recalled her chummy conversation with Captain Miller a few days ago.
Colleagues.
“I trusted you!” You snapped under your breath, the waspish cruelty of your outburst stinging your own ears and flooding your eyes with tears. “How could you go to her…”
“I was worried about you.” She replied guardedly, retreating to her desk as a place of safety. “You are clearly not well.”
You sniffed indignantly but it was beginning to register just how true that statement might be. Because you most certainly had not been taking excellent care of yourself and if…Who were you kidding, four months with no bleeding. The exhaustion, the nausea, the susceptibility to cold. The signs had been there all along, you had simply chalked them up to the emotional turmoil you had been experiencing related to Bucky’s disappearance, capture, and internment as a POW. A strangled sob escaped you before you could stop it, quickly burying your face in your hands as you gasped for air, struggling to get a grip on your rapidly fracturing composure.
The soft ‘snick’ of the lock on the door had you peeking through your fingers as you watched Myrtle approach you not unlike one would a wounded animal.
“I thought as much…How far along do you think you are?”
“I don’t. I’m not.” Every attempt at denial turn rotten in your mouth and though you knew that your words could very well travel from her lips to Captain Miller’s ears, who else did you have to unburden yourself to here in this former girl’s school where women were nothing but replaceable the moment they became an inconvenience. “Three months probably. No, definitely. If I am. Which I’m sure is what I am.”
Myrtle set her hand on your shoulder, offering a short sharp squeeze, fairly rending your heart in two at the realization that it had been far too long since you had received any form of comfort from another human being. “You’ll get to see your family soon.”
It was meant to be soothing, surely, but all you could think of was the ocean that was about to open up between you and Bucky. The statement wrung a fresh sob from you before you scrambled with the lock to get out of that room and down the hall to the now too-familiar sanctuary of the washroom.
The remainder of the day passed in a fog, the looming morning appointment dangling over your head like the executioner’s axe poised to fall. You even felt encouraged to begin tidying and sorting through your belongings that night, starting to assemble them into your suitcases. The puzzle pieces simply fit too well for you to ignore. The faint knocking on your door just after midnight had you tilting your head in confusion, and cracking the door open cautiously.
A rather tentative Myrtle stood on the other side, a small envelope in hand.
“This might help when you get back. Here.”
Take it slowly, your fingers traced over the lump in the middle, opening the flap to reveal a gold ring with a small diamond.
“Myrtle I couldn’t–” You blurted out quickly, certain it was from the man she had lost over Regensburg.
“Oh it’s costume jewelry, and I want you to have it. It’ll make things easier.” She replied firmly and turned to head back to her room before you could reply.
Swallowing roughly, you shut the door and moved to sit heavily on your cot, sliding the ring onto your left ring finger experimentally. It was a bit loose and felt like a lie. Tugging it off roughly, you returned it to its envelope, tucking it into a pocket of your suitcase before turning in to try and get some rest.
The surgeon, as sympathetic as he portrayed himself to be, was utterly convinced you were ‘in the family way.’ However, before he could have you discharged from the Women’s Army Corps, he ordered a Hogben test. Your urine was collected and sent to a local pharmacist to be injected into a frog, or so you were told. If this frog produced eggs by tomorrow morning, you would be confirmed as pregnant and immediately evacuated by to the United States. Until then, he ordered you to rest.
Captain Miller delivered the news personally the following morning, tone more than slightly patronizing. You sat quietly in the chair in front of her desk, trying to take slow, even breaths and remind yourself she would have to eventually run out of things to say. The next words out of her mouth, however, had your spine straightening sharply.
“You know, Lieutenant, this was precisely the situation I was trying to avoid when I recommended you for this promotion back in September.”
“You did this?!” You snapped, feeling somewhat blindsided.
For all her coldness you had never seen her for a schemer. Never once suspected her hand in your sudden removable from Thorpe Abbotts and Bucky’s side.
Captain Miller looked down her nose at you and exhaled impatiently. “You may dislike me, Lieutenant, but all three more weeks at Thorpe Abbotts would have done is hasten your due date.” She narrowed her eyes as she twisted the verbal knife.
“Dislike you?” You repeated incredulously, that icy rage which you had first become acquainted with back in August once more flooding your veins. “No Ma’am. I do not dislike you. I pity you. I pity whatever lack of love you have in your life that you could so easily brush off three weeks with someone you care about.”
The woman was taken aback for a moment. Most likely for the first time in her life, before she cleared her throat. “Please proceed to your quarters and pack your things at once. You will be transported to Prestwick for transport by air back to the United States for immediate discharge due to the medical inability to serve. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Ma’am.” You muttered and gave a half-hearted salute before making your way upstairs.
Your belongings mostly packed, you instead pulled out a fresh piece of paper to write to Bucky to provide him your new return address. The question that hung in the air, however, was whether or not to inform him of your…condition…
Knowing the fragility of such things, and given that his daily life was already such a struggle, it seemed prudent not to burden him with anything unnecessary until this baby was born. Besides, it had been your choice, your initiation – that last, final, reckless, unprotected coupling. You had been a greedy thing and look what it had gotten you.
Your hand found its way to rest on your lower abdomen unconsciously and you let your gaze follow the motion absently. You had never reached the stage in your relationship where you had been able to exchange gifts and yet…here you were carrying what some might call quite a gift.
Most of all, bleak as he found life as a POW you were unwilling to force him into the position of putting that life in jeopardy. He did not need to become reckless as you had been. Inhaling a shaky breath, you put pen to paper to keep it brief and vague.
Sealing the envelope with a kiss from lips coated with fresh lipstick, you made a trip down to the post box before visiting the mess for an early lunch.
Within twenty-four hours, you were enduring your first plane ride, clinging to the seat inside a C-54 on the first leg of your journey from Scotland to Iceland. It was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and on a plane filled with seriously wounded men, you stuck out like a sore thumb. The flight nurse had the grace not to comment, but the slightly oversized engagement ring you had ultimately decided to wear felt like a piece of armor on your left finger when her eyes fell onto it.
Bless Myrtle and her foresight. Whatever her motivations in bending Captain Miller’s ear had been, she had provided you with some of the best defence against judgement you could possibly have been afforded in your complicated situation. A wedding ring would have been too easy to disprove with no marriage licence. An engagement? Well it was still a bit fast of you to have spread your legs before the wedding, but at least he had bought you a ring first. Or so it appeared.
------------
The ongoing mail issues finally resolved in a flood of mail in early March. Two letters and a large package arrived from you, bringing a broad smile to Bucky’s face after a barren, cold set of months. The food was quickly stashed to be meted out, but the mittens were not to be shared. There was some kind of magic in the yarn you used that trapped your perfume and held it for several weeks. He supposed it was because you had to cradle and hold it close for some time in your crafting of the garments you sent him.
He had never been jealous of clothing before, but life was full of new experiences these days.
