I Think He Knows

I NEEDED THIS—

Feigning Indifference

"— And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."

 (I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. 🐢🐢🐢 Anyhoo...)

Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. 🔞

Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1.8k

[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]

Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked — victorious.

Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks — they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them — not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindor’s in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.

Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teams’ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference. 

He wants to kiss the frown right off your face. 

‘There you are.’ He grins down at you. You glare up at him.

‘Seven different girls touched your shoulders just now,’ you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. ‘Two more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.’

Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. ‘Did they?’ He affects a look of innocence. ‘I didn't notice.’

‘Liar.’ You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. ‘Maybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.’

His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing — after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination. 

With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his. 

‘I wouldn't let you play Quidditch,’ he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.

Authority which you completely ignore, like always.

Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (‘Ugh, put me down, you brute! — You can't tell me what to do! — If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!’) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement. 

‘You're not the boss of me!’ you wail. You’re tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but you’re agile enough to break free if he doesn’t handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak. 

‘Yes,’ he growls in your face, ‘I am.’

Despite all the height and the strength he’s gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. — Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face. 

A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable. 

You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs. 

You're his now. You both know it. 

‘How can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?’ He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. ‘I should fuck you standing. Right here,’ — he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, — ‘right now.’

Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.

He wants to fuck the shock right off your face. 

‘R-right here?’ The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in. 

Because you always give in. 

‘Why not?’ He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth… But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks — hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper. 

‘What if they see?’ You palm his shoulders — but you're pulling, not pushing. 

‘Let them.’ His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. ‘Let them watch me fucking ruin you.’

Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder. 

‘You think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?’ He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth. 

Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. ‘You think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?’

Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. — He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy. 

He wants everyone to know you're his. 

The thought makes him fucking — lose — it. 

Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.

Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees. 

It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear — the way you make him lose control. 

‘Look at you,’ he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. ‘S'fucking good, s’all fucking mine.’

Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it — oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder. 

Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time. 

He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.

‘If only —’ he groans, ‘— they could — see you —’ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. ‘You're the — ngh — only one — oh, fuck —’

Surely you know — surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words. 

It's more than sex: he fucking loves you. 

Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows. 

Through Sea Mist and Shadows — Bucky Barnes x Reader — Masterlist

after many years away, you return back to the small family farm that was once considered your home. nestled above the cliff-sides of a remote Maine island, sea mist cresting at its edges, you find that things are far different now. your family bears you sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and you yourself have changed beyond your own recognition over the years.

a story about returning to your roots and finding yourself where you least expected it; in the arms of an old friend.

started: 5/2/23 rewrite: 5/22/25

status: ONGOING! IN THE PROCESS OF BEING REWRITTEN!

warnings: mature readers only! 18+, discussions of mental illness and emotional trauma, death of a loved-one, suggestive, no use of (Y/N), cursing but come on now, we're all adults, I do include vague descriptions and interactions with readers' parents for plot points

CHAPTERS

prologue

one

two

same af

I actually hate him

@buckrecs omg I feel so special thank you so much for mentioning me :)))))

Hi I was wondering if you had any recommendations for lumberjack!bucky

Lumberjack!Bucky

masterlist | req masterlist

ONESHOT

Hero Next Door by @jobean12-blog

You and your dog Winter have recently moved to the quiet of the country and you love it then you meet your new neighbor...

I’m yours by @peteyprecious616

soft lumberjack Bucky drabble

Safe Heaven by @world-of-aus

I’m Sorry by @wh0reforoldmen

Dark!Bucky You made Bucky mad, and he makes you apologize for your "wrong doing"

ooey gooey by @thornsnvultures

Every morning, Bucky comes to your store for terrible coffee and maybe something a little sweet on the side.

SERIES

Undisclosed by @pellucid-constellations

Desperate to outrun a secret that could cost you your life, you seek refuge in a small mountain town. Its deep forests and small cabins make it the perfect place to hide, but the travel website hadn’t mentioned anything about the quiet, burly lumberjack that wouldn’t leave your thoughts. No one had warned Bucky about you either.

Sturdy Roots, Strong Hearts by @rookthorne

Life in your small town could not have gotten any better, you had sworn. That was until you started to call a handsome, brooding lumberjack your best friend, and you developed butterflies at any mention of his name, or thought of him. Sure, it was going to be fine, you could do this. What could go wrong?

Through Sea Mist and Shadows by @archive-obsess

after years away, (Y/n) returns to the small family farm on a remote Maine island that was once considered her home. things are different now, her family bears her sad smiles, the fisherman's boy is quiet and reserved, and she herself has changed beyond her own recognition.

Lumberjack AUs by @angrythingstarlight

Lumberjack!Bucky Masterlist

Lumby and Bunny by @sweetdreamsbuck

Bucky's never been so scared of a feeling in his life. there are too many what if's– too many fears bubbling deep within the parts of him left broken and hollow, untouched for far too long. but he never envisioned finding you– and he's entirely too impatient; entirely too certain no one's ever been more infatuated with something than how he feels for you.

right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

AO3/Wattpad

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

II. "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

The second half of August brings with it the horrors of the Regensburg/Schweinfurt mission, Bucky's absence in Africa, and two smaller missions in France. With this as the backdrop to your blossoming relationship, the pair of you find creative ways to connect with one another.