Turning to the pair of letters next, he was immediately drawn to the impression of your lips on the slimmer of the two envelopes, tearing into it with utmost care to preserve the mark for later use in the darker, more private hours. The letter inside, however, was the most confusing and vague piece of correspondence he had ever received. And it was not due to some obvious attempt to skirt censors or other prying eyes. You were being evasive.
Tearing into the thicker envelope with less concern, he noted an earlier date, though only by a few days, but no trace, not even a hint of an explanation, for the second, odd letter.
As he and Buck went on their daily walk about the camp – a necessity to keep fit and stave on the stir-craziness that came from spending too many hours indoors – he exhaled slowly before breaking the silence.
“Hey Buck?”
“Hm?” His friend lifted his head from where his eyes traced their boots through the endless, frozen mud that had become their landscape.
“What do you think the odds are on a WAC getting a discharge to care for a grieving mother?”
Bucky did not need to hear his answer. Buck’s doubtful facial expression said it all.
-------------------------
Read Part Six - "Trust Me, Doll..."
"Trust" Series Masterlist
Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot, @darylas, @carpediem1219, @blueberry-ovaries
More Posts from Star-reaper and Others
I am OBSESSED this might seriously be my favorite thing ever
Are You Going My Way? | Collection | John "Bucky" Egan
Lost and found in four parts. John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Warnings: 18+ smut, mentions of blood, wounds, operations, hospitals, war -> Taglist open! ***
Hitchin' a Ride Part 1
Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes. Words: 7k | Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals
***
Follow Me Where I Go Part 2
Or how you stopped worrying and learned to love trouble.
Words: 8.5k | Warnings: smut, 18+
***
As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death Part 3
***
Lights Will Guide You Home Part 4
Looks Like We Made It
Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Word Count: 1.9k
Summary: Bucky ponders whether your paths were always meant to cross, if fate was what brought you together. You offer a different perspective.
Warnings: Bucky’s POV, established relationship, fluff, flirting, sexual innuendos (no smut).
Author’s Note: Divider by @saradika-graphics
I’m back with a Bucky fic!! Finally 🥹 this instalment is part of the Love In The Woods Collection ❄️, but can absolutely be read as a standalone 🤍 hope you enjoy, friends x
Bucky loved to reminisce.
And it wasn’t in favour of gone days or that he didn’t enjoy the present — because Bucky couldn’t adore living in the moment more if he tried.
Rather, he held a fondness of the journey the two of you had taken over the years; how life played its funny little tricks to make sure everything turned out as it should.
Bucky wasn’t a believer of God, didn’t hold much faith in destiny or fate or a path already paved by a higher power.
But holy fuck when he looked at you, it was impossible to imagine that there wasn’t any kind of influence to your souls finding each other and intertwining for eternity.
Either that, or he was a lucky man.
The thought ricocheted in his mind as he watched you from the bar, dancing to an old 80’s song. Your moves were sloppy and you were singing the lyrics all wrong. Yet, you threw your head back and laughed without a care in the world and for a countless time, Bucky was blessed with the avid reminder of just how much he loved you.
Of course, he was always aware of his affections. There wasn’t a day that went by where Bucky questioned himself. But in certain moments, when the full measure of his feelings came rushing in all at once, he’s knocked off kilter once more and suddenly his love for you is so overwhelming that it’s hard for him to breathe.
Magic was laced in everything you did. From how you greeted your friends with pure happiness no matter how often you saw them to the way you sat by the fireplace, swaddled in the masses of blankets you owned, and hummed in bliss at the taste of your homemade hot chocolate.
It was simply extraordinary and Bucky couldn’t picture a better way to describe you; there was no one else who could make the mundane feel ethereal.
Bucky’s life may have been simple. But it was yours and his. There was nothing more remarkable than that.
Natasha knocked against the wood of the bar, gently pulling Bucky from his stupor. “Gonna gawk at your girl all night, Barnes, or are you planning on joining her any time soon?”
“Wife.” He corrected instantly, though his tone held no animosity, only awe. “She’s my wife, Nat.”
Natasha chuckled, shaking her head with a grin as she refilled Bucky’s glass. “And doesn’t everyone and their mother know it.”
Shrugging, Bucky lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped, the whiskey smoothly burning his throat. “You look at her and tell me that I shouldn’t shout it from the damn mountain tops.”
She did so, glancing over at you with a fond smile. “Then you’re a wise man, Barnes.”
“Maybe.” His eyes gravitated over to you. He had already looked away for too long for his own liking. “Or I’m just a really lucky fool.”
It was that moment your gazes locked from across the room. The music played on, the patrons of the bar continued their conversations. However, the world stopped spinning on its axis for Bucky and he wasted no time in taking advantage of the little pocket of time spared for the two of you.
Parrying his way through the sea of bodies, Bucky made his way towards you, gaze never straying, focus never drifting. He reached you by the vintage jukebox and instantly weaved his arms around your waist.
“Hi, there,” you grinned, snaking your hands around his neck. Bucky shivered. “I was wondering when you were gonna come over.”
Bucky bumped his nose against yours. “‘M sorry, baby. Wanted to sit back and watch you for a little while.”
“You’re forgiven.” You teased your lips over his, whispering your wicked hymns against his mouth. “It’s hard to be annoyed at you when you look this good.”
“That right?” Your outward appreciation of him never failed to fill him with a smug confidence. Compliments from you made him feel like he was on top of the world. “The jacket workin’ for you is it, Dolly?”
You looked up at him with hooded eyes, licking your lips. “Sure is, handsome. I wonder whether it’ll work for you tonight when it’s the only thing I have on.”
All the blood in Bucky’s body rushed down to his lower region, hardening his cock in his jeans and weakening his knees.
He groaned, deep and raw. “Fuck—You sure know how to kill a man.”
Creating a gun with your fingers, you pointed the barrel against Bucky’s chest and mimed a gunshot to the heart. He couldn’t help how his heart stuttered as you winked and whispered a soft boom. “I’m dangerous for the heart, Bear. Haven’t you heard?”
That you were. “You’re the talk of the town, sweetheart. But I want you anyway.”
And suddenly, the heated lust dialed down to a tender intimacy. Something only lovers could appreciate. “Very smooth.”
Bucky began to guide you into a gentle sway, hugging you tighter until any space between you was diminished. “I aim to please, Wife.”
The name rolled off his tongue so easily. He wasn’t ashamed to say he called you by it as often as he could. It could have been interpreted as a sense of ownership to others. But those who knew the two of you understood that Bucky just couldn’t get enough of reminding himself — and everyone else — that you had married him.
A true pinch me moment.
If your smile was anything to go by, you savoured it just as much. “You like saying that, don’t you?”
Bucky beamed. “All the damn time, you have no idea.”
You kissed him. A slow, drawn out peck that swallowed his stomach whole like a blizzard. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get used to that feeling; how you continued to steal his heart years on.
“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” Bucky confessed, eyes closed with his forehead resting against yours.
Your brows furrowed and you let out a shocked laugh. “What are you talking about, silly? Does the cabin or the ring not seal the deal enough for you?”
“‘Course it does, Dolly.” As if anything could hold a candle to the pillars of bliss that was your story. “It just doesn’t feel real sometimes, y’know? Like surely someone as amazing as you can’t have come into my life without circumstance. Someone must’ve been having a good day when they made you my soulmate.”
“Are you drunk, Bear?” You giggled.
“No, darlin’.” Bucky may not have been drunk, but you sure did make him feel like it. “Just wanted to let you know how much I love you.”
You fell quiet as you slightly backed away. Eyes turned inquisitive, you observed him and Bucky felt more naked than ever. For once, he was clueless to what you were thinking and the unease had him desiring his long forgotten whiskey.
You finally settled his nerves. “Can I ask you something, sweetie?”
Bucky swallowed the dryness of his throat. “Anything.”
“Have you ever considered that there’s no other reason as to why I fell in love with you other than that I like you?”
Frowning, Bucky voiced his bemusement. “Well, I would like to think so.”
You shook your head fondly. “As a person; your personality, your humour. You’re kind and sweet and thoughtful. You're not too bad on the eyes either.” Fingers tangling into the roots of his hair, you coyly pulled before soothing the sting. Your attempt at some lightheartedness before you resumed. “I enjoy spending my time with you, Bear. None of those are miraculous things. You are just you, that’s what love is.”
Though Bucky recognised you were trying to make a point, the pinnacle of your moment wasn’t reaching him. He was silent, struggling to connect the dots in his head.
You sighed softly. “Believe it or not, I don’t need you, Bucky.”
The revelation was one he hadn’t expected and for a minute his stomach pitted. Pouting, Bucky attempted to mask his slight hurt. “Ouch.”
“Oh, stop it. I’m not finished, you big lug.” You smacked his chest playfully. “What I mean is that I’ll never need to rely on you to make me happy. It implies that I have no autonomy and I stay for all the wrong reasons. I’m not some estranged princess, whose only purpose it is to find a prince to save them. I’ve lived a life without you and I was content. But it’s because of you that life is much more fulfilling and it’s because of you that I spend every waking moment thankful that we met.”
A spark of peace brightened Bucky’s eyes, the bigger picture finally revealing itself and your message becoming clear. You must have caught the subtle undertones of his relief as your lips curved into a smile.
“I choose to love you, Bucky. I choose to be by your side every single day for the rest of our lives. And I think that’s a lot more meaningful than the idea that some greater good already decided our fate. Instead, out of any other choices we could’ve made, we chose each other.”
You were right. You were so completely right that Bucky cursed himself for not comprehending it for himself. Because of course, what was better than the act of fortifying a bond so strong that you didn’t have to rely on anything other than knowing what you felt for each other. That your care and warmth of the other was enough to keep your relationship solid rather than depending on the notion of destiny.
No. You and Bucky had created something so stunningly special by yourselves. And he was an idiot for ever thinking anything else.
Standing in Nat’s bar, in the middle of the dance floor by the vintage jukebox, the world came rushing back in. The music, the chatter. It was reality — tangible. And it was the outcome of your own doings. Better than anything the universe could have concocted for you.
“In the future, when you think back to each memory of us, remember that there was nothing binding us together. I just wanted to be with you.” You booped his nose, a delicate glisten in your eyes. “Know now, I’ll want you forever.”
Bucky cleared his throat, discreetly trying to blink away the tears that threatened to break the surface. Even so, his voice cracked with an overload of emotion. “You’re somethin’ else, Dolly.”
You sniffled, not as willing to hide your sentiment. “Nope. Just me. And you love me all the more for it.”
“I do,” he breathed. “God, do I fuckin’ love you, more than you could ever know.”
“Well,” you grinned, as beautiful as always. “We’ve only got the rest of our lives for you to make sure I do.”
Your excited squeal of laughter echoed around the bar, your friends and family cheering as Bucky swept you off your feet and gathered you into his arms. His smitten smile rang loud for everyone to see, but his soft promise was dedicated to you alone. “Then I best get makin’ good on that then, sweetheart.”
this is so sweet I love it so much
I really hope you mean here 🤭
Request: "Remus is being rude to the reader due to the upcoming full moon.. make it as angsty as you can"
Thanks for requesting babe <3
cw: migraine, Rem is mean :(
Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
When you come home from work, the apartment is dark and there’s evidence of Remus’ shit day everywhere.
The curtains are drawn closed against the sunlight, and there’s a discarded blanket on the couch and several snack containers half-emptied on the coffee table. One of them has tipped onto the floor, a mess of crisps your boyfriend was likely feeling too unwell to tidy. He’s spilled tea on the table, too. These kinds of things are more common in the days before the full moon, but you think he must really be having a rough one. Even a few unwashed dishes in the sink is usually enough to stress Remus out, so he has to have been in a state to leave things like this.
You brew a fresh cup of tea, grabbing some chocolates from the cabinet in case he didn’t bring any with him, and broach the bedroom. A shape moves under the sheets when the door creaks open.
“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?”
“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes.
You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”
“Can’t right now.”
“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”
“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can.
You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.
You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open.
“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?”
“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.”
“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—”
“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.”
You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper.
Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.
You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it.
It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway.
Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh.
“Dove?” he murmurs.
You don’t dare do more than hum in response.
A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”
“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.”
Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?”
You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.”
“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.”
“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?”
You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him.
“Fuck, I’m awful.”
“You’re not.”
“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.”
“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.”
“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.”
“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?”
Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?”
You’re alright really, but you tell him you do anyway. He looks nearly happy as he drags himself into the kitchen, and he won’t stop mollycoddling you for the rest of the night.
literally so in love with this
A Million Reasons - Masterlist
Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes, with all of his trust fund money and family connections, gets assigned community service. You, as someone that’s technically part of the community, now have to put up with him. Every day. And he won’t stop killing your plants.
Warnings: Enemies (annoyance) to lovers, Bucky’s old money at an ivy league, angst, minor injury, drinking, eventual smut (minors dni, marked **)
a/n: Hello! I’ve decided there won’t be a set posting day for this series. This is something I’ve been super excited to share (even with my writing steam dying out) and I want to get it out here without extra pressure. I’ll be adding the dates for upcoming chapters as they are ready :) And thank you @traitorjoelite for that second, beautiful moodboard 🤍
♡ Series playlist 🪴
Keep reading
All in My Head | Bucky Barnes x Reader
Hi, friends! This was a request from @breakablebarnes, who described this ic idea as "dark and meta", so obviously I'm here for it.