Warnings: Language, Alcohol Consumption, Death, Grief, Minor Bucky Injury, Blood, Scars, Minor Reader Injury, Hospital Setting, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [thigh riding, inexperienced reader, allusion to male masturbation] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for the warm reception you gave part one. That combined with my evil brain has given us a full series! Just a reminder that reader has been given a brother for sake of plot. 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: 6713

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

The day of August 17th dawned so thick with fog, it was difficult to tell it had even dawned at all. The walk from your quarters to the mess and then onto the control tower was fraught with anxiety – the fear that a vehicle might suddenly appear behind you through the milky atmosphere driving you to constantly glance back over your shoulder. Eventually, you decided to walk just alongside the road through the damp grass, listening to it squeak against the leather of your shoes, the only sound around you once you parted ways with your friends.

Cutting across the field in front of the equipment hangar, you gasped as Bucky stepped out of the mists in front of you like some kind of apparition from a ghost story. You gulped harshly at the way your stomach dropped in response to that mental imagery.

“Morning, doll. Seems like someone left the soup on the stove a little too long.”

You managed a chuckle, taking in his flight suit, his life jacket – or Mae West as the boys called them. He was flying today then. “I’m sure it’ll clear up soon, Major Egan.”

His lips twitched fondly, and he stepped closer to murmur in your ear, the fine hairs of his moustache tickling the delicate skin there. “See you in a few days, doll.”

“Take care, Bucky.” You whispered emphatically in return, and he stepped back to reach into his flight bag, producing the book you had lent him.

“I’ll have that answer for you promptly on my return, Lieutenant.”

You grinned softly. “I expect you will, Major.”

You turned to watch him go as he took long, easy strides to join his crew waiting on the truck to be driven out to their plane, disappearing in a swirl of persistent, pervasive fog. “I’ll see you soon.” You murmured after him.

Seven days.

Seven agonizing days of little news and empty skies passed as you impatiently awaited his return. The decision to send the group destined for Regensburg nearly five hours ahead of those bound for Schweinfurt had been catastrophic. It took almost seventy-two hours for the 12th to reach those who had made it to Telergma, and when numbers and names finally made their way back to Thorpe Abbotts, the cost of it all sunk in like a stone.

Rather than wasting the return trip to East Anglia, it was decided the survivors would undertake a retaliatory strike against some Luftwaffe bases in Bordeaux, one more hurdle to clear before they made it back to safety. It was mid-afternoon on August 24th by the time the droning of plane engines filled the air once again. Taking a steadying breath, you grit your teeth and forced yourself to focus on the keys of your typewriter as the brass all hustled outside to count the number of returnees.

‘Please let Bucky be among them. Please let him be unharmed.’ You had closed your eyes briefly to send up your silent prayer before launching back into your work.

It was nearly an hour later when, report finished, you tucked the neatly typed sheets of paper into their folder to deliver to Colonel Harding and stood only to meet the eyes of one Major John Egan through the window overlooking the Operations Room. He looked weary, sunburnt, with cuts and abrasions adorning his face and neck, unsteady on his feet, but nevertheless flashed you a brilliant, devil-may-care smile.

‘Thank you…thank you for bringing him back to me.’

You exhaled deeply for the first time in over a week, the folder nearly slipping from your fingers, contents nearly scattering across the floor. Mercifully, you managed to avoid that outcome, albeit with a fair bit of fumbling, tucking it securely against your side to prevent further mishaps. The next time you looked to Bucky he was smirking at you, eyes twinkling knowingly, before he gestured with his head toward where the washrooms were. Glancing at your colleagues, heads bent diligently over their work, you looked back to him and raised a finger to beg for one moment.

He nodded in silent understanding, sauntering toward the hallway casually. You took a moment before letting your desk mate know you were delivering a file and then taking a bathroom break. She nodded vaguely as you headed across the room to place the folder in the outbox before making your way to the washrooms. Furrowing your brows in confusion as you found the corridor empty, you barely managed to smother your startled cry as Bucky poked his head out of the janitor’s closet and pulled you into the cramped space with him.

“Bucky!” You hissed as he pressed you back against the door, his lips pressing tightly against yours, silencing any further admonishment you might have been able to summon.

Clinging the to straps of his harness, you rocked up onto the balls of your feet, pressing flush against him, a wordless expression of the gratitude you felt for his safe return. He had barely parted his lips when you mirrored the movement, welcoming his tongue with your own. A soft grunt of pleasure left his nose, his fingers digging into your hips tightly. The telltale tinge of copper seeped into the kiss, making you pull back sharply, groping for the pull string on the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling behind him.

You frowned deeply to see his lower lip was oozing blood. “You should go to the hospital, Bucky, you’re still bleeding…”

“M’fine.” He rumbled tiredly, cupping the back of your head gently as his thumb traced your left eyebrow.

You sighed softly, leaning into his touch as your eyes slid closed.

“My definitive answer is Blood Pressure.” He spoke in a hushed tone and your eyes fluttered open in confusion.

“What?”

His other hand left your hip to dig into the pocket of his flight jacket, producing the borrowed book, holding it out to you with a satisfied grin.

“You’ve already read the whole thing again?!” You gasped, eyes wide.

“Couldn’t very well keep you waiting now, could I?” He smirked and stole another kiss.

“I’m going back to my desk and you’re going to the hospital, please?” You looked to him pleadingly.

He sighed heavily. “That look is utterly unfair, doll…particularly in my condition.”

Your lips twitched slightly as you fought the urge to smile, doing your utmost to hold the plaintive expression until he huffed and pressed one last, copper-laced, sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Fine.” He conceded and you pressed your lips to his forehead tenderly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

Slipping from his arms reluctantly, you peered out into the hallway before making a dash into the washroom, cleaning your face of his blood and tidying your hair and uniform before rushing back to your desk, hoping he would hold up his end of the bargain.