Send me your comments, requests, and / or suggestions! 🥰
Tag list: @beefybuckrrito @shadytalementality @everything-burns-down @rainbow-unicorn-pony @mandersshow @breakablebarnes@glxwingrxse @psychoticmason @deepsketchsupernaturalcowboy @lonewolf471 💘
"Your eyes are glowing and I'm holding your hand You ask if I'll run with you up to the edge Hands on my waist and fingers running through hair Well, I know that it's all in my head...
If the stars ain't showing, the whiskey ain't burning Well, I'm still gonna be your girl When we both stop growing and they dig us deep Yeah, I'm still gonna be your girl..."
The light of the sunset had your apartment glowing gold. Bucky's body leaned up against yours, letting you play with his hair while the two of you watched the classic Gene Kelly musical, Singin' in the Rain. As Gene Kelley swept Debbie Reynolds into his arms near the end of You Were Meant for Me, Bucky nuzzled in closer to you. "How have I not taken you dancing yet, sweets?" he asked as he turned to face you. An unexpected chuckle fell from your lips at his question, making him cock his head to the side with confusion.
"Buck, I don't have any idea where- people don't really go dancing anymore. If you go dancing these days, it's at like, a rave or a nightclub" you told him, "I'm sure that's not the kind of dancing you're looking for." A disappointed frown twisted his lips downward and he sighed out a huff. Then, without a word, he was up off of the couch.
He turned off the tv and pushed the coffee table out of the way with no effort at all, creating a makeshift dance floor right in the middle of your living room. He flew across the room to his record player and pulled out his favorite Frank Sinatra record, letting the sweet sound of your favorite Sinatra song, Be Careful, it's My Heart slowly fade in through the crackling and popping of the record.
"May I have this dance, gorgeous?" Bucky asked as he offered you his shiny vibranium hand. A warm sensation took over your cheeks as you accepted his proposal, letting him pull you up off the couch and into his arms. His hand found your waist and yours wrapped around his neck as the two of you began to move with the music. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me to dance before..." you murmured against his chest, making Bucky stop moving completely.
"Oh, doll. That's criminal," Bucky said, clearly disturbed by your confession, "if you were my girl back in the day...I would've taken you dancing every Friday night- would've bribed the band to play a slow one for us". He pulled you tighter against his body and hummed in approval at his favorite sensation: your body pressed against his. "I'm glad I found you now, though..." he continued, "there's no way I ever could've left for the war if you were my girl. Probably would've ended up a draft dodger". The thought of Bucky leaving for the war, being gone from you for so long and in such a dangerous situation, made you press yourself even closer to him. You let your eyes close as you rested your head against his warm chest, listening to his heartbeat and letting it remind you that he was right there with you.
"I would've waited for you, Buck," you murmured against his chest, "I would've written you letters and counted down the days until I got to see you again". Your promise hit Bucky strangely, reminding him that he never would've even gotten the chance to come home to you. He quickly swatted the thought from his mind, instead quietly singing along with the music:
"Remember it's my heart. The heart with which so willingly I part. It's yours to take to keep or break, But please, before you start, Be careful, it's my heart."
He crooned along with Sinatra until the song ended, being replaced with more crackling and popping sounds.
When the warmth of Bucky's body began to fade from your touch, you allowed your eyes to slowly flicker open.
Before you sat your living room-dark, empty, cold. The coffee table sat in its correct position- not shoved out of the way to make room for a dance floor- and there was no record player in the corner. The only light in the room came from the screen of the laptop that sat balanced on your thighs. Your hands remained frozen, poised over the keyboard and ready to type. The flickering of the cursor on your screen drew your attention as you read the last sentence of your fic over again:
"He crooned along with Sinatra until the song ended, being replaced with more crackling and popping sounds".
A sudden ache took root in your chest, filling you with a sense of loss, a sense of loneliness. It had felt so real- you could’ve sworn you were really there with Bucky, slow dancing in your living room. The emptiness you felt at his absence clawed at your heart and ripped it to shreds, leaving you hollow. Not only was this man not in your arms, he wasn’t even real. Something resembling grief took hold of you, as you yearned for the touch of a person you’d never meet. You mourned his smile, his gentle touch, his oceanic eyes, the way he held you close-
Only one thing could take the awful sensation away, and so you let your eyes close once again, diving back into the world in which you were Bucky's girl- the world that was all in your head.
!!!!! THIS IS GENIUS ????!!!
glorious evolution
imagine silco wakes up with a huge ass boner in the middle of the night but his so is sleeping very tight. he feels bad waking them up but he can’t resist so he starts acting like a horny teenager, kissing their lover’s back and humping over their ass and…and…….sorry….
Never apologise for putting the words ‘Silco’ and ‘humping’ in the same sentence. One hotdog and a vanilla milkshake coming right up! 😘🌭
Stuck in a rutt
Silco x Reader || Silco POV || Established Relationship || NSFW || MDNI || Buttjob || Soft sleepy sexytimes|| Weary old man just wants boner to go away so he can get some sleep please god || Wc: 1.5K
Reader is gender neutral. No pronouns or anatomical descriptions used.
Thank you @insult-2-injury for beta-ing and to @sweatandwoe & @astudyincontrasts for early feedback 🖤
The edges of Silco’s typically razor-sharp mind are dulled by coils of sleep. He drifts around the fringes of consciousness; in and out of the shallow waters of a dream as thick and sweet as honey.
The curves and lines of your body recognizable to him even through the distorted lens of his dreamscape, bending and arching in a dance of pleasure. Soft sighs and moans formed from memories of your voice, and the sensation of your touch sending a whispering, frisson wave up his spine.
All of it a faded echo compared to the real thing of course, but nonetheless seductive enough to linger beneath his skin as a warm, yearning buzz when he lands fully on the side of wakefulness.
Silco’s singular, unpatched eye blinks groggily open. Dark, wooden rafters above the bed come slowly into focus as his vision settles. He drops his cheek to the pillow, deliciously cool against his skin, and his gaze goes to the small timepiece on the nightstand.
Hours yet before he’s due to rise for duty.
Shame his dick didn’t get the same message.
No need to look down at the covers to know he’s pitching a tent.
Silco exhales wearily through his nose, hand trailing down the length of his torso to adjust his erection more comfortably – tucking it up beneath the waistband of his loose, sleep bottoms. His palm remains flat on his abdomen, rising and falling with each slow, steady breath he takes in an attempt to drift back to sleep.
Inhale…
Exhale…
In…
Out…
In… and in… pushing ever deeper into your tight, warm—
Silco’s eye snaps open, molars grinding together with the set of his jaw. His skin feels too tight over his bones. Too hot. And his brain is full of susurrant whispers, diverting all thoughts south to the unsolicited request his body is deigning to make of him.
He expresses his displeasure in the form of a low, throaty grumble – quick and quiet so as not to disturb the nighttime peace of the room.
His hand slides down from his stomach to palm himself over his pyjamas. Just enough to alleviate some of the pressure as he tries once more to switch off his mind and body.
Inhale…
Exhale…
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
In… out… In. out. In out, in out, inout , inout inoutinoutinoutharder, faster—
Silco traps another frustrated growl behind grit teeth, and forces his hips to stop rocking up into the cup of his hand.
Pointless to try and suppress his arousal. He needs release if he ever wants to quell the maddening buzz beneath his skin.
His gaze falls to you, sleeping soundly at his side with your back to him, and his heart swells to aching in his chest. Gorgeous. He needn’t see your face to know it – he’s come in late from work enough times to be able to perfectly picture the smooth serenity of your features at rest.
Your ribs shift with each steady, sleep-slow breath. Blankets tucked cosily up to your shoulder, and hair a tousled halo upon the pillow.
Gorgeous. Heartbreakingly tranquil.
He could go to the bathroom. Briskly absolve himself of this torturous itch and leave you to sleep in peace. But the mere thought of dragging himself out of bed is repugnant. Certain parts of him may be wide awake, but that doesn’t mean he is. Silco is tired. He’s always tired. His mind is weary. His bones are heavy. The sheets are soft and warm… And you’re here…
Silco slots himself against your back, moulding to the length of your body, arms snaking around your middle in a gentle embrace that gathers you closer, further seeking to eradicate any space between you.
A sleepy hum drones low in your throat, accompaniment to the soft kisses he trails down the slope of your neck, little more than a brush of scarred lips upon skin. A noise of contentment, given how readily you nestle back deeper against him.
He battles the temptation to run his hands over you, to trace and tease and worship. He won’t disturb you any more than he must for his own sanity.
His mouth presses a little deeper into the crook of your neck, a whisper of tongue skimming your skin in time with the shallow rock of his hips. How is it that the fluttering lust in his stomach both abates and worsens with each careful thrust against the swell of your backside. The friction both easing and aggravating the heated pressure in his groin.
Another hum rumbles from your throat, more cognisant this time, and tinged with disapproval.
“I’m asleep,” you mumble, voice thick.
“I know darling, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, genuine guilt in his words, even as he draws the blade of his nose sinfully up the sensitive skin behind your ear, inhaling your intoxicating warmth deep into his lungs, “I simply can’t resist.”
Despite your quiet grumbling you tilt your pelvis just a touch, and Silco feels the pleasant shiver which runs down your spine in response to the warm huff of air he exhales over your nape as his clothed shaft slots shallowly into the cleft of your ass.
“Will you be good for me? Hm?” Silco begs softly in your ear, unable to suppress the urge to rock his hips into the inviting divot of your buttocks, “Will you allow me to be selfish with you? Let me use you for my own wicked gain?”
Yet another hum, long and low and drowsy, but warm with consent.
“Mmn, so good,” Silco whispers, lips pressing warm, lingering kisses down your jugular, over the curve of your shoulder, “Always so good to me. My sweet, lovely pet.”
“Y’owe me,” you slur, half-way back to sleep.
“Of course,” he promises, hand splaying in a sensual stroke down your stomach, thumb hooking over the band of your pyjamas and tugging them down over your bottom, “Relax now, love. Let yourself drift. Dream of how you might have me repay your generous favour.”
The corner of your mouth hooks up in a dozy smirk, and Silco leans over to press his lips to that small slice of a smile, pushing the constricting fabric of his own sleepwear down and out of the way.
His hand smoothes over the shape of your ass, thumb tracing the split of your cheeks, before spreading you apart and settling his cock in the warm canyon between your buttocks.
Silco can’t help the soft, throaty huff of relief that spills from his lips at the first rock of his hips. The sweet lick of pleasure in his gut is a merciful confirmation that he needn’t be buried inside you to achieve the completion he seeks.
The rhythm he sets is languid. Long, thorough strokes that have his hip bones grinding deep into the giving flesh of your backside. Sensitive cockhead sandwiched between the warm press of bodies, pearls of arousal smearing into the skin of his stomach and upon your lower back.
His breath stirs your hair, the blade of his nose grazing your scalp and lips parted in soft, blissful exhales against the nape of your neck. Arms a loving wind around you, hugging you close whilst he indulges in the heat of your buttocks. His eye flutters closed and he immerses himself entirely in every sweet sensation. In the molten pleasure which coils in his navel like a sun-warmed serpent.
Your glutes squeeze around his cock in drowsy pulses.
“Shhsh,” Silco hushes into the skin of your neck, his hand dragging to cup your buttock, pressing down to tighten the valley he’s fucking, “ Rest , darling. You’re already do hing enough.”
Your sleepy hum is deep and encouraging, and to Silco’s sex-addled mind sounds deliciously salacious.
His thrusts quicken – chasing the tantalising promise of release that lays almost close enough to touch. Unable to bring himself to remonstrate you when you clench your buttocks around him once more, the vice-like squeeze sending the pressure beneath his skin through the roof, balls tightening almost painfully—
Explosive pleasure shoots up Silco’s spine like a flare, bursting inside his skull and flashing bright colours behind his eyes. Hot ropes spill up your back and over his stomach with each dwindling, climactic throb.
Silco relaxes deeper into the mattress, his body and mind melting like mist on the water – finally, sweetly released from his torment. His pulse a brisk beat despite his languorous movements.
“Thank you,” he breathes against your neck, praising you further with soft mothwing kisses upon your skin, “Thank you. My sweet… m gorgeous …” his voice tapers off, vision darkening behind the heavy droop of his lid.
“MnSilco,” you complain sleepily with a feeble prod of your elbow back into his ribs, “Clean up. Dirty man.”
“Hmnf,” he replies grumpily, blindly pulling both your pyjama bottoms up again and using the edge of the blankets to wipe away the worst of the mess, “In the morning,” he insists drowsily.
“Nmn,” you acquiesce as he settles down once more and draws you close against him. The in-out drag of your breaths gradually syncing, and deepening as you drift off, together.
Here When I Wake
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 2.3k
Tags: Winter Soldier-ish!Bucky, Memory Loss, mentions of violence, comfort, fluff, Sam being a good friend
There’s a gentle breeze flowing into your small Brooklyn apartment from the open windows. The sun is setting in the west, illuminating the sky in shades of pinks and purples. The fading sunlight matches the dim vibe within the apartment, only illuminated by a couple lamps and some candles placed strategically on shelves, where Alpine couldn’t knock them down.
The light sound of an old jazz record from Bucky’s collection plays softly as you sway in the living room to the melodic tunes. It’s a peaceful evening; just you and Alpine together in the kitchen, as she always loved keeping you company when you were cooking.
You lose yourself in the repetition of cooking your favorite dish, before being interrupted by the sound of your cellphone ringing and vibrating on the kitchen counter. You pick up your phone and are surprised to see who is calling, Bucky’s partner, Sam.
“Sam?” You ask, confusion clear in your voice upon greeting him.