Judging from how well he healed over the next few days, you were fairly convinced he had done as you asked. His lips had healed to their normal supple perfection, though it seemed he would be left with a few scars across his nose, cheek, and forehead. Unfortunately, you had not been able to sneak a moment to confirm if he had indeed gone to visit the hospital or not. When your duties did not occupy you, it seemed that his did and vice versa. Passing glances or encounters while surrounded by colleagues seemed to be all the fates afforded you the rest of the week.

The effect it had on your mood was something that did not escape Mary, Vi, and Ruth – for despite your best efforts to conceal your activities, they had been onto you since you had returned from that eventful trip to the pub.

“We’ll just have to make sure you’re simply irresistible at tonight’s dance, then.” Mary grinned darkly upon your return to your shared quarters that Friday, a dangerous gleam in her eye as she closed in on you with Vi at her elbow.

“Oh yes, Mary, a little feminine revenge ought to remind the Major of his priorities.” She drawled, arms suddenly loaded with supplies – from where they had appeared, you were not entirely sure.

You landed heavily on your bottom upon your cot, staring up at them warily as Ruth laughed from her perch across the way.

“Just give in, darling, it’ll be less painful that way.” Came her friendly advice, though her words did not prove at all true.

There was next to no consideration for your comfort while your hair was combed and restyled, hisses of pain escaping your lips as a plethora of pins scraped along your scalp as they were pushed into place to secure the style they were creating.

“Beauty is pain, darling.” Vi pursed her lips in mock sympathy, but you were altogether relieved when they declared their creation stable and moved onto your makeup.

Somehow, despite their dedication to perfecting your look for the evening, and then freshening up a little themselves, the four of you still managed to arrive at the officer’s club before Bucky and many of the men. Securing a martini and your favorite spot along the wall, you forcefully shooed them off to dance with the early arrivals who quickly approached them. You glass was roughly a third empty when Bucky arrived with his best friend Buck and their tight knit group. All eyes turned toward him, as always, that infectious grin and magnetism making him ever popular.

Now that he had arrived, the party would truly begin. Taking a deep sip of your drink, you nearly choked as his eyes met yours and he made a beeline straight for you. Swallowing roughly, your eyes widened as he plucked the glass from your grasp to set it on a nearby table before holding out his hand to you expectantly.

“I’m not very good at this…” You warned him softly, voice a bit thick from your battle to swallow your drink.

“All you gotta do is hold on, doll, I’ll do the rest.” He winked and wrapped his fingers around yours once you finally set your hand in his.

Leading you onto the dancefloor, he pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other holding yours out to the side. Bucky grinned at you warmly as he began to lead you across the floor confidently, and you clung to his shoulder, feeling the eyes of almost everyone on you. His actions were so public in contrast to the moments you had shared previously. So very declarative. It took a lot of strength not to hide against his shoulder from all the attention the pair of you were receiving. Even your friends were shooting you grins and nods and little victory signals from behind him.

“You got all dolled up tonight, is there a mission I should know about?” He teased gently, immediately pulling you from your thoughts.

“I was ambushed.” You huffed ruefully.

“Ah, so this mission has already been carried out.” Bucky smirked, lips stretching wider as you laughed softly, relaxing somewhat in his arms as he continued to lead you confidently. “You look gorgeous…can’t wait to get that lipstick all over my face again.” He hummed against your ear, and you smacked his shoulder playfully even as your pulse jumped at your throat, feeling his laughter shake through him.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Kidd thought it was the perfect moment to launch into an excruciating meeting about…well I wasn’t listening, quite honestly.” He smirked, making you shake your head fondly.

“You ought to listen to the man, he is your Air Exec you know…” You teased gently.

He hummed thoughtfully before shaking his head. “I was too busy thinking about how I’d rather be doing this, right here, right now, with you.”

You met his eyes briefly, startled by the transparency of his statement, before glancing away, teeth buried in your lip in a vain attempt to moderate your rapid heartbeat.

Bucky kept you on the dancefloor for at least five more songs, until your feet started to hurt, your legs getting heavy. “Let’s get you another drink.” He kissed your temple and slid his arm around your waist, leading you to the bar. He ordered a whisky for himself and another martini for you, finding a table in the corner and sitting in the chair right beside you. “For someone who claimed to be not very good at dancing, you held your own, doll.”

You smiled at him shyly. “Just had to trust you.” His resulting grin made you bow your head in response to its brilliance, shivering as his hand squeezed your knee beneath the shelter of the tablecloth.

Taking a steadying sip of your drink, you glanced at him through your lashes, biting your lip at his eyes had never left you, his fingers tightening where they still rested over your skirt. You glanced to the side, suddenly afraid you might forget how to breathe under the intensity of his gaze, sucking in a somewhat ragged breath as you watched another couple canoodling in the opposite corner of the room. There was nothing subtle about the way they were pressed against one another, despite the very public place in which they found themselves, and you averted your gaze yet again to watch the bartender mixing drinks as you sipped yours steadily.

The resulting loosening of your muscles as the alcohol reached your extremities gave you the courage to look in Bucky’s direction once more, taking in his profile as he eyed the dancefloor, toe tapping to the beat. His arm was slung over the back of your chair, an action you had no memory of, and he was slouched low in his seat, legs spread wide. His posture was altogether too inviting, and had you gnawing on your lip once more, yet unable to tear your eyes away despite the alarm bells ringing inside your head.

“See something you like, doll?” Bucky’s voice in your ear made you jump. Made you wonder when he had closed the distance.

You hoped, briefly, that the Luftwaffe might indulge you by dropping a bomb directly on your head right then. No such luck. Bucky’s hand slid higher on your leg to squeeze your thigh, forcing you to raise your gaze to meet his. His normally stormy blue eyes were notably darker, pinning you to the spot as his tongue darted out to wet his slightly parted lips.

“Come on.” He spoke suddenly, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand again.

Following him back to the dancefloor, you gasped audibly as he pulled you improperly close, his hand splaying against your lower back as his cheek pressed against yours. “After this song, meet me at our bench. I’ll be five minutes behind you.” His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke, making your feet clumsy.

Bucky simply pulled you closer in response, bearing more of your weight to keep you dancing smoothly as you somehow managed a nod in agreement, heart hammering in your ears. There was no mission tomorrow, the control tower would be relatively quiet, and therefore so would the bench outback where you had shared your conversation about Runyon’s book. As the band wound down their tune, Bucky shuffled the pair of you to the edge of the floor, kissing your cheek softly.

“Goodnight, doll.”

You exhaled shakily, nodding as you mentally reached down to the bottom of your toes to summon your voice. “Night, Bucky.”

He gave you a crooked smile and one more kiss on the cheek before releasing you gently, watching patiently as you lurched into motion, heading toward the door and out into the relatively cooler night air. Making your way along the road, you swallowed back a curse as your eyes met those of your Captain who was standing watch over the route to the women’s quarters.

“Evening, Ma’am.” You saluted quickly.

“Lieutenant.” Captain Miller nodded crisply watching you continue on before you cut around behind the barracks and circled back toward the control tower to meet Bucky.

Due to the necessitated detour, he was already there, waiting, hands on his hips, shoulders slightly raised with tension. You frowned guiltily and crept up to gently set a hand on his arm, feeling him jump.

“Sorry, I had to appease the dragon-lady, she saw me leave and I–”

He nodded once before kissing you fiercely, making you sigh heavily against his lips. Sliding your arms around his neck, you allowed your fingertips to brush against the curls at the nape of his neck. His chest rumbled happily, his tongue tasting so sharply of whisky as it slid along yours that you wondered if he had taken those five extra minutes to have one more drink before following you.

“Thought you’d changed your mind, doll.” He grinned against your lips before he began to nibble along your jaw, sending ripples of gooseflesh down your neck.

“Uh-uh.” You breathed, gripping the skin of his neck as your knees felt about ready to give out.

“Just hold on tight.” He tilted his head to suck at your earlobe, gripping your hips as he slowly sank down to sit on the bench behind him, pulling you with him.

His hands slid further down your legs, guiding them apart to straddle his thigh, pushing your skirt higher to allow you to settle snuggly against his broad quadricep. Your jaw dropped open as your core pressed tightly against him, a mortifying squeak-like sound escaping your throat.

“Yeah?” He smirked, kissing back towards your lips. “Figured by the way you were staring you might want to give it a whirl.”

If you had been able to speak, his mouth would have swallowed any reply that you could have summoned as it sealed tightly over yours once more. As it was, you brain was filled with static like a wireless that could not quite be tuned to a frequency. Your predicament only worsened as his fingers curled into your hips, ever so slowly rocking them forward against him, making you whimper raggedly. The sensation was only outdone by the feeling of him dragging you backward, the friction causing an unspeakable reaction to roll through your body.

“That feel good, doll?” Bucky rasped against your lips, and you nodded rapidly, mewling as he repeated the motion, though you also began to move of your own volition, chasing the feeling needily. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” He teased and you tugged at the hair peaking out the back of his cap.

“Yes!” You gasped sharply before kissing him hungrily, your leg accidentally brushing against the bulge at the apex of his thighs, shuddering at the groan you earned from him in kind.

Perhaps it made you a wicked woman to take satisfaction in giving him pleasure, but it went to your head faster than any martini you had ever consumed. Digging the toes of your shoes into the grass, you shuffled closer to him so your thigh might brush against his length with each of your self-serving motions.

“Christ, doll.” He growled under his breath.

“Feel…good?” You panted teasingly, biting your lip at his ragged laugh.

“People underestimate you at their own goddamn peril.” He nipped at your chin, breath fanning hotly down your neck as you worked your body against his thigh with increasing need. “Try…this…” He grunted and tilted your pelvis forward.

You slumped forward against his chest, mouth gaping in a silent moan at the intense pleasure radiating from the new point of pressure. Legs nearly giving out from the blinding power of it, you were immensely grateful when Bucky obligingly kept on guiding your hips, continuing to pull the strings of tension tighter and tighter within your body.

“B…Bucky…” You gasped against his neck as your thighs began to tremble, on the precipice of something, wondering if this is what it felt like just before a B17 lifted off the runway.

“Go on, doll, it’s gonna be great.” He rumbled, pace not slackening, though his arms must have surely been aching by that point.

Inhaling sharply, you pressed your face tighter to his neck, desperately trying to smother your cry of pleasure as every string of tension snapped inside you with the force and brilliance of a fireworks display on the fourth of July. Melting against him, you were naught but a shuddering mess, underwear ruined, struggling to satisfy your body’s demand for oxygen as you gasped for breath. Bucky’s grip eased on your hips, his hands shifting to caress your back tenderly as he kissed down your temple to your cheek.

“As promised?” He cooed and you shivered at the feeling of his breath against your skin, every sensation still heightened.

“Better.” You licked your lips and dropped your hands to his chest, slowly pushing yourself up to sit properly, shuddering at the pressure against your still throbbing parts.

“Here, doll.” He carefully lifted you up to swing your legs across his lap carefully. “Take it easy.” He kissed your cheek tenderly, squeezing your side.