“Hey, listen, where are you?” Sam inquires urgently over the phone, out of breath and sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
“Um, home? In Buck and I’s apartment? Why?” You question, becoming more confused as you also feel concern creeping up on you. Why was Sam calling? He never called you.
“Something happened on the mission. Bucky experienced a head injury, and was triggered somehow. He’s not himself right now. We lost track of him outside of Manhattan. Stay where you are. I’m on my way to you now. We’re hoping maybe you can help us.” He explains quickly. You hear the sound of a car roaring to life before the line quickly drops off.
Your phone falls from you hand, hitting the floor. He wasn’t himself, which could only mean one thing. He wasn’t him. The winter soldier was back, and there’s no telling what he’s after, or what danger he’s getting himself into. You make quick work of finishing the dinner dish you had planned to share with Bucky, moving it to a storage container to save since having lost your appetite. There was no way you could eat right now when your stomach is a ball of nerves.
You’re washing up the dishes as a welcomed distraction when you suddenly get the feeling of eyes on you. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and your hands slightly tremble. Bucky always warned you about closing those damn windows that led to the fire escape.
You gently place the pan you were scrubbing back into the water, opting to grab the large kitchen knife out of the water before taking a deep breath and abruptly turning around.
You gasp, surprised at who is here. It’s Bucky, sitting in the shadows of your apartment, having blown out the candles and now his figure was barely lit by the one lamp on the stand next to your loveseat he was sat on. His eyes appraise you, glancing at the knife held tightly in your hand.
“You’re my mission” he says, his voice with a slight Russian accent you are not used to.
“Bucky? What’s going on?” You ask him, hesitantly after hearing him utter the word ‘mission’.
Bucky cocks his head to the side, his eyes taking in how you’ve relaxed since seeing him.
“Who is Bucky?” His voice huskily asks.
You swallow dryly, unsure of what to say or how to proceed. You set the knife back down into the dish water, grabbing a dish towel to dry your damp hands. His eyes never leave you, watching your every move. You don’t feel in danger of the man, knowing that if he wanted you dead in this state he could have killed you without you seeing it coming.
You turn back and slowly approach Bucky, before asking to sit next to him. He looks confused at your request.
“I’m an asset, why are you asking me?” He asks you, voice soft but showing his confusion.
“Here you always have choices. You can say no. Your comfort matters.” You explain to him, swallowing down emotions as you think of the times Bucky was tortured and treated horribly, given no choices or options.
He looks skeptical, but nods regardless, motioning for you to sit down with him. You sit down next to him gently, leaving a comfortable space between you both. As you take in his tense form, you notice blood on his dark pants, saturating one leg fully. You let out a gasp, reaching for him.
“What happened to your leg?” You ask quickly, moving to assess an injury before Bucky moves to the side out of your reach.
“Not my blood,” he explains, voice taking on a dark tone.
You look at his stony expression and dark eyes, nervous to ask but knowing you need to.
“Whose blood, then?” You ask softly, nerves tilting your voice.
“The targets. They were coming here for you. Had to stop them. They have been eliminated.” He explains, voice steely and darkened.
“You said I’m your mission. What do you mean?” You ask softly.
“Must protect you at all costs,” he explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why?” you probe, trying to understand.
“I don’t know. All I remember is fighting, getting a bad hit to the head, and then these men mentioned this address and your name. I knew I had to get here. I had to keep you safe.” Bucky tells you, openly.
You give Bucky a small smile, getting ready to thank him, before Bucky is jumping to his feet and grabbing your hands to pull you into a standing position. He begins to shove you down the hall quickly and into your shared bedroom.
“Huh? Bucky? What’s going on?” Questions fall from your lips as you don’t understand his sudden and urgent movements.
“Someone’s coming, you must hide,” he explains in a hushed voice, as he motions for you to get into your closet so he can shut you in to hide you.
You hear the front door open, and Sam’s voice echoing through the apartment, calling your name. Bucky grabs a knife from his holder and begins stalking his way towards his next target before you quickly grab his arm, trying to pull him back.
“Sam, it’s okay!” You call out, earning a betrayed look from bucky.
“Bucky, Sam is a good guy. On your side. He’s not a threat. He’s a friendly,” you explain softly, hoping he will trust you.
“Sometimes bad people appear good, маленький кролик” he tells you, unsure of Sam and still trying to gently push you back into the closet.
You reach out and grab Bucky’s hand, and reach up with your other hand to gently rest your hand on his jaw. He’s clearly taken by surprise, his eyes wide as they look to your face and then down to the hand gently holding his metal one. It confuses him. No one has ever in his memory regarded him with such softness, and had never volunteered to touch the weapon that is his metal arm.
“I would never lie to you, I promise Sam means no harm. I trust him with my life, and I trust him with yours almost every month when you guys are out on missions together,” your voice is gentle and honest as you hope Bucky will listen and trust you.
As he continues to look at you with an unreadable expression, the door to the bedroom slowly opens, revealing a surprised looking Sam.
Sam slowly steps into the room, holding his hands up to show Bucky he isn’t armed. Bucky quickly turns from you, hiding you effectively behind his back and broad shoulders, shielding you from any potential danger his mind thinks Sam may pose.
“Hey, man. What’s going on?” Sam asks, voice low but calm despite his worried expression as his eyes flicker to yours peeking around Bucky’s expansive frame.
“You were fighting by my side,” Bucky recalls out loud.
“Yes, yes I was. We’re on the same team.” Sam explains, lowering his outstretched hands to rest at his side.
“I’m missing time. I know I am. There are pictures here. Me and her, but I don’t remember. I knew I needed to keep her safe, but I don’t know why. Is it an order?” Bucky asks, sounding confused as his hand not holding the knife reaches up to rub his forehead.
“Is your head hurting?” You softly ask him, reaching up to rub his shoulder gently. Bucky welcomes the touch, surprising himself. He nods in answer to your question, despite himself.
“No, man. You don’t take orders anymore, you make them. We aren’t with hydra. We got you away. You were pardoned for the crimes those people forced you to commit. You help people now. You keep people safe..” Sam explains to Bucky.
“Okay, if all that’s true, it still doesn’t explain her?” Bucky says, moving away from his position of shielding you, instead turning so the three of you can look to each other.
“We’re together, Buck. We have been for a couple years now. We live here in this apartment, together, freely. You’re safe here. You’re safe with us. You’re safe with me,” you tell him, eyes wide as you look to him, longing to pull him into your arms and take away his confusion.
“Why am I missing time? All I remember is hydra. Working for them. The machines they used on me. I don’t remember any of this that you tell me. I remember my head hurting, and fighting next to you, and then knowing I had to get here and protect her.” Bucky questions, eyebrows furrowed and body still tense.
“This has happened in the past before, before you met her. We thought it was a one time thing. We’re now guessing if you take a hit to the head just right, right spot and right force, and this happens. It’ll work itself out after a good nights sleep while you heal. We already have some great scientists who want to help you working on a way to prevent this from happening again, so you don’t keep going through this,” Sam says to you both.
Bucky takes in what Sam said, nodding to himself and looking to you.
“Okay. I don’t know why, but I trust you both. I just need to sleep this off basically?” Bucky questions.
You and Sam both nod.
“Yeah, man. Just sleep it off. I’m going to stay here on the couch in the living room, just in case you need something.” Sam states, looking to you for your approval. You nod your head, reaching to your bed to grab an extra pillow and a blanket for him. Handing these to him, Sam nods in thanks and excuses himself to the living room.
“Well, let’s get you cleaned up” you find yourself saying. Moving to the closet and grabbing out Bucky’s most comfy pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt for him. You grab him a pair of boxers from the dresser quickly and turn back to lead him to the bathroom connected to your bedroom. He silently follows you. During this interaction you notice how purposefully loud in movement Bucky must normally be around you, as the dissociated soldier with you moves with a natural silence to a point it’s almost eerie. But, you think to yourself, that is a necessary part of the job he was tasked with for decades.
You wait in the bedroom after showing Bucky the bathroom and where the towels were. You find yourself lost in thought, once again hating what Bucky has gone through, and how a hit to the head sent him right back, at least partly. Bucky here wasn’t fully the winter soldier, but he wasn’t your Bucky either. Instead he was an odd mixture of the two.
After some minute pass, the bathroom door opens to reveal Bucky, looking cozy as ever in the large sweatpants and stretched out t-shirt you had given him. Even in such basic clothing, he still takes your breath away.
“Where do I sleep?” His husky voice softly questions.
“Here in the bed, I’ll sleep in the guest room sweetheart,” the endearment slips past your lips before you can stop it, making you look away and feel blood rising to your neck and cheeks in embarrassment.
“Please, don’t be embarrassed, маленький кролик. It’s nice, someone being kind to me. And you can sleep, with me, if you’d like. I understand that’s what we normally do, I don’t want you uncomfortable,” Bucky says, voice soft and beginning to become sleepy.
“Okay, if you’re sure that’s alright?” You ask, as you take off your oversized sweater to just leave yourself in your sleep shorts and one of Bucky’s baggy t-shirts.
“It’s fine doll,” a soft smile takes over his features as he walks closer to the bed.
You flip the covers over, climbing in and patting the empty side next to you, motioning for him to join you.
He walks over and sits on the bed next to you, pulling the covers over you both as you reach over and turn the bedside lamp off, leaving you both to get settled in the darkness. A few moments pass in silence as you both get comfortable under the covers
“Can I ask something?” He asks.
“Yeah, Buck?” You ask, turning to him. His features are lit by the moonlight pouring in through the windows.
“Will you be here? When I wake up? Normally when I go to sleep, I lose everything,” he asks you, your heart breaking at the uncertainty on his face.
You reach over and gently stroke his jaw, moving closer to rest your head on his shoulder.
“Of course. I’ll always be here, Buck.” You convey to him with absolute certainty in your voice, calming his fears.
As you find yourself drifting off to sleep, you feel a soft kiss pressed to your forehead.
“Thank you, маленький кролик”
Translations: маленький кролик - little bunny
I THINK MY HEART STOPPED
Finished the Viktor piece in time for his birthday!
I Think He Knows
James Potter x fem!reader
Summary: Your boyfriend promises to watch over you when you want to get drunk.
Genre: SMUT-ish
Warnings: innocent!reader, intoxication, swearing, grinding on someone's thigh, mentions of sex (no actual sex considering reader is drunk), praise kink
Just as you extend your arm to knock, James slides in front of you and gently holds under your elbow. He's smiling at you fondly as he caresses soothing circles across your skin.
"I want you to know, love, just because we mentioned it doesn't mean you have to, hmm?" he reminds you, his voice low and husky.
You smile and nod your head, letting him wrap an arm around your waist, "I know, Jamie," you reassure him. James looks at you in such a way you know he understands and he settles into your side. He turns around when you knock, his arm still holding you close, and when the door swings open to reveal an already flushed Sirius Black, your boyfriend smirks.
"Prongsie!" Sirius cries happily, pulling James in by his collar and trapping him in a hug. James has released his arm from around you in anticipation of Sirius's gesture and you giggle, walking into the house behind them.
Sirius looks at you next. "Y/n!" he cries, "Your lovely lady looks as lovely as ever, Jamsey," he skips over and takes your hand in his, twirling you around. You can smell the faint cherry vodka on his breath as he holds up your hand and clumsily swipes a thumb along your knuckles. "Still no ring?" Sirius whines with a light-hearted pout.
James pulls you away gently, his cheeks blushed pink. "Alright, enough. Hands off my girl," he reprimands, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your temple. He's holding your hand almost possessively, but you don't mind.
"I keep wondering that myself, Siri," you join in the teasing and send James a smile.
The latter rolls his eyes but smirks as he helps you out of your winter coat. He hangs it up next to his own and then places his hand on your lower back so he can guide you around. It's a common gesture James doesn't even realize he's doing anymore.
Sirius and Remus's house isn't small, but it isn't big either. It's normally sized with dark brick walls and ivy near the upper windows. Inside, the fire is burning and the smell of cookies and wine is in the air.
Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene occupy the couch as they play a game of friendly poker with Frank and Alice. Remus, when he sees you all, stands up from his armchair and smiles widely.
"Y/n/n," he says as if he hasn't seen you in years. Which is a dramatic exaggeration.
Remus pulls you into a warm hug, which means you aren't next to James anymore and he pouts, "Why is everyone suddenly in love with my girlfriend?" he whines.
Remus chuckles and kisses your cheek, "Because she's just so lovely, James," he kisses your cheek again and you giggle. "Plus, you've been hiding her from us for weeks now. I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."
James shakes his head with a low chuckle, his hand finding yours. "It's not my fault she's been busy."
"You guys do realize I am standing right here, yeah?" you interrupt with a chuckle. Remus looks at you fondly. He nods and then hurries you and James over to the couch where your friends are.
Always the gentleman, James crosses his legs and sits on the floor while you squeeze in between Lily and Marlene, sending them smiles.
A few moments later Sirius emerges with two glasses of white wine. He grins and hands one to James before handing you yours. Instantly, your eyes flicker to James as you take the glass and look at the liquid.
He sends you a reassuring nod. Even in school, you tended to stay away from alcohol because you were scared. Scared of losing control. But, now that you're with James and you feel safe around him. You had brought it up a few days ago: that you wanted to try. James had promised to watch you, to make sure you don't drink too much or do anything stupid.
So, you put the glass to your lips.
Three drinks in and you don't feel drunk.