You sighed softly, swallowing thickly as you lifted your eyes to his. “People underestimate your sweetness at a great loss to themselves, Bucky.” Cupping his cheek, you guided his mouth to yours to place a gentle, appreciative kiss on his lips.

Feeling the curl of his smile, you could not help but echo the expression, breaking the seal of your mouth against his.

“Our little secret.” He teased, voice still raspy.

Hearing the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path leading up to the control tower, you tensed against him, frowning as you became acutely aware of the persistent problem that remained in his trousers.

“We should go.” He whispered and you nodded quickly.

“Sorry you’re still…” You trailed off, sliding onto oddly unstable legs, grateful for his bracing hands on your hips as he rose to his feet.

“Don’t worry about me, doll, I can take care of myself.” He pressed his lips to your ear after uttering his quiet statement, making you swallow almost painfully as your mouth went dry.

You lost all ability to function for a moment, swept up in the lurid possibilities contained in that simple phrase, before the sound of a door opening cut through the night, and your stupor.

“Night.” You whispered sharply before sprinting off towards the barracks, keeping to the edges of the field and hoping to stay out of sight.

Luck, it seemed, was not on your side, as Captain Miller called your name just a few feet shy of your quarters. You had been so very close. Turning quickly to face her, you scrambled for some excuse as to why you were not on the other side of the door behind you.

“Lieutenant, did you get lost on your way over here?” She arched an eyebrow coldly and you had to remind yourself the mechanics involved in a proper breath.

‘Inhale. Pause. Exhale.’

“No, Ma’am, I just…realized when I got back here that Vi had asked me to be sure she didn’t stay out too late, and that I had left without her.”

Captain Miller’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “And where is your Georgian, troublemaking friend now, hmm?”

The lie had come so naturally, had been so plausible, but now that you were wrapped up in it, it felt like it might just drag you down to the bottom like an anchor.

“I’m here, Captain Miller, Ma’am.” Came a cheery call from further up the path, you friend still cloaked by darkness but by some miracle, arriving just in time to save your hide.

An exhale of annoyance escaped Captain Miller’s nostrils as she whipped back to see Vi, arm linked with Ruth’s, sauntering over to your shared quarters.

“Thank you again, darling, for reminding me to come back on time.” She gave you a tremendous, edging on comical, wink and it was all you could do not to grimace.

You may have been off the hook with Captain Miller, but Vi would surely exact a price for this rescue.

“To bed with you all, then, ladies.” Your Captain grunted and the three of you delivered a set of sharp salutes before ducking into your hut quickly.

“All the gory details, now, darling, or Captain Miller will learn just what you’ve been up to, and I’m certain it’s far from innocent.” Vi grinned wickedly as she dragged you to sit on her cot between herself and Ruth.

You were reticent to share the gory details, wanting to keep the taste of him on your lips, the way it felt to be pressed again him, as just yours. But there was a part of you that revelled in the telling of the simplified, polished version of your encounter on the bench behind the control tower the pair of you called ‘yours.’ And it certainly seemed to satisfy your debt, both Ruth and Vi grinning, crowing in glee by the time you got to Vi’s rescue.

“Our darling dark horse, unexpected champion at taming the rogue Major Egan.”

You scoffed and shook your head shyly. “I doubt that I’ve tamed him, Vi…” You protested but she just smirked with a tilt of her head.

“I’m willing to bet money on that fact, but I suppose time will tell.” She winked dramatically and you just rolled your eyes.

Within four days, Bucky was on his way back to France. The target was an aircraft factory in Rouen near Paris. Of those chosen, you undoubtedly preferred the targets closer to England. The flying time was shorter and thereby so was the period of wondering and waiting. Strategically, you absolutely understood the importance of the targets deep in Germany, but if the Regensburg raid had carried any lessons, it was that those targets were invariably the costliest.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of him before he went up, you retraced your steps, following the same path you had on the morning of the seventeenth, cutting in front of the equipment hangar. The feeling of a leather-clad hand seizing yours and tugging you behind the building had you gasping in surprise before you laid eyes on your target, grinning slightly at your success.

“Morning, doll.” Bucky murmured and kissed you quickly.

You allowed his lips to linger on yours for several seconds before pulling back quickly to glance around, checking if you had been spotted. “Be safe up there, Bucky.” You swallowed and he nodded.

“Think you could wear that lipstick again for me later? It sure looked nice all over my neck.” He smirked broadly as your jaw dropped in response, lifting a hand to smack his shoulder.

“Don’t push your luck.” You chided, wagging a finger playfully, and he laughed brightly in reply, lips meeting your cheek before he strolled over to the waiting crew truck.

You watched him go from your obscured vantage point, waiting until the vehicle had pulled away before you turned to continue on your way to your desk.

“Lieutenant?”

You jumped and turned to see the post clerk, Petty, hurrying towards you with a letter in his hand.

“Letter for you, Ma’am.”

“Thank you very much, Sergeant.” You smiled. “Did you manage to get the boys first?” You asked curiously, and he nodded so quickly you were worried his head might fall right off his shoulders.

“Yes Ma’am, got ‘em at breakfast.” His boyish grin of pride was infectious, tugging at the corners of your mouth, briefly easing the tension that seeped into your bones on mission days.

“Well done, Sergeant. Have a good day!” You returned the quick salute he gave you before he hurried on his way, heavy bag hefted over his shoulder.

Glancing over the envelope you swallowed as it appeared to be written in your father’s handwriting rather than your mother’s – unusual. She was often the one to manage the letter writing and mailing process and he would add a paragraph or two depending on what was happening back home that he thought would be of interest to you. Swallowing down your sense of unease, you slid the envelope into your pocket to focus on the mission. The letter had already taken several weeks to reach you, a few more hours would not make any difference.

Shortly after noon, they were already back; Colonel Harding walking past the office muttering about Major Egan’s displeasure in the weather. It seemed only one plane had been able to drop their bombs, and not even on the primary target. Exhaling deeply to hear confirmation of his return, the ever-present feeling of the envelope in your pocket suddenly took on an immense weight. Claiming an upset stomach, which only garnered a knowing grin from your desk mate, you excused yourself to step out back, wandering to the edge of the field to tear into the flap with somewhat savage impatience. Heart in your throat, your shaking fingers pulled the folded paper from within its confines and your eyes began scanning across the page rapidly, your sense of unease cresting like a tidal wave.

I need you to be very brave for me now, dear girl…

Your father’s words blurred in front of your eyes behind a sudden influx of tears. You did not even need to read the rest of the sentence to know. Perhaps you had known all morning – since Petty had set the envelope in your hand. Your brother was gone. Most likely had been for weeks, for all the time it had taken the news to reach you, across one ocean and then another. An agonized sob clawed its way up your throat, and you quickly pressed a hand over your mouth to smother it, taking off running towards your quarters, trying desperately to keep your grief at bay until you could be alone.

Eyes barely open, running across rough ground, it was no surprise when your foot snagged on some unseen obstacle, wrenching your right ankle and sending your sprawling across the grass and partially onto a pathway. Your right knee dashed against something sharp, your hands flying forward to catch your body, the letter you had been clasping fluttering to the ground beside you. The gravel bit angrily against your palms as it chewed its way into your tender flesh, and you could feel the warm trickle of blood soaking into your ruined right stocking. The shock and pain of your collision with the earth overthrew your ability to control your emotions and a strangled sob of anguish, frustration, and loss flew from your lips.

“God…dammit…” You gasped out, suddenly furious with the universe at large.

You had never known a world without your brother. His existence was a constant you had apparently come to rely on, and now that he had been wrenched from this plane, you were not certain what you could believe in at all. Allowing just a few tears to escape began an unstoppable chain reaction, your shoulders shaking as you remained sprawled across the ground, clenching fistfuls of gravel as you gave into your grief. It was utterly self-indulgent. You were not the first woman to have lost a brother to this ugly war, but he was yours and he was gone.

‘Get. Up.’ The lone, rational part of your brain chided. ‘Your father needs you to be brave. You’re making a goddamn scene. Get. Up. You petulant child. What if someone sees you.’

Like some kind of prophecy, you heard the quizzical call of your name. You could only hope the owner of that voice was still far enough away for you to make your escape. Sniffling sharply, almost painfully, to try and stem the flow of tears, you tried desperately to struggle to your feet. Your knee throbbed in protest, your ankle wobbling unsteadily, your palms stung in pain, and all you managed was to roll onto your backside.

A pair of strong, familiar arms slid around your waist, pulling you back into a warm chest, the fleece of his collar brushing against your damp cheeks.

“I’ve got you doll.” Bucky murmured into your hair, and you shuddered, fighting back the urge to simply break down sobbing once more.

Holding out your hands awkwardly in front of you, trying to minimize the transfer of blood onto your respective uniforms, you leaned back into his warmth despite the fact that it was a sunny August day.

“Let’s get you to the doctor.” His voice was tense, wound tight with concern, and absent his usually playfulness as he slowly eased you to your feet.

“I’m fine.” You tried to protest, but an inadvertent whimper escaped your mouth as you tried to bear weight on your right leg.

“The hell you are.” He growled a little, pulling your arm over his shoulders, sliding his own arm around your waist, practically hefting you against his body.

As he turned to begin walking you down the path, you gasped to see your abandoned letter tumbling through the grass on the breeze.

“My letter!”

“I got it.” He grunted and set you down, fetching it quickly and shoving it in his pocket before lifting you up against him once more, helping you towards the hospital.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, keeping your gaze on the ground as you hobbled along beside him, not wanting to meet the eyes of anyone you may have passed along the way.

“Got nothing to apologize for, doll.” He shook his head, assisting you through the doors and into the building that smelled sharply of disinfectant.

“What about the blood on your clothes?” You protested.

“Probably mine.”

You looked to him quickly, frowning at the mirthless smile he delivered – an empty attempt at his usual humor. You noted he did seem to be in one piece, thankfully.

“What on earth…” Gasped the nurse on duty at the front desk as she hurried forward to slide your other arm over her shoulders, leading the pair of you to a bed in triage where she quickly began to remove your ruined stocking and deal with your still-bleeding knee. “This is probably going to need stitches, Lieutenant.”

You nodded silently, frowning down at her as she began to pluck the debris from your hands.

“What’s happened, Lieutenant?” A new voice joined the conversation, and you looked up to see one of the doctors, denoted by his white coat, had come to stand beside the nurse while Bucky loomed in the background, arms crossed, brow furrowed as he watched on intensely.

“Got some bad news, sir.” You replied, seizing the inside of your cheek between your teeth to deliver a sharp, steadying bite to your flesh as your lower lip wobbled traitorously. “It made me clumsy, and I tripped.”

You watched Bucky’s face somber even further than it already was, his arms unfolding to fall at his sides, though his fists remained clenched. You looked away quickly as you were certain he had been able to do the math. To figure out just what terrible news had driven you to your current state and you could not endure his look of sympathy – not and remain collected.