Rather, you feel completely normal – well almost normal as you seem to have a hard time keeping your eyes away from your boyfriend's hands. You tend to play with the hem of your dress in your lap and you're still sitting in between Lily, and now Sirius as he drunkenly animates his sentences.
James is still sitting on the floor, his arms draped across his knees as he crosses his ankles. From time to time, he'll look up at you and his eyebrows will scrunch as if to ask if you're okay. Your cheeks start to feel hot and you fumble with your hands to press them on your face. You squirm around, feeling pressure in your core as you bite down on your lip.
"Y/n," James's voice is hoarse and you look up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Come here, dove," he whispers.
When you stand, you stumble to James and gasp when he pulls you down onto his lap. You hold onto him, looking into his eyes as his hand finds your thigh just shy from your ass. James frowns as he sees your expression but then his lips curl into a smirk.
Clumsily, he makes a show of standing as you cling onto him. Your friends don't seem preoccupied by you and James as he gently guides you into Remus and Sirius's small bathroom in the hallway. You lean against the sink, looking up at James and mumble, "W-What?"
James's knuckles caress down your cheek as he chuckles. "Hey, are you okay?"
You blink at him, trying to focus on something other than the heat from his strong body against yours. You hum, nodding. James's palm presses against your cheek first and then moves to your forehead. He frowns. "You're warm. 'You sure you're okay?" he asks with concern.
Your breathing becomes harsher as you stare at him. "O-oh- yeah. I'm g-good," you try to sound as normal as you can although his touch ignites a fire inside you.
James's frown deepens, looking you over. When you bite your lip, his eyebrow raises and the corner of his mouth slips upwards. He knows your signs all too well by now.
James slides his knee in between your legs, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your skirt rides up your thighs a little further. The coarse fabric of his jeans hits your cotton panties and your hands grip the sink harder. You look up at him, your eyes lidded. "J-Jamie?"
His hand slides up your cheek, tilting his head as he presses a sloppy kiss behind your ear. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here. I won't allow anything bad to happen to you, my lovely," he lifts his knee slightly and a shiver runs up your arms.
You clutch his shirt, your mind already starting to go fuzzy. You can't tell if you're just drunk or incredibly horny – perhaps you're both? All you know if you want James's touch. You want his lips, his hands, his cock. James's knee rubbing against your pussy interrupts your dirty fantasies as you sigh.
"I'm not gonna do all the work," James mutters and pauses his movements.
"More," You whisper, staring at him needily and James chuckles quietly.
"Shhh, my baby's simply a little too drunk for that," his voice is smooth and stern as he kisses the side of your lips, "I'm not gonna do that, lovie. I'm sorry. But, if you wanna get off on my trousers then who am I to deny you?" he quips with a knowing smile.
As if simply needing his permission, you roll your hips onto him and let out a loud moan. James covers your mouth with his hand, stroking your skin as you buck against him desperately. You're dripping and seeping through your panties to soak his jeans with your juices. You can't stop your soft, drunken, moans as you rub your sensitive clit against him.
"Good girl," James whispers encouragements, occasionally moving his knee to apply more pressure, "My good girl, aren't you? So needy when you're drunk, hmm?" he hums with a smile.
You nod, cheeks burning as your movements become even more desperate. It feels so good. He's making you feel so good and he knows it. James leans in and rests his hand behind your ear as he delicately kisses your head. He can tell you're close and he whispers sweet nothings in your ear as your mind goes fuzzy and your skin prickles with desire.
Your mouth opens only no sound comes out when you rut against him harder. James grins, enjoying having you so completely undone in front of him. You hold onto his sleeve, squeezing your thighs around his and tears of pleasure brim your lashes. James coos, "Aw, don't cry, sweetheart. What's the matter?" he teases and strokes his thumb across your cheek.
"I- I need more," you whimper, trying desperately to reach your high.
"I can't let you have more, lovie," James says quietly. He doesn't want to risk crossing any boundaries when you're drunk.
Still, he grips your hips and rocks them over his thigh, helping you. "Here, just let go for me. It's okay, I'll take care of you later I promise." You whine and lean your head on his chest as your pussy throbs.
You feel light-headed when you finally come, your juices soaking your panties and James's jeans. He kisses your forehead when you look up at him, eyes lidded. "Good girl, you did so good," he whispers, stroking a hand in your hair as you catch your breath.
James lifts you effortlessly onto the sink and you automatically spread your legs. You watch him as he bends over and rolls up some toilet paper in his hand.
He then hands it to you, "Clean yourself up, dove?"
You look at him innocently, silently asking him to be the one to clean you. James hesitates and bites his lip. Quickly, he dips his hand into your panties and collects your cum on the paper. He bunches it up and throws it in the toilet. He rolls up some more and wipes his jeans a little.
Finally, he flushes the evidence and kisses your lips. You squirm a little, uncomfortable from the wetness in your panties. James looks down and smirks.
He starts to slide your panties down your hips and looks at you for consent. You nod, staring at him. You're still in a haze from the liquor but you trust James. He slides your panties into his jeans pocket and smoothes your skirt. He sees your adorable frown, "No one will know, I promise," he assures you.
When you leave the bathroom, the hallway seems darker. James's hand rests on your ass, keeping your skirt down as you focus on not tripping. You don't realize how giddy and stupid you and James looks until you both enter the living room again and your friends turn to stare. Lily, Remus, and Marlene seem to compose themselves as they smirk behind their hands, but Sirius, in his drunken state, seems completely appalled.
"You did not just fuck in my bathroom, Potter!" he exclaimed. Laughs escape the others and you must look completely embarrassed because their smiles widen. James gently and playfully covers your ears as his voice strains to hide his amusement.
"Shut up," he chuckles and then kisses your temple, "we did no such thing, did we, lovie?"
You nod your head. You wonder if your panties are burning a hole in James's trousers just like your bareness is causing a burning in your stomach. James hands moves to your back as he caresses you comfortingly.
"So, why did you come out of the bathroom together?" Marlene interrupts and adds to the teasing, "Don't tell me Y/n needed help peeing?"
James sends her a glare and moves you through the living room and to the door. "It's late, I'm tired," he tries to take the attention off you, "I think it's time for us to drive home."
He drapes your coat over your shoulders and you're grateful he's taking you home. The neediness has been replaced by pure exhaustion and you grip his arm. James puts on his own coat and opens the door. He whispers to you, "Shh, you're safe with me," and kisses you again.
You both say your goodbye's and Sirius calls out one last time, "If I find any evidence you fucked in my bathroom, I'll personally kill you, James Potter," James pauses, knowing he's not finished and smirks when he hears Sirius's last comment.
"Shame on you for roping poor, innocent Y/n into your disgusting activities. And in my bathroom — "
"Sirius," You hear Remus warn, exhausted.
James holds your hand and starts to shut the door behind you,
"Next time, Remus and I will fuck in your bathroom!"
"Sirius!"
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