“We’ll take good care of her, Major.” The doctor said in a kind yet obvious dismissal and there was a moment of silence before you heard Bucky approach the side of your bed, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I’m going to let that terrifying Captain of yours know that you won’t be working the rest of the day.” He spoke softly, for only you to hear, and your head whipped to look at him, startled that he would dare take on Captain Miller.

Your eyes fell on the lingering marks on his cheek and nose from the Regensburg raid, wanting to protest, but on finding you simply did not have the energy to fight him, you conceded with a nod. By the time he returned, no more than thirty minutes later, you were cleaned, stitched, and bandaged with a tensor wrap on your ankle and a set of crutches.

“You need to keep off that ankle as much as possible, Lieutenant.” Doctor McLean, it turned out his name was, instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, Doc, I’ll make sure she gets where she needs to go.” Bucky chimed in and you looked to him, surprised he had returned so quickly.

“Thank you Major, with that in mind, you are free to go young lady. Keep to the pathways moving forward, please?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated and used the crutches to rise to your feet, tucking them into your armpits to make slow progress toward the door.

Bucky followed along, patiently, removing any obstacles from your path before gesturing at the waiting jeep out front.

“Your chariot, doll.”

You looked to him skeptically. “I highly doubt this would be considered an appropriate use of army property, Major Egan.”

He shrugged. “No one else was using it, come on.” He guided you around to the passenger’s side, helping you onto the bench seat before taking your crutches to stash in the back. “You really, ok?” He asked quietly as he came to sit in the driver’s seat.

Nodding softly, you squeezed his hand as his fingers laced briefly with yours until he was forced to take it back to drive the vehicle. The trip to your quarters was markedly shorter thanks to the jeep, and you were unspeakably relieved to not have had to face it on crutches alone. Turning to thank Bucky, you blinked as he was already climbing out, bringing your crutches around.

“If you get caught in this area…”

“I’m assisting you to your quarters after an injury.” He insisted stubbornly and held them out to you.

You glanced around slowly before taking them, sliding to your feet carefully before making your way inside, once again grateful for his assistance as you hobbled over to your cot and sat heavily.

“Thank you, Bucky, you’ve been a really big help, but if you’re caught in here someone is going to murder you…”

He came to rest on his knees beside your bed, clearly choosing not to hear, or simply not caring about, your continued warnings. You pressed your lips together tightly, tucking them between your teeth as he produced your father’s letter from his pocket, setting it on the blanket beside you.

“I’m real sorry about your brother, doll.” He said quietly, forehead creased with unmasked sympathy. Your defences promptly crumbled, tears welling in your eyes and promptly spilling down your cheeks. “Hey, hey, shhh.” He shifted to quickly sit beside you, cradling you across his lap, holding you close as you turned your face to sob into his chest, fingers twisting into the fleece lining of his jacket where it hung open.

You lost all track of time in his arms, feeling safe enough to simply let your emotions run their course, have their way with you, in the privacy of your quarters. Thus, it was a surprise when you heard the gently clearing of Mary’s throat, lifting your head quickly to see her holding out one of her immaculate hankies while politely keeping her gaze on the rustic ceiling above.

“I have it on good authority that Captain Miller will be checking in on our darling Lieutenant shortly, so you may want to make yourself scarce, Major.” Her tone was warm and conspiratorial.

“Thank you, Mary.” Bucky spoke for the first time in a while, voice somewhat roughened by disuse. “I’ll see you for your ride to breakfast, doll.”

“Bucky, that’s really not necessary–”

“She usually eats at 0545.” Mary cut you off, clearly allying herself with him and against you. “Now I’ll take it from here.”

You huffed affectionately as he pressed his lips to your forehead. “You rest.”

“You, too.” You insisted stubbornly, feeling somewhat encouraged when he bestowed a smirk on you in response, sliding you from his lap onto the cot carefully and making his way out to remove himself and the jeep before your Captain could find him where he ought not to be.

“What was that you were saying to Vi and Ruth about not having tamed him?” Mary smirked, grabbing the hanky to begin dabbing at your cheeks with motherly roughness.

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

Read Part Three - "Trust Me, He's In Good Hands."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp

damn i just took a closer look at copias new mask and i think he looks older(?) and definitely more evil. I think we are gonna get evil!copia era.

I mean look at his eyes and the eyebrows. And the black paint

And his paint is assymetrical too

okay, I might be a little bit obsessed

Jayvik Frankenstein AU

Please please please I know we all love Friends and Chandler was our favourite character and Matthew always put a smile on our faces and that’s all amazing but can we please please please talk about this:

“I've had a lot of ups and downs in my life. I'm still working through it personally, but the best thing about me is that if an alcoholic or drug addict comes up to me and says, 'Will you help me?' I will always say, 'Yes, I know how to do that. I will do that for you, even if I can't always do it for myself! So I do that, whenever I can. In groups, or one on one.

And I created the Perry House in Malibu, a sober-living facility for men. I also wrote my play The End of Longing, which is a personal message to the world, an exaggerated form of me as a drunk. I had something important to say to people like me, and to people who love people like me.

When I die, I know people will talk about Friends, Friends, Friends. And I'm glad of that, happy l've done some solid work as an actor, as well as given people multiple chances to make fun of my struggles on the world wide web...

but when I die, as far as my so-called accomplishments go, it would be nice if Friends were listed far behind the things I did to try to help other people.

I know it won't happen, but it would be nice.”

- Matthew Langford Perry

(August 19, 1969 - October 28, 2023)

the bad shit

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 1,192

warnings: swearing, possible allusions to depression, brief mention of death, a tiny finger injury, comfort

a/n: my brain does not seem to be in a writing mood right now, but i did manage to crank this out. i do enjoy making billy cry, so there’s that. i hope it’s alright! please let me know what you think. i’d really appreciate it. <33

————

Billy’s been fidgety since he woke. 

You hear the soft thud of his boots, muffled against the carpet of your bedroom floor. He makes his way towards you and kisses your forehead, knowing you’re probably too sleepy for a real kiss this early.

He doesn’t tell you how badly he needs one—that his hands are shaking with it. Though he doesn’t need to tell you. 

You’d heard his alarm clock go off, felt him stay in bed longer than usual, glimpsed him rubbing his face on the way to the bathroom. He hadn’t wanted to get up. Not one bit. 

And even though you can feel sleep calling you, feel the way it presses at your eyes, the way the warmth of the bed pulls you in—you sit up. 

Billy’s closer to the door now, but he hears you shuffle, and he’s quick to move back to you. 

“You need to sleep, baby.”

But your hands are already on his cheeks, and then you’re kissing him, shutting him up and telling him you’re right here. And you’ll be right here when he gets home from work. You’ll be a phone call away if he needs you during his shift. 

“I’ll walk you out,” you say, and your tone informs him that there’s no room for arguments.

You hook your fingers in his belt loops as you push off the bed, hoping that this will keep your half-asleep form from slamming into the wall. 

You kiss Billy again on the stoop, even if he is berating you for being barefoot in the cold. You watch him walk to the car, catch the way his fingers fumble with the keys, the way he doesn’t even have it in him to slam the door shut. 

He waves at you from behind the steering wheel.

“I love you,” you mouth, blowing a kiss. He’s quick to catch it in his hand, gesturing so that he’s tucking it away in his pocket for later. He responds just as he always does, but you can tell he’s still sleepy. 

That he’s tired. 

————

You aren’t home when Billy gets back to the house. There’s a note on the counter in your sweet scrawl, telling him that you ran out to pick up dinner. Eating at all had completely slipped his mind. 

Billy’s just having a day. He’d wanted to stay home but couldn’t, and not only has he been fidgety, unable to focus for want of home, of you, but his thoughts are getting the better of him. They’re suffocating. Telling him he’s not good enough for you, that he’s a waste of time—of your time. That he should’ve died like he was supposed to in that fucking mall. 

And he knows it isn’t true. He knows that you loved him before any of that, when he was just being an asshole, when he was just pissed that he’d had to move. And you love him now, even when he has bad days like this. 

But his head. His mind. It tells him otherwise. It fights and it claws and it screams at him. And today he is losing that fight, letting his mind yell and tear at him. 

Billy tries to distract himself and wash the dishes, but he only gets so far before he drops something and almost breaks it, before he cuts his finger on a knife he put in the damn sink. After that he tries to find a band-aid but spills all of them on the floor, and the first one he opens gets stuck on the wrapper and he can’t use it. 

Once he does secure the pink bandage around his pinky, he goes to clean up his mess and hits his head on the counter. He tries to change clothes and trips, gets his belt loop stuck on a drawer handle. 

“God fucking dammit.”

After that one he gives up and throws himself on the kitchen floor, choosing a beer with a pull tab rather than a cap for fear he might actually hurt himself and bleed out.

He hears the sound of you locking your car, the door squeaking when you open it, and he knows he should’ve gotten up to help you, but he just couldn’t. He starts to cry. 

“Billy? Where’s my baby?” 

The sound of your voice causes him to hiccup, and you’re on the floor in front of him in a matter of seconds. 

He’s covering his face with his hands, and you know then that the day must’ve gotten the better of him. 

“Hey, let me see you. It’s okay, honey, I’m right here.”

Billy looks up at you, lashes clumped together with tears, nose red and lips all swollen. He looks so frustrated with himself, so beat, that you ache for him. 

He wishes he was stronger. That he wasn’t breaking down in the middle of the kitchen, but you told him once that it’s okay to have bad days. That you're always going to be there on the worst ones. 

He puts the beer down the moment you hold your arms out, crawling into your lap and burying his face in your chest. You don’t care that he’s heavy or that you’re not entirely sure you’re getting any air in your lungs. You care that he’s letting go and that he’s showing you this vulnerable part of himself. 

Billy cries, he weeps, against you for what seems like forever. But you don’t mind. You only want him to feel better. You rub his back, play with his hair, anything to soothe him just that little bit. 

When he’s finished, when he’s caught his breath, he pulls away. His cheeks are pink and you’re sure he’s berating himself for having just sobbed like that. He’s sitting on his knees, fingers scratching at the freckled skin of his arms. He looks young like this. Lost.

“Was it just a bad day? Or is it the bad shit?” 

That is Billy code for I’m spiraling and I need help. For I’m having a hard time and I can’t do it alone. I don’t know how to say it. 

You established that little code pretty early on in your relationship, knowing it would be helpful in getting Billy to talk about his feelings with you. 

“The bad shit,” he tells you. 

“It’s not true,” you say. “Whatever your head is telling you today, it’s not true. Not today, not ever. You gotta say it for me, okay?”

He gives you the barest shake of his head before he pauses and tries to steel himself so that he can do it. He doesn’t want to let you down. 

“It’s not true.”

You grin at him. “Right. And you’re a badass. And we’re gonna eat dinner, and then we’re gonna talk it out, and then we will lay down. And maybe I’ll scratch your back for you.”

Billy nods. He hates that his breath catches at that, that the offer brings him pure, unadulterated joy. 

“Okay.”

He can do that. He knows he can offer that much. 

Because he is a badass. And he can try for you. For himself. 

————

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

tagging: @clovermunson